Diarmuid stood and made his way back to the window. “I swear I saw the speck of an airship sailing through the northern sky earlier, but it couldn’t—”

Padraig started, knocking his chair over.

“An airship?” he echoed. “Has Penance sent its fleet to save us?”

He saw nothing but smoke in the sky, though. The king sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, weeping.

“Farris is dead. She showed me the signs. She gave me a chance to prevent this, and I tried. Oh, how I tried! But no matter what I did, like water running through my fingers, everything just slipped away. Fate is a cruel mistress, for only now I understand.”

He looked at the ceiling, tears running down his cheeks.

“It was me! My actions caused this! I thought the Silverback was the one she spoke of. I thought I could change the tides of fate, and I have paid dearly for it.”

King Diarmuid stared up at Padraig, his voice growing hoarse.

“But was I supposed to ignore her? Should I have sat by and waited for everything to crumble?”

Padraig squatted beside his king, resting on raised ankles.

Gods help him, he’s lost his mind.

“Nobody could have predicted this, Your Grace. There was nothing we could have done.”

Diarmuid grabbed Padraig by the scruff of his neck and pulled his face close. Every ounce of thainol was thick in his breath.

“I saw it,” he wheezed. “I had a chance but—”

Screaming women and children interrupted the king. Padraig’s heart plummeted.

They’ve breached the keep!

King and captain both turned towards the oaken door, now the only thing separating them from the massacre. Children cried for their mothers, mothers cried for their Gods, but the Trinity remained silent. The few guards stationed in the hall cursed and yelled as they fought, though it was difficult to distinguish the sounds of the living from the dead.

Without hesitation, Padraig grabbed his sword and bounded for the door.

I cannot die hiding with a drunken sot.

“Don’t leave!” King Diarmuid, still on hands and knees, crawled towards the captain. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

Padraig stopped. “I made a vow that I would protect the weak and innocent, even if it costs me my life.”

“No, please!” said the king, grovelling at the captain’s feet. “I don’t want to die alone; I don’t want to die alone!”

His voice dropped to a whimper, and tears filled his eyes.

“She told me that I’d die alone.”

Chapter 1:

Mourning

Morrígan rose as they carried her mother’s coffin into the chapel. She did not look as it passed.

She turned her attention to the stained-glass window behind the altar: a depiction of the birth of King Móráin to the Lady Meadhbh and Lord Seletoth. The figures wore cloaks of bright green and red, now shining emerald and ruby as the sunset spilled light into the hall. The new-born baby was gleaming and golden, holding an axe in one hand and a shield in the other.

If our ancestors claimed this land from the Simians using magic, then what use were an axe and a shield?

The mourners returned to their seats, and Morrígan followed suit, shivering as a frigid sea breeze rolled through the chapel. She wore a loose-fitting tunic with large sleeves, fastened by a grey belt woven with intricate, interlocking patterns. Two wooden pins held her jet-black hair in a braid, though not nearly as neat as usual.

She always did a better job at keeping it tidy than I could.

Sorrow crept forwards from the back of her mind, but Morrígan fought it with clenched fists and gritted teeth.

From the altar, Daithí the Blessed cleared his throat. The old druid served as a stark reminder that this was indeed a funeral, and Morrígan’s mother was, in fact, dead.

Dead.

Looking for another distraction, she turned her attention away from the stained-glass window, now focusing on the facial features of the druid. Thick grey curls framed a blemished red face, bloated from decades of indulging on wine and ale.

He often drank at The Bear with father...

Morrígan shook her head as the image of the killing field flashed before her; the troll, the corpses, her father galloping away on horseback, and her mother lying dead in the morning mist.

As the old druid spoke, he caught Morrígan’s gaze and smiled. His blue eyes sparkled in the dusk’s golden light, peering out behind his nose, round and bulbous ...

Just like a troll’s.

There was no avoiding it. Her mother was dead, her father was gone, and she was alone.

“We thank the King, the Lady, and the Lord for giving us life so we can live to love one another.” Daithí spoke with a hollow monotone, rolling through each syllable as if he didn’t care for the words themselves. “This gift is ephemeral, so we must fill our days with as much love as we can. That’s how Aoife Ní Branna lived. She filled her life with the love she shared with her family, her friends, and her neighbours. Today we pray that she’ll continue to do so, in the Plains of Tierna Meall for eternity.”

Nothing was said about the others who had died that day, but Morrígan counted them off in her head.

The mountain troll had killed two of the five strange travellers before it reached the farm, but Morrígan couldn’t remember what they looked like. The other three had attempted to fight it right before her eyes. The first was crushed inside his own armour, dying as valiantly as he had fought. Another, a woman dressed in white, was bludgeoned to a pulp by the beast’s bare fist. Only the third, a Pyromancer, had survived, but he lost his arm in the struggle. The sound of tearing flesh and bone was still fresh in Morrígan’s ears.

And then, Mother...

She pulled her mind away from that memory, trying to recall the faces of the strangers as the druid droned on.

Where did they come from? Why did they bring a troll here to Roseán?

Morrígan pictured the trio travelling together across the Glenn and found herself almost smiling at the thought.

A warrior, a mage, and a healer: just like in the stories.

Closing her eyes, Morrígan imagined what it would be like to leave Roseán with formidable allies, searching for fame and fortune. She pictured herself returning someday to a hero’s welcome, with all the same faces and places unchanged since she left. The bards would sing of her adventures, and she’d be remembered for generations.