Gus and his men began unloading the cart, stacking supplies near the entrance while Rowena gathered the girls.

  "Let’s get the fire going," she said, ushering Brigid and Ennie towards the house.

  “I’ll race you to the door!” Ennie squealed, leaping down from the cart with boundless energy.

  Brigid grinned and took off after her, but Rowena sighed, shaking her head. “Quiet down, you two, or you’ll wake the neighbours!”

  As they reached the house, Ennie pushed the door open and darted inside. The familiarity of home greeted them—a rustic warmth and the faint lingering scent of spices.

  Brigid quickly fetched the flint, striking sparks onto the tinder. With practiced ease, she coaxed a flame to life, feeding it kindling until the soft glow of the fireplace bathed the dining room in warmth.

  Then, the door was barred shut behind them.

  Brigid turned sharply.

  Two men stood by the door. Their chainmail gleamed faintly in the firelight, battered and stained with grime and old blood. One raised a gloved finger to his lips.

  “Shh,” he whispered, his voice edged with warning.

  Rowena inhaled sharply and pulled Ennie close, pressing a hand over her mouth before she could scream. Ennie trembled, her wide eyes filling with tears.

  Outside, Gus and his men continued unloading, oblivious to the danger inside. Brigid’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. If they called for help now, they would be cut down before Gus could reach them.

  Her eyes flicked over the intruders. They were gaunt, desperate-looking, their ragged breaths betraying exhaustion. Deserters, perhaps? The news of Morwyn’s fall came to mind—soldiers fleeing a lost battle, now turned brigands.

  The taller of the two, his chainmail coif still snug over his head, kept a wary eye on the window. The shorter one, his face bruised and streaked with dried mud, clenched his teeth. He looked jittery—volatile.

  Ennie started to wail beneath Rowena’s hand, her small body shaking violently. The taller man saw Gus take notice and start to talk towards the door.

  The game was up.

  Both men started to quietly unsheathe their swords.

  The shorter man grimaced. “Shut her up!” he mouthed to Rowena.

  Brigid stiffened.

  The cold gleam of the blade in the dim light sent a spike of fear through her. The tip hovered closer to Ennie’s tear-streaked face.

  They’ll kill her!

  Brigid’s eyes darted toward the fireplace. Gus’s walking stick—a meter long and of heavy oak—rested against the wall.

  Her training in the Memory Palace rushed back to her. A weapon within reach. An advantage. A chance to save mother and Ennie.

  The deserter’s grip tightened. His patience snapped.

  "Urrugh!" He let out a guttural grunt as he raised his sword.

  Brigid moved.

  Brigid! I'm faster! I shouted inwardly to her as I took control.

  I dropped our body low, launching forward in a sprint. My fingers curled around the walking stick, snatching it up from its place.

  The sword came down.

  I swung the walking stick upward, and with a twang of wood on metal, I intercepted the blade just in time. Splinters flew as the steel bit into the wood, carving a jagged wedge from the stick—sharpening it on the narrow end.

  The deserter’s eyes widened in shock.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I crouched under the arc of his sword’s swing, shifted my grip and drove the blunt head of the walking stick straight into his throat.

  A choked gurgle escaped his wide open mouth as he staggered back, dropping his sword and clutching at his neck. He collapsed, writhing on the floor, gasping for air.

  The second man stood frozen by the door, staring in disbelief.

  Then came the knock.

  "Rowena? Girls?" Gus's voice carried through the door.

  The second deserter’s head snapped toward the sound.

  Distraction! An opening!

  Our body moved on instinct.

  Throw the staff!

  The weight of the oak walking stick left our grip like a javelin.

  The man saw something flying towards him from the corner of his eye and turned his head at the most inopportune of moments.

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  The sharpened end of the walking stick struck true—right into his left eye.

  A sickening crunch.

  “Don’t look, Brigid!” I warned.

  I tore our gaze away as the man’s body slumped to the ground with a dull thud.

  As I returned control to Brigid and I could feel her shaking slightly. She stumbled toward the door, unbarring it with trembling fingers.

  The door swung open.

  Gus stepped inside—his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him.

  The two intruders lay sprawled on the ground, one was still rolling on the floor in a world of hurt as he clutched his throat, the other motionless, a pool of blood gathering on the ground beneath the walking stick still stuck in his head. Gus was frozen, as if he was about to draw, gripping the handle of his sword so had his knuckles had turned white.

  Ewan and Fergal rushed in behind Gus, weapons drawn.

  “By the gods…Commander, did you…”

  Gus slowly shook his head.

  They lowered their weapons. The smell of blood and burning wood mingled in the air.

  Gus turned to Rowena and softly requested, “Take Ennie to the bedroom.”

  Rowena, still gripping a trembling Ennie, nodded and hurried the child away.

  Ewan and Fergal took the surviving deserter prisoner and marched him off to the barrack’s jail.

  Brigid was still rooted to the spot.

  Her hands still clenched into fists. Her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

  She had killed someone.

  “I killed him, Brigid. Not you.” But I heard no response.

  The weight of it settled into her bones. The horror, the finality.

  Gus placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

  She wore an expression of dread as she turned to look up at her father, expecting anger, disappointment—something.

  Instead, she saw only understanding.

  “They were going to kill Ennie and Mother,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I had to.”

  A sob broke free from her lips as she clung to him.

  Gus wrapped his arms around her, his large hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

  “You did the right thing, Brigid,” he murmured.

  Even as he said it, his mind was racing.

  A single strike to the throat. A precision throw to the eye.

  These weren’t the wild, panicked flailings of a frightened child.

