Prologue

(by Lirian, the Ever-Weaver, Chronicler of Mórradún)

Listen well, wanderer, for the winds have shifted and the old songs stir once more.

Long ago, the Fianna stood as a shield against the dark, their names carried in the breath of the world, their deeds woven into the marrow of the land. But time is a cruel river, washing away even the mightiest of legends, leaving behind only whispers in the stone, echoes in the trees, and the memory of warriors whose blades have long since rusted into dust.

It was said they would rise again, that the embers of their order would smolder beneath the weight of ages, waiting for the moment when darkness dared once more to unfurl its hand across the world.

And now, the hour is come. The Medallion has awakened.

A name has been spoken into the void, the first note of a song not yet sung. Aisling of Branwyll, bound by fate, walks the path unknowingly tread before her. She is not the first, nor shall she be the last. The weight of the past presses upon her shoulders, and the road before her is shadowed with peril.

But listen, and listen well—this is not her story alone.

For no legend is shaped by a single hand, no war waged by a lone warrior, no fate decided in isolation. The threads are many, the strands interwoven. The Fianna rise not as one, but as a chorus—a song of blood and steel, of faith and fire. And already, the deceiver stirs, whispering in voices only the lost can hear.

You stand at the edge of the tale, where the past and the future converge. Step forward if you dare. The story has begun, and the quill is set to parchment.

And I—I am but the one who writes.

(And so the Awakening begins…)

***

Chapter 1: Whispers in the Mist

The path was wrong.

Aisling knew it with a certainty that was bone deep. She had walked this track through Elderglen for as long as she could remember, her small feet once chasing the hem of Maeve’s cloak, learning every moss-slicked stone, every gnarled root that snaked across the earth. This trail led to the sun-dappled clearing where the best silverleaf grew, and her pouch was full of the stuff to prove it. But now, on her return, the path had betrayed her.

An hour ago, it had been a straight shot back to the smoky scent of Branwyll’s hearths. Now it coiled back on itself, ending abruptly at a wall of brambles that hadn’t been there at midday—thorns thick as a man’s wrist, like black iron barbs. A shiver traced its way up her spine. This wasn’t the forest’s natural wildness— it felt like a wound gouged into the land itself—raw, defensive, and festering with something old and angry.

A cold flicker of panic stirred. Abandoning the path, she pressed into the undergrowth, branches clawing at her cloak. The silence of the woods shattered, replaced by her own ragged breathing. Then she heard it. A whisper, like dry leaves skittering across stone when there was no wind.

Sable…

The name stirred in her mind, unbidden and ancient. Her fingers tightened on the simple medallion tucked beneath her tunic. It flared with sudden, searing heat against her palm, and the whispering ceased. The silence that followed was worse, as if the forest had drawn a breath and was now listening.

Ahead, through the tangled branches, a light flickered. A torch. Hope surged through her so fiercely it nearly buckled her knees. She stumbled forward, breaking free of the treeline and into the clearing just outside Branwyll.

The unease from the forest had already bled into the village. In the square, a crowd had gathered beneath the glow of lanterns, their smoke trailing like silent pleas. Fear crept like damp through stone—persistent, clinging, and heavy on the breath. Aisling moved toward the edge of the gathering, catching fragments of hushed, fearful conversation.

Aisling slowed as she neared the square, heart stuttering. She recognized the tone, even if the words were new—whispers sharpened by fear, like those she’d heard the day her mother died.

“…vanish overnight,” a devout elder, Grannoc, was saying to a small group, his voice trembling. “The King’s guard, sent to investigate, return broken—if they return at all.”

Near him, a grizzled woodsman named Ewan shook his head, his face grim. “It’s the forest. It turned on us. The path to the old quarry twisted behind me yesterday. The trees… “The trees didn’t just whisper,” Ewan muttered, eyes wide. “They knew my name..”

From the fringe of the crowd, the blacksmith’s son, Ailill, scoffed. “Ramblings of frightened old men. The blight comes from the nobles’ greed, not from myths.”

Tension rippled through the villagers—superstition clashing with reason, faith with doubt. At the center stood Eryndor, the village elder, his storm-gray eyes scanning the anxious faces. In his hands, a parchment from the king’s messenger trembled at the edges, as if the ink itself feared what it carried.

He unrolled it slowly. A single phrase had been scrawled beneath the royal seal:

“Hold fast. Help will not come.”

“Silence,” Eryndor said, his voice weary but unwavering. “This is no time for division. Something ancient has awoken. We must prepare.”

His words settled over them like ash.

Then—from near the well—a young woman’s voice broke the stillness, thin but fierce with fear:
“Will the Fianna return? The songs say they came before, when we needed them most.”

Eryndor turned toward the darkened woods, but no answer came. Only silence, thick and waiting.

The crowd held its breath.

A cold wind stirred the lantern smoke, curling it toward the trees.

Somewhere in the forest, a branch cracked.

Aisling’s breath caught.

She had not spoken, but the question clung to her ribs as if it were her own. The old stories rose unbidden heroes bound by oath, firelit blades, voices that defied the dark.
But they were only tales. Weren’t they?

And yet… something in the earth was watching. Something in her remembered.

Then, Daith the bard stepped forward.

For a heartbeat, the crowd held still.

And then—softly, as if afraid the forest might hear him—he began to sing.

