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It’s Robert who speaks next, sharper now, the patience also gone from him. “What does accepting an oath involving a goddess entail, Manannán?”

Mannie turns on him with such speed that even I flinch.

“We have spoken about the use of that name in the mortal world.” The words land with unnatural force, his voice issuing from no single place.

Lesser men might have stepped back, muttered an apology, or looked away and let the moment pass.

But Robert holds steadfast, as though he has every right in the world to demand an answer from him.

“Aye,” he says. “And now I’m using it.”

Then, to my surprise, Mannie’s expression refines into something nearer respect.

“You have asked the right question,” he says at last. “I can only speak in general terms when it comes to the conditions you’ll be agreeing to.”

With a quiet motion of his hand, he calls us in around the table. We come willingly, whatever appetite for argument we had stripped clean away.

“What comes of such an oath is not the same for every soul who swears it. The old powers answer according to nature, need, circumstance, and the truth in your heart.” He pauses. “Even I do not know beforehand how a favour granted will settle. Not even when the gift comes from my hand.”

Alex folds his arms. “Comforting.”

Mannie ignores him.

“For some, it is strength—not merely the common sort, but the kind that rises fierce when called for, as if the body remembers some older power sleeping in the bone. For others, endurance. I’ve seen men run farther than ought to be possible, or keep their feet through hurt that should have laid them low. Some are granted senses keener than before—the knack of following a trail, of catching what others miss, of knowing the shape of danger before it shows its face.”

“So, you give us your power, and that’s that?” I ask.

Mannie shakes his head. “A God’s raw divine power would burn through you, warp you, and you would never be the same. Think of the oath as a vessel in which a small portion of power can flow. Our magic and power is naturally made. It can be granted by favour through a binding of sorts, live inside creatures from our dwelling, and remain embedded in magical items that can be yielded when gifted. But not directly turned over.”

Robert’s jaw tightens. “And the cost? There’s always a cost.”

At that, Mannie’s face hardens fully.

“There is no cost. Not unless you are fool enough to treat the oath as a trifle. Then what follows is judgement. It is not a vow spoken for comfort’s sake, to make good men feel grander than they are. It binds itself to what is truest in you. If you keep faith with it, that bond may preserve you, strengthen you, and steady your hand when your own courage fails.”

“But if you betray it, if you swear falsely, or turn from the charge you have freely taken upon yourself, the favour granted may turn on you. And what turns from blessing to judgment does not always do so gently.”

“What does that mean?” Robert asks.

“It means,” Mannie says, “that strength may fail you when next you have most need of it. Protection may be withdrawn before a death dealing strike. Fortune may sour in a time of desperation. What was given may become a wound instead. And in the gravest matters, an oath broken may make an enemy of the very power that once kept you.”

Robert gives one slow nod, as though this, at last, is the sort of answer he’d been after.

Alex’s eyes narrow. “That sounds uncomfortably like you speak from experience.”

“I do,” he admits. “I granted favour once to a man who swore himself loyal. It gave him strength beyond measure, senses sharpened like that of a hound, and he gained the ability to know danger by its scent alone. Then he turned his back on the gods. Thought to carry the gift and cast aside the vow that bound it. Those same gifts became his torment. He heard every footstep of the men hunting him. Smelled blood before it touched the ground. Sensed ruin long before it arrived, and had to wait for it all the same.”

“Well,” he grimaces, “that seems aggressively unpleasant.”

“So,” Robert says, “it grants favour. And punishes betrayal.”

“In crude terms,” Mannie says, “that is the short of it.”

“Fair enough,” Robert adds.

That draws every eye in the room to him.

He doesn’t appear to mind. “If we’re meant to swear a thing like this, I’d rather it come with consequence enough to keep men and women honest. If the oath has been broken before, let it not be broken here. Let the old line of betrayal end today.”