It was a quiet, lazy morning in early spring, and the village of Dunbrae was waking to the gentle sounds of a new day. The chill of the night still clung to the air, but the first rays of sunlight had begun to creep over the hills, bathing the village in a soft, golden glow. A thin mist hovered over the river that wound its way through the valley, catching the light in a hazy shimmer.

The village stirred slowly to life. The smell of peat smoke drifted from chimneys, mingling with the scent of fresh-baked bread from the ovens at the bakery. Ewes bleated softly as they were led out to the pastures, their lambs frolicking at their heels. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil sounded from the blacksmith's forge, where Aodh, the village blacksmith, was already hard at work, his forge fire crackling and roaring like a living beast.

Children darted through the narrow lanes, chasing each other with bursts of laughter that echoed off the stone walls of the cottages. They ran past women drawing water from the well, their wooden buckets sloshing and glistening in the morning sun. In the small marketplace, traders set out their wares: fresh-caught fish from the river, baskets of early spring greens, and bolts of wool dyed in the colors of the heather-strewn hills.

The men of the village gathered near the silver mine, their shoulders squared against the morning cold, waiting for the signal to begin their day's work. A few of the older miners exchanged stories of past finds, their voices low and gravelly, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

Near the heart of the village, the bells of St. Columba’s Chapel began to toll, calling the faithful to morning prayers. Father Aidan, the village priest, moved among his flock, a kind smile on his weathered face, offering blessings to the farmers and miners as they passed. The stained-glass windows of the chapel caught the sun and scattered patterns of light across the cobblestones, a kaleidoscope of color in an otherwise modest village.

Ealasaid, a young woman with hair the color of a wheat field in the sun, stood outside her family’s cottage, her hands deftly weaving new rushes into the thatch roof. Her movements were quick and sure, the product of years of practice, and her clear blue eyes scanned the horizon out of habit, as they often did. She paused for a moment, listening to the murmur of the village, the comforting sounds of home.

Her mother called from inside, and Ealasaid smiled. Another quiet day in Dunbrae, another Friday morning where the biggest concern was how soon the spring rains would come to nourish the fields. For now, though, the air was clear, the sun was warm, and the village was at peace.

“Ealasaid!” her mother's voice cut through the morning air, sharp and commanding. “Get yourself out there and fetch the flowers and herbs we need!”

“Yes, mother,” Ealasaid replied quickly, knowing that any hesitation would only earn her a stern look and a few more sharp words. Her mother, a woman of firm discipline and endless tasks, would stand for no dawdling today—or any other day, for that matter.

Without another moment’s delay, Ealasaid snatched up a woven basket from the doorway, its familiar weight a comfort in her hands, and hurried toward the wild fields just beyond the village. Her feet moved swiftly over the well-worn path, the cold morning air tugging at her hair as she raced past the cottages, the smell of hearth fires and fresh bread mingling in the breeze.

She knew these fields well—the way the grass rolled like waves on the sea, the patches of wildflowers that grew in clusters near the hedgerows, and the spots where the herbs her mother needed—thyme, sage, yarrow—sprouted in abundance. She loved these fields, the sense of freedom they gave her, the way they opened up to the wide sky above.

As she reached the edge of the fields, the village sounds began to fade, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant trill of birds welcoming the new day. She slowed her pace, letting her eyes scan the ground for the first signs of spring’s bounty. Her hands moved with practiced ease, plucking delicate flowers and pulling herbs from the earth, placing them carefully in her basket.

She hummed a soft tune to herself, feeling the cool grass beneath her feet, the sun warming the back of her neck. For now, everything seemed peaceful, and the world was quiet… too quiet, she realized, as the birdsong abruptly stopped.

Ealasaid paused, a handful of wildflowers in her grasp, her heart skipping a beat. Her eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the river wound its way towards the sea. A distant sound, something unfamiliar, faintly reached her ears—a low, rhythmic drumming, like the beat of a great drum echoing across the water.

She squinted, searching the line where the river met the sea, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn’t certain what it was, but something deep inside her stirred, a whisper of unease carried on the wind.

She shook her head, pushing the feeling away, and returned to her task. She had work to do, and her mother was waiting. But the drumming grew louder, closer, and the uneasy whisper inside her grew stronger.

“Just the devil whispering in my ear,” Ealasaid muttered under her breath, trying to shake off the unease that the sea breeze seemed to carry today. Her mother needed these herbs and flowers, and there was no time for distractions or dark thoughts. Today was the day they renewed the wards on the demon hidden in their basement, and that task could not wait.