THE SONG OF THE FIANNA

Rise, O Fianna, fierce and true,
From forest deep and river’s blue.
Awaken now, our ancient kin—
For Mórradún calls from deep within.

Where shadows stretch and whispers grow,
And stars keep watch o’er fields below,
The Fianna stand, both flame and stone—
Guardians sworn to shield their own.

But darkness stirs, the spirits fade—
The oath once sworn must be obeyed.
From mountain’s peak to ocean’s roar,
The Fianna’s strength shall rise once more.

***
The haunting melody evoked memories of heroes long faded into legend. As the final notes lingered, a heavy silence fell, no longer shaped by mere dread, but by something older, more reverent—as if the song itself had thinned the veil between worlds.

Ailill gave a short, uneasy laugh. “Old songs won’t save us,” he muttered.

But no one answered.

No one moved.

Aisling’s fingers brushed against the medallion beneath her cloak.

It was warm.

No—burning.

Just for a breath. Then still again.

She stared into the trees as if something were staring back.

And though no words were spoken, she knew:

The song had been heard.

It was then that Maeve appeared beside Aisling, her eyes shadowed by old memory. She said nothing at first—only looked, her gaze drawn to the place beneath Aisling’s tunic where the medallion lay hidden.

She gestured for Aisling to follow, leading her away from the dispersing crowd to the low, flickering embers at the heart of the village square.

“Your mind is wandering,” Maeve said, her voice low. Her gray eyes, sharp and knowing, held an unspoken weight. She lifted a hand.
“Let me see it.”

Aisling hesitated before pulling the medallion from around her neck. Its surface was etched with runes that seemed to shift in the firelight.

“This is no keepsake,” Maeve said softly, her voice threaded with memory—and something else. Grief, perhaps. Or awe. Or something quieter, harder to name.

Her hand hovered above the medallion—not to take it, but as if to stir what still slept within.

“It is a relic, bound to the heart of Mórradún. I would spare you this, if I could. But tonight…
it must answer you.”

Aisling swallowed, her fingers trembling as she reached to touch the metal. The instant her skin met its surface, a shock of unnatural cold lanced through her chest—cold like the breath of a long-buried god, sharp and ancient.

A heartbeat later, warmth bloomed beneath her fingers, chasing the chill into her bones. The medallion pulsed in her palm, slow and steady, like something newly breathing. It was alive.

“I saw a vision long ago,” Maeve’s voice lowered, pulling Aisling’s wide eyes to meet her gaze. “A storm that devoured the sky. The earth split wide. Four figures stood against the tide—and one of them… was you.”

Aisling froze, her breath catching in her throat.

The words hit her like a physical blow. “

But why me?” she whispered, the question brittle with disbelief. “I’m no warrior. I’m no guardian.”

Maeve held her gaze, her expression unyielding. “The land does not choose lightly, child. It knows your strength, even if you do not.”

Aisling stood numbly as her grandmother turned and left her alone by the fire, the relic a brand of heat against her skin.

The path had twisted because the world had.

And now, she was terrified it was her task to set it right.

Sleep did not come easily.

Aisling lay beneath her blankets, the warmth offering no comfort against the gnawing unease in her stomach.

Maeve’s words—one of them was you—circled relentlessly in her mind, growing louder in the quiet. Her thoughts blurred as the hearthlight dimmed, and when at last the silence deepened, it pulled her under like a tide.

She stood in the heart of Elderglen Forest. The trees pressed close, their branches interwoven, choking out the moonlight. The forest was unnaturally still.

Ahead, a faint golden light pulsed, beckoning. She moved toward it, drawn by an unseen force.

The light grew, revealing a cloaked figure standing amongst the trees, its form flickering like smoke. A voice, soft and resonant, broke the silence.

“Welcome, Aisling of Branwyll. The land’s song has found you.”

Aisling’s heart thudded. The medallion at her neck hummed, power surging beneath her skin.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am a messenger,” the figure replied, its voice echoing deep within her. “You have heard the call, have you not? It is an ancient command.”

“What does it want from me?” Aisling’s hand instinctively grasped the medallion.

“To protect Mórradún,” the figure intoned. “The darkness stirs once more. The Fianna must rise.”

“I’m no warrior,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“The medallion does not choose lightly,” the figure interrupted, its tone softening but no less forceful. “It chooses those with the strength to endure. Others will stand with you. Seek them out, for only together can the path be forged.”

The figure stepped closer, shadows rippling like water around its form. It raised a hand, pausing just above her heart—no touch, and yet she felt it all the same.
“The charge of the Fianna is yours now,” it said, voice low as thunder beneath earth. “Their vow runs through your blood. Their mission… becomes yours.”

At that, the medallion ignited—not with fire, but with memory.

Warmth surged through her chest, not comforting, but searing—an inheritance awakened. Her breath caught as the world tilted.

Visions pierced her—fleeting, fierce, alive.

A hand clasping another in oath. A hilltop ablaze with battle.

A child’s lullaby beneath a blood-red moon.

A door closing between worlds.

And in all of them… a sense of being known.

“Find the others,” the figure whispered, its form dissolving into the shadows. “Before it’s too late.”

The figure vanished, leaving Aisling alone beneath the still trees. The weight of destiny pressed heavily upon her.

She understood, in that breathless moment, that her path had already begun.

She wasn’t ready.

But the land was no longer waiting.