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She rubs her temples as though she can press reason back into place by force.

“Let’s make this plain,” James says, looking from Maeve to Róisín to Mannie, who sits there maddeningly calm. “…ye’re tellin’ us it wasn’t simply yer crossin’ that caused the attack? That ye’re an actual god?”

He simply holds our gazes, one by one, until the weight of what’s been implied settles where it will.

Then he exhales, as if we’ve finally stopped wrestling the wrong part of the truth.

“Good,” he says. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way…”

Mannie’s fingers return to his cup, turning it a fraction as if steadying himself with the motion.

“The Milesians did not forget their origin. A crucial thread remained intact—guarded, handed down until no one remembered what they were holding, only that they couldn’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Alex makes a low sound as he adjusts in his chair—half breath, half curse. His shoulder is rigid, his knuckles pale where he grips the table’s edge, and there’s a tightness around his eyes that says the pain is winning.

“Right,” he cuts in, voice strained but sharp. “Lovely. Hate to interrupt, but would you mind telling the American what any of this means in plain speech? Preferably before I keel over from my arm trying to part company with me. I seem to be missing large pieces of old stories. We’re going from talking about someone named Ériu, to you being a God, over to this old race of humans inhabiting the world.”

Mannie’s mouth quirks into an almost-smile, but his eyes stay grave.

Before he can answer, Maeve lays her hand over Mannie’s where it rests near his cup. It’s a quiet request for the floor. She gives him a small, knowing smile, and the look he returns is enough to make it clear that they hold one another in deep regard.

“Let me start it,” Maeve says.

Mannie’s eyes settle on her, intent in a way that makes my spine prickle.

Maeve arches a brow in defiance. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says, and there’s a flash of familiar irritation in it. A warning between old friends.

She gives a quiet laugh under her breath and pats his hand once, as if to dismiss the look entirely. “I’ll tell it the proper way.”

“See that you do,” he murmurs, but there’s the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Her gaze slides to Alex then, and she softens, acknowledging he’s the only one at this table without the right stories stitched into his bones.

“This was my favourite tale,” she says, quieter now. “My mother told it to me near nightly when I was knee high. Long before I had sense enough to fear anything.”

Maeve’s gaze drifts, unfocused for a moment, as if she’s trying to envision the story through her eyes.

“Long before kings claimed crowns and borders were drawn in ink, the Tuatha Dé Danann moved upon this land. Not as myths, but as the mighty gods they were. They ruled it all.”

Her eyes return to the table, to us.

“Among them was Ériu. Not merely a goddess, but Sovereignty itself. The spirit of the land given form. Its strength. Its fury. Its mercy.”

Maeve’s voice lowers.

“She was called the Raven Queen by many,” she says, her voice steady but carrying that old cadence that belongs to hearth stories. “You see, the raven was her chosen herald.”

“It was black as the deepest night beneath the moon. Yet when the sun struck its wings, the feathers shone violet—that strange living hue you see only at the edge of twilight.”

She gives the smallest shake of her head.

“It was no ordinary creature. It was a bridge between the living and the dead. Between promise and consequence. When war came, and it came like weather in those days, Ériu did not always step onto the field herself. Such was her force she had no need to. When Ériu moved, the land moved. When she willed it, storms answered, but when judgment was required…” Maeve’s gaze sharpens slightly, “the raven went first, and men who’d marched in brave and loud would go quiet beneath it, because they could feel it, even if they didn’t have the words for it. Even the bravest warriors would falter at the sight of it. With Ériu at their side, the Tuatha would win again and again.”

“Then, word of this fierce goddess spread across to Hispania, where the Milesians resided. They sought to challenge the pantheon of gods and claim the land they believed was owed to humankind.”

“Ériu dreamt of their arrival. She saw visions of the Milesians descending upon Ireland, and the gods fading from mortal memory. Torn between her duty to protect her people and the inevitability of fate, she foresaw a great challenge ahead. The Tuatha Dé Danann’s era upon the Earth would wane. She knew better than most that they were not beyond the reach of destiny.”

“Ériu went to the Tuatha counsel to tell them of this arrival. Despite their strength and wisdom, the gods found themselves divided. Lugh of the Long Arm, the Tuatha’s warrior-king and master of many arts, urged a last stand, while the Dagda, chieftain of the gods and keeper of plenty, counselled co-inhabitance, fearing that fighting would bring ruin to the land they loved.”