For generations, the women in Ealasaid’s family had been witches, wielders of power that defied the laws of both man and God. They had been healers, seers, and sometimes warriors, using their magic to protect their people from threats both mortal and supernatural. Now, Ealasaid had inherited that gift—and with it, a great and heavy responsibility.

Her family had chosen to turn to the light of God, but it had not been an easy path. They had to reconcile their ancient craft with the doctrines of the church, an uneasy balance that sometimes felt as fragile as a spider's web in a storm. The old texts had been clear: the only magic held as a crime against the Lord was necromancy, conjuring demons, and some forms of divination. Yet, as the Christian world changed, fear and suspicion of any form of magic had begun to spread like wildfire.

There were patron saints of magicians and sorcerers, and a time when miracles and magic were seen as one and the same. But now, suspicion crept into the hearts of men. Whispers of witchcraft turned quickly to accusations, and it seemed that even the benign magics—like their family's craft of warding, healing, and seeing—were starting to be viewed with fear and hatred.

Ealasaid’s mother had explained it to her many times, always with that same serious look in her eyes. “We walk a fine line, lass,” she’d said. “A line between light and shadow, faith and power. The church allows us to practice because we do not cross that line, but step even an inch over, and we could all be burned for it.”

Ealasaid had understood the weight of it, the risk they carried every day. Their family was known in the village not just for their magic, but for their role as protectors—guardians of the ancient demon bound in the crypt beneath their home. It had been captured long ago by Ealasaid’s great-grandmother, a powerful witch in her own right, who had sealed it away with spells of iron and blood. Since then, each generation had renewed the wards, keeping the evil at bay and the village safe from its malevolence.

That was why today was so important. If the wards failed, the demon could break free, and its wrath would be terrible. Her mother had insisted they needed the freshest herbs, the purest flowers to weave into the incantations. The demon could sense weakness, exploit the smallest flaw in the spellwork. Everything had to be perfect.

Ealasaid gathered the herbs with renewed urgency, her hands moving quickly and deftly, plucking the sprigs of sage and thyme, the stalks of yarrow and feverfew. She cast one last glance toward the distant river, her unease settling into a low knot in her stomach, but she pushed it aside. There was work to be done, and she could not afford to be distracted by a feeling.

Still, as she moved through the field, her thoughts lingered on the village's fate, on the tension between their hidden power and the growing suspicion of the world outside. Would their delicate balance hold, or was something darker looming on the horizon?

With her basket full, Ealasaid turned and began to make her way back to the village, her mind turning over thoughts of wards, demons, and the uneasy whispers of change that seemed to drift in with the sea breeze.

She raced home as fast as her legs could carry her, the basket of herbs clutched tightly against her chest. Her mother was waiting at the door, her eyes sharp and expectant. She nodded curtly as Ealasaid approached, and without a word, took the basket from her hands. There was no need for words today; they both knew what had to be done.

Her mother moved with purpose, leading her to the back of the house, to the place where a heavy trapdoor lay hidden beneath a worn rug. Ealasaid watched as her mother heaved it open, revealing a narrow opening and an old wooden ladder that descended into darkness. A familiar chill ran down her spine as she peered into the shadowy depths below—the secret place under their home, a place of old stones and older power.

Reluctantly, Ealasaid followed her mother down the ladder, her hands gripping the rough wood tightly as she descended. The air grew colder, damper, the scent of earth and age thickening with each step. She could feel the hum of ancient magic vibrating through the stones, a low, steady thrumming that filled her bones with an uneasy tension. This was a place her family only visited when necessary, a place whose walls seemed to breathe with the power of heathen gods—long forgotten but never truly gone.

Her feet touched the ground, and she quickly followed her mother through the narrow passageway, her head held low out of respect—or perhaps out of fear. The dim light of the torches cast long, flickering shadows across the walls, where grinning skulls stared out from their rocky alcoves. They were a grisly reminder of some long-lost tradition of pagan headhunting, trophies taken in times beyond memory. Her great-grandmother had once spoken of them in hushed tones, warning that these were the heads of warriors and chieftains, buried here to guard the sacred ground.

Her family dared not disturb them, for they knew better than to anger old ghosts—ghosts who had no love for the children of God.

The air was thick with silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the torch flames and the echo of their footsteps against the cold stone floor. Ealasaid kept her gaze focused on her mother’s back, her heart pounding in her chest. They moved deeper into the crypt, past rows of ancient stones etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light, their meanings lost to time but their power unmistakable.

At last, they reached the center of the chamber. Before them lay a great iron door, its surface carved with symbols and wards in languages that predated any they had ever spoken. Beyond it, Ealasaid knew, was the chamber that held the demon—a creature bound in chains of iron and magic, trapped by spells woven by her ancestors long ago.

