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Casey blinks, his grin faltering. “Ach, Callan, I was only—”

Callan’s expression darkens. “Aye, ye always are. Just a jest—a bit of fun. Until it’s not.”

The air shifts.

Casey glances at me, then back at Callan, finally noticing the way the mood has changed.

Callan’s voice stays even, but there’s steel in it. “If ye had half the sense ye claim to, ye’d ken she’s had enough.”

Casey exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He nudges me lightly. “Sorry, Tri. Took it too far.”

I shake my head and give him a small smile. “I know you’re only teasing.”

Callan lets out a huff. “Come on Casey. Let’s get Tri’s tent set up. We need rest,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar tone that leaves no room for argument.

Casey doesn’t argue. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze before joining Callan.

I look into the shadows cast by the fire, feeling an inexplicable unease creeping in, like the darkness itself is watching.

It was just a jest.

But the words still echo in my head.

“A misfit. An outcast.”

Triona

Monday 21 April 1823

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands

Perched atop a weathered, stony cliff, I take in the breathtaking expanse stretching endlessly before me. Rolling green hills, vibrant and alive, undulate far beyond what my eyes can trace, bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun. The Glen—our Glen—rests just below, cradled by the surrounding hills, its beauty untouched by time or toil. It’s my family’s hidden piece of paradise, sacred and unspoiled, a sanctuary we’ve always known.

As I gaze upon this great wonder, the land shifts. Ancient power stirs beneath the surface, awakening from its slumber to drain the land of its vitality.

Darkness falls.

I watch in horror as the once-green hills and valleys wither under a bleak sky. The river threading through our peaceful Glen—normally clear as glass—runs sickly black, poisoning all it touches.

The crops vanish, skeletal cattle lie where they fell, starved and forgotten. And the people… they are little more than shadows, hollowed by despair, their eyes empty, lost.

I try to reach them, try to call out to someone—anyone—but the wind swallows my voice. Silence presses in, heavy and suffocating, and with it, the creeping dread that everything we know is crumbling beneath us.

Paradise unravels before my eyes, and I am powerless to stop it.

Then, I feel it. A presence—vast, ancient, and cruel—watching.

A sudden clopping of hooves behind me sends ice down my spine. Unwelcome, unnatural. I turn slowly, dread coiling in my stomach.

A rider looms atop a shadowy beast, unmoving. The horse’s eyes glimmer like dying embers, its breath curling into the cold air. Under the rider’s arm rests a horrific sight—his own severed head, its decayed visage twisted into a baleful grin. Its eyes, glowing with malevolent light, pierce through the despair, locking onto me.

“Ériu,” it speaks, the name rolling from its lips with a chilling resonance. The voice is an echo, a wail carried from the depths of a forgotten cave.

My heart races. Terror and fascination grip me, holding me fast in the web of his gaze.

The horse rears, neighing loud enough to shake the earth. I flinch, covering my ears.

“You have been chosen,” the voice continues, ancient and inevitable. Though the words belong to no tongue I know, they settle into my mind as if they have always been there. “The darkness comes for you, and with it, the end of all you hold dear.”