  These were deliberate, trained killing moves.

  Silent. Swift. Lethal.

  If he hadn’t seen her standing over the men himself, he would have sworn it was the work of a seasoned assassin.

  His daughter—his sweet, gentle Brigid—had moved and fought like a warrior.

  No, like something even deadlier.

  Gus swallowed hard, staring at the fallen man.

  How in the world did Brigid learn to fight like that?

  CHAPTER 8THE AWAKENING OF THE SAINT

  The fireplace crackled softly in Bodhmall’s hut, casting long shadows on the rough stone walls. The scent of burning peat mingled with dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Brigid sat stiffly on a wooden stool, her hands resting nervously in her lap. Gus held her hand, his grip firm but gentle, though his face betrayed a storm of questions.

  Ennie had been terrified after the fight, clinging to Rowena until sleep finally claimed her. Only then had Gus decided they needed to visit Bodhmall. The walk from their home to the bandrui’s hut had been silent, save for the occasional crunch of gravel beneath their boots.

  Now, seated before the revered elder, the weight of the evening’s events settled over them like a heavy cloak.

  Gus broke the silence first, his voice low but tinged with awe.

  “Brigid...” he began, his eyes searching her face. “How did you manage to fight like that?”

  Brigid felt her heart race. She was trying to make up some excuse in the back of her mind, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “I’ve seen women fend off men when cornered, but this was different,”

  Gus continued, his grip tightening. “Too seasoned. Too... precise.”

  His gaze darkened slightly, as if the realization unsettled him.

  Before Brigid could respond, Bodhmall’s voice cut through the room, firm and knowing.

  “I see you sense it too, Gus, my boy,” the old druidess said, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Didn’t I tell you the omens showed that Merchecna had chosen Brigid for something monumental?”

  She leaned forward, the firelight reflecting off the etched runes on her staff. When she spoke again, her tone was deliberate, her words heavy with meaning.

  “Brigid...” Bodhmall’s gaze sharpened, pinning her in place. “I must now be uncomfortably frank with you.” She paused, the room thick with tension. “Why do I sense you are of two souls and not one?”

  The question hit like a thunderclap.

  Brigid’s body went rigid, her mind spinning in panic. Demonic possessions. Witchcraft. In this world, such accusations could lead to the stake and a flaming end. She felt herself teetering on the edge of fear, her thoughts a frantic plea to Merchecna.

  Please... help...

  The fire’s glow seemed to pulse with her desperation, the shadows stretching and twisting like dark spectres on the walls.

  But Merchecna didn’t answer.

  Instead, it was I who stepped forward.

  "I am Lucas, emissary of Merchecna, Goddess of Knowledge, the Wise Lady of the Dawn and Dusk," I rose and declared with as much arrogance and authority as I could.

  “Behold my lady’s name and stand not in the way of my mission, mortals.”

  Brigid was scared witless inside our shared mind. I could feel her give way to the sheer rising panic, and if I hadn’t taken over and held it in, we would’ve wet ourselves right there and then.

  Gus froze, his face paling as he realized someone else was speaking through his daughter.

  Bodhmall rose slowly, her expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, she genuflected, kneeling on one knee and bowing her head low.

  Gus’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in silent shock.

  My gamble had paid off.

  “There is no need to bow, good bandrui,” I continued, softening my tone but keeping it lofty enough to maintain the illusion. “You not only helped save Brigid but have also pleased the gods by delivering their messages well over the years. Arise.”

  Bodhmall lifted her head and returned to her seat, though her sharp eyes never left me. Gus, however, sat as if his soul had left his body, gaping at Brigid like his brains had fried.

  “I sense you are a learned knight of sorts,” Bodhmall said slowly, her curiosity piqued. “Perhaps a scholar-paladin? What is your mission, o holy emissary?”

  I drew myself up, channelling the most dramatic comic book superhero pose I could muster.

  “Merchecna has ordered me to bring her knowledge into the world for the betterment of all humanity.” I let the words hang in the air before continuing. “As you can see, I am also one of Neith’s warriors, and I will fight to punish the wicked and restore peace to the lands.”

  Inside, I couldn’t help but think that maybe I’ve read one too many superhero comics... But Bodhmall seemed to be eating it up.

  “Hail Neith and Merchecna, the cunning father and daughter of battle, bringers of holy justice in war,” Bodhmall intoned with reverence. Then her gaze sharpened. “Why did you choose Brigid, Lucas? How does she figure into this divine plan?”

  I felt Brigid holding her breath.

  “Merchecna has been observing Brigid for a long time,” I explained, my voice steady. “She decreed Brigid’s eventual rise as a saint. I did not choose Brigid; instead, I was ordered to descend and save her from the parched madness. Henceforth, both of us shall serve Merchecna’s mission in the mortal realm.”

  Bodhmall’s eyes widened with understanding.

  “A warrior saint...” she whispered, as if the words themselves were sacred. Then, louder, with conviction: “A warrior saint! I curse my foolishness for failing to read the omens correctly.”

  She turned to Gus, who still hadn’t moved.

  “Merchecna’s mercy is indeed upon us, for salvation has arrived in our most dire hour.” She grabbed Gus by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Gus! Gus, my boy! Gather your wits about you.”

  Gus blinked, finally snapping out of his stupor.

  “To Bryn Massan! We must to present our warrior saint to the general!” Bodhmall declared.

  And just like that, we were on a new path.

  But inside, I could feel Brigid’s thoughts, still swirling in disbelief.

  “Lucas... what have we done?”

  I didn’t have an answer. But one thing was certain: our quiet life in Cullfinn was over.