Her mother turned to her, her face solemn and determined. “Now,” she whispered, “it begins.”

Ealasaid nodded, swallowing hard. She knew her role in this; she had been taught since she was a child. They would need to renew the wards with care, with precision, and with faith. There was no room for doubt, no room for error. The ancient magic in these stones was powerful, but it was also unpredictable, and they walked a fine line between control and catastrophe.

Her mother began to chant, the words flowing from her lips in a language that felt older than the air they breathed. Ealasaid followed suit, her voice softer but steady, and together they began the ritual that would renew the wards, strengthen the chains, and keep the ancient evil contained… at least for another year.

As they worked, she felt the hum of the stones grow stronger, the air thickening around them with unseen forces. For a moment, she thought she heard a faint whisper, a voice from beyond the iron door—a voice that sent a shiver through her very soul.

But she kept chanting, kept her focus, knowing that to falter now could mean disaster—for her, for her mother, and for everyone in Dunbrae.

Ealasaid shuddered as she felt the magic flow through her veins, a cold, tingling sensation that wrapped around her bones like icy tendrils. It was another reminder of the sinful nature of some magics, the kind that twisted and pulled at the edges of what was righteous and good. But this ward had to be renewed. There was no choice. For the being beyond that iron door was old and powerful—a creature cast down by Lucifer himself, sent to lead men astray.

She had heard the legends whispered in hushed voices late at night, tales passed down through generations. They said this demon was no ordinary spirit but a fallen one, a tempter whose voice could mimic the sweetest tones, whose promises could make a saint falter. It was said that if it were not contained by the powerful runes etched into the ancient stone, it would simply vanish from this crypt and spread its dark influence elsewhere, infecting the hearts of men, sowing chaos wherever it went.

Ealasaid’s mother had warned her many times—never open the doors, never speak to the demon, never even look at it. For the creature was cunning, more cunning than any mortal mind could comprehend. It would whisper offers of power, wealth, and knowledge beyond imagination. But every gift came with a cost—a price no mortal should be willing to pay. To touch or speak with the demon would be to risk your eternal soul, to invite damnation into your very being.

She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her ancestors’ warnings bearing down on her as she continued to chant. Her voice trembled for a moment, but she steadied herself, focusing on the rhythm of the words, the cadence of the spell. She could feel the magic pushing outward, wrapping itself around the iron door like an unseen barrier, reinforcing the chains that held the demon bound.

Her mother’s voice rose stronger beside her, commanding the very air to bend to their will. Ealasaid followed her lead, her hands moving in time with the ancient gestures, drawing symbols in the air that glowed faintly before fading into the darkness.

The hum of power grew louder, a vibration that seemed to fill the chamber, shaking the very stones beneath their feet. The air felt thick and heavy, pressing down on them like a weight. Ealasaid tried to keep her focus, but her thoughts strayed to the stories—the stories of those who had come before her, who had failed to resist the demon’s temptations.

She closed her eyes, pushing the thoughts away. She had to stay strong. She had to trust in her training, in the teachings of her mother, in the light of God. The demon beyond the door would remain trapped, its influence contained. She would not listen to its whispers, would not let it seep into her mind.

Her mother’s voice rose to a crescendo, and Ealasaid joined her, their voices intertwining, filling the chamber with the power of their incantations. The runes on the door flared brighter, their glow now almost blinding. She felt the ward seal itself, the magic settling into place with a final, resonant hum.

The ritual was almost complete, but the air was still charged with tension. Ealasaid could feel it, a presence on the other side of the iron door, waiting, watching… whispering just beyond the edge of her consciousness.

And then, for just a moment, she thought she heard it—a soft, silky voice, like honey over steel, murmuring her name.

“Ealasaid…”

She shuddered again, steeling herself against the temptation to listen, to hear what it was offering. The voice grew quieter, fading away as the last of the runes glowed brightly, sealing the ward anew.

She exhaled slowly, knowing they had succeeded this time—but the presence behind the door had felt closer than ever. She prayed silently that they would have the strength to resist it for as long as needed, knowing that the cost of failure was more than she dared to imagine.

Her day went on as it often did after the ritual, the heavy morning giving way to the routine of village life. She helped her mother and older sisters with their usual tasks—working small miracles, mixing poultices, and providing healing for the folk of Dunbrae. The villagers came with their aches and pains, their fevers and fractures, and Ealasaid moved among them with gentle hands and quiet confidence, whispering the old words that brought comfort and relief.

An old woman with swollen joints left with a spring in her step; a young boy with a fever grew calm under her touch. The gratitude of the villagers was a familiar comfort, their smiles and nods of thanks a soothing balm to the weariness that still clung to her.

