Page 96

That word resurfaces without invitation.

“For centuries, I believe they have sown discord across the Celtic lands. War. Famine. Corruption. Not at random. Deliberate. Each fracture in stewardship and reverence would serve to feed them. Each bout of despair strengthens them.”

James exhales through his nose. “Like landlords raising rents on land their tenants have worked for generations,” he says flatly. “Families turned out before winter because coin matters more than honourable governance. Grain shipped out under guard while the men who grew it tighten their belts.”

I can feel the agony those words cause rising in each of us.

Mannie nods once.

“Aye,” he says quietly. “Precisely so.”

His gaze lowers to the stone.

“Ériu’s sacrifice once pressed them back,” Mannie continues. “When she bound herself to the land, she laid a ward across it—woven through root and river, hill and hollow—so their hunger could not rise to full strength. Without her, they would have swallowed Éire down to the last sacred stone.”

He exhales slowly.

“I have long suspected their influence has not vanished. Only changed.”

His eyes darken.

“Darkness rarely announces itself. It poisons the mind. It tempts. It whispers to mortals who feel overlooked or powerless. And to the already cruel and deplorable… it doesn’t whisper at all. It sings, and they hear their own likeness in the melody.”

Mannie continues, voice even but grave.

“The power of gods doesn’t appear from nowhere. It is given at birth or creation. It may be gifted freely. It may be placed within objects—relics, weapons, stones—where it remains anchored and guarded.”

“But when it is stolen, it doesn’t remain pure. It twists. It turns chaotic. Unstable. Hungry. Those who try to wield stolen divine essence are rarely left unchanged. Some are consumed outright—madness, decay, corruption of mind and flesh. And some… learn to bear it, like the Fomorians do. That is the most dangerous kind of darkness.”

The words settle like frost.

“They can wield stolen power for great harm,” Mannie says evenly. “They may even appear righteous while doing so. They have learned to work through mortal men. Men with influence. With strong voices. With the ability to bend others to their will. Power hoarded by a few while the many starve strengthens them in equal measure.”

He looks around the table carefully now.

“And if Ériu truly vowed to return should balance be broken… then it would not be against mortal ambition alone.”

His voice lowers.

“It would be against whatever has been feeding in the dark all these centuries.”

The fire snaps sharply in the hearth.

“The next thing hidden within these carvings...”

Mannie runs his fingers down the length of one side of the basalt. It’s lighter there than the rest of its surfaces.

Upon further inspection, it’s clear that it divides the Ogham lines unevenly—some strokes severed. Others… incomplete.

“No accident broke this,” he says softly. “Nor was it carved as a single piece without thought. There are patterns here that do not resolve.”

Alex frowns. “Meaning?” He looks as though the chair is the only thing keeping him vertical. Whatever fire kept him talking through the pain is guttering fast. He needs a bed, a bandage change, and silence.

Mannie meets his eyes.

“This is not the whole of it. It would appear there is another piece, and someone intentionally separated these from one another.”

He studies the broken edge again, thumb hovering near a cluster of half-cut strokes.