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“To understand them—to understand any of this—you must first know what came before them. Before either of you were so much as a thought in your parents’ minds, before you heard the whisper of prophecy, before the Sinclairs were hunted, the Mumfords banished, and the Emmets, well…”

He trailed off, not needing to say more.

I looked at Triona. She was locked in, eyes fixed on him as though the rest of the world had fallen away. One tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and still she didn’t look away.

Mannie looked at the journal by his side, and when he started again, he did so carefully, like a man determined to do right by it.

“Before either of you were warriors, there was an oath,” he said quietly.

“An oath that changed everything.”

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

ROBERT

Twenty-Five Years Earlier

Thursday, 5 April 1798

Trinity College, Dublin

Disciplinary Hearing of the Board

The oak doors of the hall slam shut behind me, the echo rolling over a row of powdered wigs and folded hands. I don’t flinch. I walk forward as if I’m the one who’s summoned them, chin lifted, breath steady.

At the centre of the long table sits the Lord Chancellor of Ireland himself—John FitzGibbon, Earl of Clare—presiding alongside the provost and fellows. How lovely of him to come down from his high office to sniff out sedition in the college. Provost Kearney perches a step below him, more clerk than primary today.

“Mr Robert Emmet,” Lord Clare begins, his voice smooth and carrying. “You have been called before this board to answer charges of sedition. Your… association with the society styling itself the United Irishmen, and your part in spreading their doctrines among the students of this university.”

I’ve been called here to ‘explain myself,’ but Lord Clare and the fellows watch me like I’m a formality they’re obliged to endure, not a mind they intend to hear. Their verdict sits on their faces long before I open my mouth.

“You accuse me of sedition because I speak against cruelty,” I say, my voice clear enough to carry to the far wall. “If that is a crime at Trinity, then this college is not what it claims to be.”

A murmur rustles along the bench. They expected a contrite boy, eyes down, eager to beg forgiveness. They expected me to come in meek. Instead, every word leaves my mouth honed and deliberate, with the kind of precision that forces them to listen, even when they don’t want to.

Provost Kearney clears his throat, fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. “You’ve attended meetings connected to the United Irishmen. You’ve distributed pamphlets that encourage disobedience. You have repeatedly ignored the College’s injunction against discussing questions of so-called ‘modern politics’ among the students. This institution cannot harbour rebellion. We are to remain neutral.”

I’ve heard this litany before. Dangerous ideas. And always, beneath it all, the same offence dressed up as treason: that I openly refused to hold my tongue about the present, as if history were safest when no one dared to learn from it.

“It can’t harbour thought, you mean,” I reply. “Dublin is full of men, women, and children who starve in the name of ‘order,’ yet you question my character for refusing to look away.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The force of it comes from somewhere deeper—the place inside me that knows I’d rather be cast out than be silent.

Before the Kearney or Lord Clare can answer, the doors swing open again. Two beadles step in, each hauling a fella who looks like he’s been caught doing exactly what I warned them not to do.

“This pair was loitering outside the door,” the first beadle says, giving them a shove. “Said they were only passing by, but we clearly found them listening in.”

James straightens his coat, trying to recover some dignity. “We weren’t loiterin’. We were… gatherin’ context.”

Alex nods too quickly. “Purely academic interest, sir.”

A sharp scoff escapes the Kearney. “Academic interest. Of course.” He flicks his hand at the long table as if brushing dust off it. “This is a disciplinary hearing, gentlemen.”

He drags out the word as he looks us over, his expression flat and cold, the way someone might regard dirt tracked across a polished floor. “Since you’re so eager to listen in, I might as well finish this with all three of you at once. Vermin, after all, are seldom solitary.”

On the outside I keep my back straight and my face calm; in my head I’m calling this shoneen bastard every vile name I’ve ever heard in a Dublin tavern.