Yet, every time she glanced toward the sea or felt the salt-kissed wind brush against her face, a shiver of unease crept up her spine. It was as if something inside her, something deep and primal, was trying to warn her—trying to tell her that all was not as it seemed.

She paused more than once, looking out over the hills to where the river met the sea, squinting against the bright light reflecting off the water, trying to see… something. Her heart felt tight, her mind restless, as if on the edge of remembering a half-forgotten dream.

“Ealasaid!” her older sister, Nessa, called out, breaking her reverie. “We need more comfrey for the salves. The McLeod boy took a tumble again.”

Ealasaid nodded, turning her back to the sea, and returned to her tasks. But the feeling lingered, a quiet, insistent whisper in her mind. She tried to shake it off, focusing on the familiar rhythm of her work, the comforting repetition of herbs and incantations.

Yet, the salt in the air seemed sharper today, the wind colder, and the distant waves crashing against the shore sounded like a distant drumbeat, echoing in the hollows of her bones.

Something was coming. She could feel it as surely as she could feel the earth beneath her feet. But what, she did not yet know.

And so, she worked on, her hands steady, her heart uneasy, waiting for whatever lay beyond the horizon to reveal itself.

It was near noon, the sun high in the sky, casting long beams of light through the small windows of the cottage. Ealasaid was alone, sweeping the dirt floors, her mind wandering as the rhythmic swish of the broom filled the quiet room. Her mother and older sisters, the more experienced witches, were out dealing with the latest trouble—a rumor of a faerie lurking in the town well, trying to trick the villagers into drowning themselves for its amusement. The villagers were on edge, and her family’s presence was needed to calm fears and set things right.

Ealasaid paused for a moment, resting on the broom handle, and looked out the window toward the river. The water glinted under the midday sun, a ribbon of silver threading its way toward the distant sea. A soft breeze blew in, carrying with it the tang of salt and something else… something she couldn’t quite place.

Her visions. She’d been told they were not the work of God, that such divinations were nothing but the devil’s tricks, dark whispers meant to lead her astray. Her mother had warned her again and again to suppress them, to push them aside, to bury them deep in the recesses of her mind where they could do no harm.

But today, it was harder than ever. The sense of foreboding, the gnawing unease, clawed at her insides like a trapped animal desperate to be free. The whispers of her inner sight were louder now, more insistent, like a voice just out of earshot, begging to be heard.

She sighed, setting the broom against the wall, her gaze lingering on the river. She wished, not for the first time, that she hadn’t been cursed with these unholy gifts. They gnawed at her heart, pulling her in two directions—toward the light and toward the shadows. Her family had chosen the path of God, of righteousness, and she had tried so hard to follow. But these visions… they were always there, lurking in the edges of her mind like ghosts in the fog.

She closed her eyes, willing the uneasy feeling to go away, to leave her in peace. But the sensation grew stronger, a knot tightening in her chest, a cold finger running down her spine. Her hands trembled slightly, and she gripped them together to steady herself.

“Not now,” she whispered to herself, almost pleading. “Not today…”

But the vision pressed against her closed eyelids like a light too bright to ignore. She could almost see it now—figures on the water, the long, dark shapes of boats, the flutter of sails in the wind. She heard the distant, rhythmic drumming again, and this time, it was clearer, more defined. The beat of oars in water, the creak of wood, the low, guttural chant of voices she did not recognize.

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. She rushed to the window, scanning the river, but there was nothing there. Just the sun-dappled water, calm and flowing, as if nothing were amiss.

But she knew better. She felt it in her bones, the truth of it, like a shadow looming on the horizon. The visions had never lied to her before.

Ealasaid bit her lip, her fingers tightening around the windowsill. She could tell no one of what she had seen; they would think her touched by the devil, a danger to herself and to others. Yet the urge to run, to warn, to do something, was nearly overwhelming.

She turned away from the window, swallowing hard, her mind racing. She was alone. No one else would see what was coming, and no one would believe her if she tried to speak of it.

She turned back to her work, gripping the broom with more force than was necessary, her knuckles whitening as she swept the floor. She tried to dismiss the feeling, to convince herself that it was nothing more than the devil’s tricks, a test of her resolve.

“...Ealasaid…”

She shivered, the broom slipping from her grasp for a moment as that voice, that sweet, haunting voice, touched the back of her mind again. It was like a beautiful woman’s voice, soft and soothing, yet filled with a strength and poise that sent a chill down her spine. It was a voice that held power, authority, and a dark, irresistible allure. A voice that had been finding its way into her thoughts for weeks now, creeping in at the quietest moments, always whispering her name… “Ealasaid…”

She hadn’t told her mother. She hadn’t told anyone. She feared what they might think, what they might do. She had tried to ward herself, praying over the holy relics in the chapel, tracing protective runes on her skin, hanging blessed herbs around her bed at night. But no matter what she did, the voice always seemed to find her, slipping past every barrier, whispering to her in that unholy, silky tone that made her shiver.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, her pulse quickening. The voice was close, so close she could almost feel the breath of it on her skin, almost see the shape of the woman whose voice it was, standing just behind her, just out of sight.

She shook her head, pushing the thought away. “Not real,” she murmured to herself, a tremor in her voice. “Just shadows and tricks…”

But deep down, she knew it was more than that. She could feel the presence growing stronger, could sense the power behind the voice, a power that seemed to reach for her from beyond the iron door in the crypt, or perhaps even farther. It was like a tide pulling at her, dragging her toward something dark and unknowable.

The voice came again, softer this time, almost coaxing, almost kind. “…Ealasaid… come to me…”

She clenched her fists, squeezing her eyes shut. “Leave me be,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. She had to fight it, had to resist. Yet, a part of her—a small, frightened part—wondered what would happen if she listened, if she let herself be drawn into the sound of that voice. Would it offer her power? Knowledge? Something else?

But she knew the stories. She knew that nothing from the darkness came without a price.

With a deep breath, she forced herself back to sweeping, her hands moving faster now, trying to drown out the whispers with the swish of the broom against the dirt floor. She had to keep moving, keep working, keep her mind occupied. But the voice lingered, echoing softly in the corners of her thoughts, like a shadow that would not fade.

The cries came an hour later, breaking the fragile quiet of the afternoon. The shouts of villagers, panicked and frantic, filled the air—calls to arms, the clatter of running feet on cobblestone, the low, urgent commands of men preparing for the worst. The noise grew louder, closer, and then came the word that made Ealasaid's blood turn to ice.

"Northmen!"

She dropped her broom, her heart thudding in her chest. Terror gripped her as she raced to the cottage window, pushing aside the rough linen curtain with trembling hands. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked out toward the river.

There, gliding silently across the water, were the longships—sleek, dark shapes moving swiftly against the current. Their high, curved prows cut through the river like knives, each one adorned with a fearsome carved figurehead that loomed above the waterline. They looked like lupine dragons, their wooden snouts snarling, their eyes glaring with a predatory hunger. The carved mouths seemed to leer, frozen in a mocking grin, as if relishing the fear they inspired.

The ships moved swiftly, their oars dipping into the river in perfect unison, sending ripples across the water’s surface. Ealasaid could see the figures aboard them—tall, broad-shouldered men with axes and shields, their faces shadowed by helmets that gleamed like polished iron. Some wore mail shirts that caught the sunlight, glinting like scales on a serpent’s back. Others were bare-chested, their skin marked with strange, dark patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the light.

She saw the red-and-white striped sails billowing in the wind, the bright colors a stark contrast against the pale blue of the sky, and felt a shiver run through her. These were the Northmen, the Vikings, the raiders who had haunted their coasts for years, leaving behind a trail of blood and fire. She had heard the stories—stories of their ruthlessness, their insatiable greed, their thirst for silver and gold and glory.

Ealasaid’s pulse pounded in her ears as she watched the longships draw closer, the river seeming to welcome them, their dark shapes sliding across the water like predators closing in on prey. The figureheads, with their snarling faces and open jaws, seemed to leer directly at her, as if they could see her standing there, trembling behind the thin curtain of her cottage window.

The ships moved with terrifying speed, and she could already see the men preparing to disembark—some hefting axes, others pulling out long ropes and grappling hooks. She knew they would reach the shore soon, and when they did, there would be no mercy, no negotiation. They would take what they wanted, and they would leave nothing but ashes in their wake.

Panic rose in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She backed away from the window, her mind racing. The villagers were arming themselves, she could hear the clattering of weapons being drawn, the frantic cries for help. But what could they do against raiders like these?

Her mother and sisters were still at the well, dealing with the faerie trouble. They had no idea what was coming. She had to find them, to warn them. But what then? Could even their magic protect them against such a force?

She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. The voice in her mind whispered again, low and insistent, “Ealasaid… come to me…”

She shook her head, pushing it away. There was no time for that now. No time for whispers or warnings. She had to move, had to act.

She turned and bolted for the door, her heart racing, knowing that everything was about to change, and that the peace of Dunbrae was about to be shattered in the blink of an eye.

She had barely made it a short sprint from her house when she heard the unmistakable whistle of an arrow slicing through the air. There was no time to react, no time to think. Pain exploded in her collarbone, and she staggered, her feet faltering as the force of the impact drove her backward.

Her hand flew to the wound, her fingers coming away slick with blood. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as a sharp, burning pain spread through her chest. She fell back to the earth, the world spinning around her. The cold ground met her with a cruel, unyielding embrace, and she realized with a surge of panic that she could not breathe. The arrow had pierced deep, the tip lodged somewhere near her lung. Each breath felt like fire, and every movement sent fresh waves of agony shooting through her body.

She lay there, her head swimming, her vision blurring around the edges. She could hear the distant shouts of the villagers, the cries of alarm and fear, but they seemed so far away, as if coming from another world. She felt the blood seeping from her wound, warm and sticky against her skin, and she knew—knew with a terrible certainty—that she was dying. The arrow had punctured her lung. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one more painful than the last.

She was going to die here, on the cold, hard ground of Dunbrae, without ever having seen what her life could become. She would die slowly, painfully, as the air leaked from her lungs, her vision dimming, her strength fading.

And then, in the midst of her pain and fear, she heard it again—the voice. Not a soft whisper this time, but a loud, commanding tone that filled her mind, drowning out everything else.

“Ealasaid!”

She shivered, her whole body trembling, as the voice grew stronger, more insistent. It was no longer a gentle murmur but a demand, a force pressing against her mind like a storm battering a fragile door.

“Ealasaid, you must listen…”

Her heart raced, panic mixing with confusion and fear. The voice filled her head, pushing away every other thought, every other sound.

“If you want to save them… if you want to live…” the voice continued, its tone smooth but edged with urgency.

She gasped, her breath hitching painfully in her chest. Her head spun, her vision narrowing to a tunnel of light. The pain was unbearable, every breath a jagged knife cutting deeper into her flesh. The world around her seemed to fade, the sounds of the village growing distant, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Her thoughts swirled, dizzy and fragmented. She knew the danger, knew what lay behind the iron door, the warnings etched into her very soul since she was a child. But the pain was overwhelming, and the fear of death gnawed at her like a wild animal. The cold realization of her own mortality tightened around her like a noose.

“You will die here…” the voice whispered, almost taunting now, “unless you open the door.”

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her strength waning with each heartbeat, but she could not stop, would not stop. She thought of her mother, her sisters, her village. The faces of the dying, the innocent, all those she loved.

With trembling hands, Ealasaid pulled herself toward the cottage, toward the trapdoor, where the iron gauntlets lay hidden in the crypt below.

She knew she would never make it—unless she made a bargain with the very thing she had been warned against.

The voice in her head cackled with delight.

“You will die here, Ealasaid,” the voice repeated, dripping with a sickening mix of pity and anticipation, “unless you open the door and free me.”

The weight of the voice seemed to press against her chest, suffocating her with its dark power, its promises. The gauntlets—the forbidden gauntlets, the ones hidden beneath the iron door—called to her with a pull stronger than anything she'd felt before. But the stories, the warnings, the generations of fear welled up in her mind. This was the moment her ancestors had always feared, the moment when their family might succumb to temptation, to the dark magic locked away for a reason.

But as she crawled, inch by inch, toward the trapdoor, the faces of her family, her village—her entire life—flashed before her. They were helpless. The Northmen would show no mercy. She could hear the battle cries now, the roar of warriors clashing, and she knew that every second was precious.

She reached the trapdoor, her fingers slick with her own blood, trembling as she fumbled at the edge of the worn rug that concealed the iron door. Each movement sent fresh agony lancing through her body, but she forced herself to pull the rug back, revealing the trapdoor that led to the crypt below.

The voice was louder now, more insistent. “Free me, Ealasaid, and you will save them all. Your village, your family—none need suffer if you simply open the door.”

With shaking hands, Ealasaid lifted the trapdoor, her vision blurring as she descended the wooden ladder into the cold, dark crypt below. The air was thick with dampness and the weight of centuries-old magic, humming faintly in the walls, in the stone beneath her feet. She could feel the ancient power here, pressing in on her from all sides. The gauntlets lay in the chamber beyond—waiting for her.

The iron door loomed ahead, its surface etched with the runes her ancestors had carved to contain the demon’s power. Her mother had told her time and time again: never open it. But now, in the face of death, with the village hanging in the balance, what choice did she have?

“Open it,” the voice whispered, with a dark, seductive edge that made her pulse quicken. “Save them. Save yourself.”

She hesitated, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Her entire life had been spent resisting this moment, avoiding the temptation to reach for power beyond her control. But now, as her blood pooled beneath her and her strength waned, she knew she could not win this fight alone.

With a prayer for forgiveness, she reached out and touched the iron door. It was cold beneath her fingers, unyielding. But as she spoke the words—the ancient words that had been passed down through her family—she felt the runes flicker and fade, their power slipping away as the door slowly creaked open.

Inside the chamber, bathed in the eerie light of the magical flame, sat the gauntlets.

Black iron and leather, they gleamed in the dim light, waiting—almost beckoning her.

“Take them,” the voice commanded, no longer a suggestion, but an order. “You are meant for this.”

With trembling hands, Ealasaid reached for the gauntlets. The moment her fingers touched the cold metal, a surge of power shot through her, filling her veins with a dark, exhilarating strength. The pain in her chest faded, replaced by a feeling of invincibility. She slid the gauntlets onto her arms, the leather binding tightly around her wrists, the metal claws gleaming like polished steel.

The moment they were in place, she felt the full weight of the magic within them—ancient, powerful, and dangerous. The runes etched into the iron flared to life, glowing faintly as the power of the gauntlets coursed through her. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before—wild, raw, and untamed.

“Now,” the voice purred, satisfied. “Now, you are ready.”

She rose to her feet, the blood from her wound no longer a hindrance, the pain gone as if it had never existed. She flexed her fingers, feeling the sharpness of the claws, the power thrumming just beneath her skin. She was no longer the frightened girl who had crawled to the crypt, broken and bleeding. She was something more now. She was the Battle Crow, chosen by the Morrígan herself.

She turned and ascended the ladder, her movements quick and sure. The sounds of battle grew louder as she reached the surface, the cries of her people, the clash of steel, the roar of the Northmen filling the air. But Ealasaid no longer felt fear. She felt only the steady beat of power within her, the knowledge that she could turn the tide of this battle—if she dared.

She stepped out of the cottage, the gauntlets gleaming in the fading light of the evening, and raised her arms to the sky.

“By the will of the Phantom Queen,” she whispered, her voice low and resonant, “I call upon the storm.”

Above her, the clouds began to gather, dark and menacing, swirling in a great, roiling mass. The wind howled, whipping through the village as if in answer to her call. And then, from the distant horizon, came the crows. Black-winged, fierce-eyed, they swarmed toward her, a great murder of crows, their cries echoing through the darkening sky.

Ealasaid smiled, a wild, defiant grin, as the power of the Morrígan surged through her veins. She was no longer just a girl from Dunbrae. She was the embodiment of vengeance, of fury, of death.

And the Northmen would pay.

With a cry that echoed through the night, Ealasaid charged toward the invaders, the crows descending from the sky like shadows made flesh, their beady eyes gleaming with hunger for the fight. Her gauntleted fists crackled with energy, the claws flexing in anticipation.

The Northmen turned, their eyes widening in shock as they saw her approaching—this small, bloodied woman, her eyes burning with an otherworldly light, her fists raised in defiance.

But by the time they realized their mistake, it was already too late.

Ealasaid struck with the fury of the gods, her claws ripping through steel and flesh alike. The crows descended upon the Northmen in a whirlwind of black feathers, pecking at eyes, clawing at exposed skin. The wind howled around them, a storm that seemed to have come from nowhere, fueled by her rage, by the power that now coursed through her.

She moved through the battle like a wraith, her gauntlets glowing with the dark magic of the Morrígan, her strikes precise and deadly. The Northmen—so sure of their victory—now fell before her, their cries of terror mixing with the storm and the cawing of the crows.

For the first time in her life, Ealasaid felt truly alive. She was no longer just a protector of her village. She was the Battle Crow, chosen by the goddess of war and death, and she would not stop until every one of the invaders lay dead at her feet.

As the last of the Northmen fell, his body crumpling to the ground, Ealasaid stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving with exertion. The storm began to subside, the crows circling above her head in a silent, watchful vigil.

The village was saved. The Northmen had been defeated. But as Ealasaid looked down at her blood-stained gauntlets, she knew that the cost of her victory had been great.

She had made a bargain with the Morrígan, and now, she was bound to the goddess. Forever.

“Threefold shall your vengeance be, Ealasaid,” the voice whispered, softer now, almost fond. “Thrice the toll you shall take in debt of blood.”

Ealasaid closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the gauntlets on her arms, the dark power that still thrummed within them. She had saved her village, but at what cost? She had embraced the darkness, and now, there was no turning back.

When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed with the raven-dark light of the Morrígan.

The Battle Crow had risen. And her vengeance had only just begun.

Ealasaid stood in the aftermath of the battle, surrounded by the bodies of the Northmen and the scattered feathers of the crows. The storm clouds overhead began to thin, the wind dying down as the village lay in a stunned silence. The people of Dunbrae, those who had not fallen in the raid, emerged from their hiding places, their faces pale with shock and disbelief.

They had seen her—seen the transformation, the power she had wielded. The woman they knew, the healer and daughter of their village, had become something else, something otherworldly. They stared at her, eyes wide with awe and fear, as she stood amidst the carnage, the gauntlets on her arms glowing faintly with the remnants of their dark magic.

Ealasaid felt their stares, felt the weight of their judgment and fear pressing down on her. She had saved them, but at what cost? The magic she had unleashed was not the gentle power of healing, not the protective wards her family had practiced for generations. It was something far darker, something that had come from the Morrígan herself.

Her heart ached with the knowledge that she had crossed a line—one that could never be uncrossed. She had embraced the power of the Phantom Queen, made a bargain with a force she did not fully understand. And now, she was bound to it. Forever.

As she stood there, her breath still heavy from the fight, the voice returned, whispering in her mind like a dark shadow creeping across her soul.

"Do not fear them, Ealasaid. They will come to understand, in time. You are their protector now. Their shield against the storm. But you are more than that. You are the Battle Crow, the Morrígan's chosen."

Ealasaid's fists clenched, her claws flexing once more. The power still surged through her veins, intoxicating and dangerous, a heady mixture of strength and fury. She wanted to reject the voice, to turn away from the path it offered her, but deep down, she knew that it was too late. The moment she had put on the gauntlets, her fate had been sealed.

She glanced around at the faces of her people—their fear, their uncertainty. Her mother and sisters emerged from the crowd, their expressions etched with worry. Her mother's eyes met hers, and Ealasaid could see the question there, the unspoken fear: What have you done?

Ealasaid’s gaze dropped to the ground. She had saved them. She had protected the village, just as her family had always done. But the price had been steep. Too steep.

Her mother stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. "Ealasaid, my daughter… what has happened? What have you done?"

Tears welled in Ealasaid’s eyes as she met her mother’s gaze. She wanted to explain, wanted to tell her that she had no choice, that it had been the only way to save them. But the words wouldn’t come. How could she explain the bargain she had made, the dark pact she had forged with the Morrígan?

Instead, she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I did what I had to."

Her mother’s face tightened, her eyes filled with both sorrow and understanding. "The gauntlets..." she whispered. "You opened the door, didn’t you?"

Ealasaid nodded slowly, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I had no choice, Mother. They were going to kill us all. I had to…"

Her mother closed her eyes, her expression one of deep sorrow. "We always have a choice, Ealasaid. Always."

The villagers began to murmur, their voices rising in a wave of uncertainty and fear. Some whispered of witchcraft, of dark magic. Others spoke of gratitude, of the miracle that had saved them. But all eyes remained on Ealasaid, waiting for an explanation, for reassurance.

Before she could speak, the voice in her mind returned, stronger now, more insistent. "Do not explain yourself to them, Ealasaid. You owe them nothing. You are their protector, their savior. And if they do not understand now, they will, in time."

Ealasaid’s jaw tightened. The power still thrummed through her, urging her to embrace it, to revel in it. But even as the magic flowed through her, she felt the weight of her decision pressing down on her soul. She had saved the village, but at what cost? What had she become?

She turned her back on the villagers, on her family, and began to walk toward the edge of the village. The crows followed her, their black wings rustling in the wind, their cries echoing in the fading light. She could feel their presence, their connection to her, a bond forged in blood and battle.

"Ealasaid!" her mother called after her, her voice filled with desperation. "Where are you going?"

Ealasaid paused, her back still turned to the village. She didn’t know where she was going. She only knew that she could not stay. Not like this. Not with the power of the Morrígan coursing through her, binding her to a destiny she had not chosen.

"I don’t know," she whispered, her voice barely carrying on the wind. "But I can’t stay here. Not anymore."

Her mother’s voice trembled. "You are not alone in this. We can help you. You don’t have to bear this burden alone."

Ealasaid swallowed hard, her heart aching with the weight of her mother’s words. But she knew the truth. This was her burden to bear. Her choice, her fate.

Without another word, she walked away, the crows circling above her as she disappeared into the twilight, leaving the village—and her old life—behind.

As she walked, the voice in her mind whispered again, soft and soothing.

"You are mine now, Battle Crow. The Morrígan has chosen you, and you will fulfill your destiny. The world will tremble before you, and the blood you spill will stain the earth in her name."

Ealasaid clenched her fists, feeling the weight of the gauntlets pressing against her skin. The power was intoxicating, but it was also a curse—a curse she would carry for the rest of her days.

But even as the darkness closed in around her, even as the weight of her choices bore down on her soul, Ealasaid knew one thing for certain.

She was not afraid.

She was the Battle Crow. And she would fight, for as long as it took.

For blood. For vengeance.

For Dunbrae.