The morning mist clung to the rolling hills and ancient oak forests like a veil, muffling the world in an expectant hush. Gus’s horse galloped steadily over the damp earth, its hooves beating a rhythmic tattoo against the ground—the only sound in the crisp autumn stillness. Brigid sat securely in front of her father, swaddled in the thick woollen cloak her mother had insisted she wear against the morning chill.

  Rowena had roused her well before dawn, fussing over every fold and button of her clothes with a mother’s nervous care. Since Brigid owned no riding attire, she perched sideways on her father’s saddle, her legs swinging gently with the horse’s gait.

  Gus, always preferring function over form, had tried to avoid dressing up entirely by opting for his armour—only for Rowena to veto the idea immediately. “You are not pressing cold metal against my daughter for an entire day’s ride.” In the end, they set off looking every bit the picture of a nobleman and his young daughter on their way to court.

  Riding just behind them, Ewan kept his usual sharp watch on the road ahead, while Bodhmall rode beside him, silent and pensive.

  The journey to Bryn Massan would take most of the day, covering nearly fifty miles—a taxing ride for some, but nothing new for Gus and his company.

  "Three people on a single horse," I quipped in Brigid’s mind. "This medieval carpool situation is definitely not what I signed up for."

  Brigid suddenly giggled, drawing from my memories to puzzle out the joke. Gus glanced down, his brow lifting in quiet curiosity.

  "What amuses you, child?"

  "Just sharing a joke with Lucas, Father," Brigid replied quickly, biting her lip to stifle another laugh.

  Gus frowned. "Care to share it with me?"

  Brigid tried her best, attempting to explain cars, carriages, and carpooling—but it was too difficult without the benefit of memory sharing, which I usually handled for her.

  "Well… I do understand why it's funny that three people are sharing one horse," Gus admitted, scratching his chin. "But you're saying you understand Lucas without words? By reading his memories?"

  “Lucas knows a great many things that are wonderful and strange, father. He comes from a different world, and I’ve seen it in his Memory Palace, a special place where I can live inside his dreams.”

  "Yes, Father. It’s because…" She paused, searching for an explanation. "We share the same mind. I can even enter his dreams but remain awake. I can see his world and learn things from it."

  Gus’s brow knit together in disbelief. "Dreams are not real, Brigid."

  "This one is," she insisted. "Lucas even taught me Aikido—the same techniques he used to defeat those deserters."

  Gus visibly stiffened. "He's teaching you to… fight?!"

  "Given what happened, don’t you think it’s important that I can defend myself and our family?"

  That took the wind out of him. I could see the hesitation in his posture, the way his grip on the reins tightened slightly. The rigid gender roles of his time had never prepared him for the idea of his daughter fighting—but neither had he prepared for a goddess choosing her as a saint. He didn’t like it. But he wasn’t outright rejecting it, either.

  Brigid had long since abandoned any pretence of hiding our conversations, speaking with me now as naturally as breathing. Gus had noticed it before, but with it laid bare, the reality of it clearly unsettled him.

  By midday, the sun broke through the clouds, casting warm golden light across the landscape. We paused for lunch in a clearing by the roadside, letting the horses rest and graze.

  As Ewan unpacked their meal, he let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Your daughter speaks the strangest things today."

  Gus shot him a warning glance. "Ewan, I must ask that you keep this to yourself. General Adair will likely make this a matter of military secrecy."

  "Understood, Commander."

  They ate in silence—herbed butter and bread, paired with thin slices of sun-dried beef. But Gus’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. His gaze shifted to Brigid, his expression thoughtful, unreadable.

  "Tell me about the divine mandate," he said at last, his voice low, serious. "What does Merchecna truly expect of you?"

  I answered sarcastically, Divine job description: Save the world. Minimum qualifications: Possess the body of a 12-year-old girl. (Pun intended.) Benefits: Unclear.

  Brigid nearly choked on her bread, struggling to swallow her laughter.

  "She wants us to be a… what did Bodhmall call it? A ‘warrior saint’?"

  Ewan arched a sceptical eyebrow. "A child as a warrior saint?"

  "Not just any child," Bodhmall interjected, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom. "Merchecna sent one of her father’s warriors to wrench Brigid from Shuibhne’s clutches. For weeks, the dawn sacrifices I performed showed alarming omens. But now… it all makes sense."

  Bodhmall reached into her satchel, producing a small amulet-like talisman and handing it to Ewan.

  "Take this—it’s my symbol of authority. As we near Bryn Massan, I need you to split off and ride ahead to Siorghlas. Find Coic, the elder druid, and bid him hasten to Bryn Massan at once. He must meet me at Quine’s shop. Without him, securing an audience with Lord Riordan will be impossible."

  "It’s about the quorum, isn’t it?" Gus asked, his brow furrowing deeply.

  "Indeed." Bodhmall nodded. "If we have three druid elders, those grovelling toadies in Riordan’s court won’t be able to turn us away."

  Brigid tilted her head. "Lord Riordan? I thought we were meeting General Adair?"

  "You will, first." Bodhmall sighed. "But ultimately, we will need Riordan’s approval as ruler of Erse. And while I dread it, it must be done."

  Brigid pursed her lips, remembering the old weaver’s words. "Mairenn doesn’t like Riordan either."

  Bodhmall let out a dry chuckle. "Nobody likes Riordan, except his lackeys. Especially Mairenn—she lost her husband in the civil war. The three of us grew up together, good friends once… but now, it’s just painful to remember."

  As we resumed our journey, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road, Brigid rested her hand on her father’s armoured forearm.

  “I’m not the same Brigid since Merchecna sent Lucas to save my life,” she murmured. “Lucas isn’t just a voice or some warrior. He’s… a friend. A teacher. A protector.”

  I felt a warmth radiate from her words, as if she had wrapped me in an embrace from within.

  Gus’s large, calloused hand covered hers, his grip firm yet gentle. “Tell me everything,” he urged quietly. “From the beginning.”

  And so Brigid began, her voice weaving a tapestry of shared memories. She spoke of how I pulled her back from the brink of death, of the first moment she realised she wasn’t alone in her own body. She spoke of our fight with Blaine, the Memory Palace, and the Aikido training that had protected Ennie and her mother.

  As Gus listened intently, I could feel him lowering his guard against me. Considering that I had now saved his wife and daughters, at least he appeared to be grateful.

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  “Just curious… what’s Lucas’ rank?” Gus asked casually, his tone light.

  “Oh, he’s a general of the Black Standard,” Brigid pulled from my memories and replied proudly, even before I could suggest a response to her.

  Gus choked on his breath, his eyes wide with shock. Bodhmall’s head snapped up, her wrinkles stretching as far as they could go.

  “The Black Standard?” Gus repeated, incredulous. “That’s Neith’s personal elite squadron! And a general at that? I… I’m afraid this humble knight lieutenant admits to being vastly outranked.”

  “No, Father!” Brigid exclaimed, alarmed. “You will always be precious to me. Even if rank matters between soldiers, I am not one. Please don’t grow distant on account of this.”

  Gus pulled his daughter into a brief, fierce hug. “It shall be my life’s greatest honour to serve as your knight and bodyguard. You may not yet understand how significant your standing in this world is, Brigid, but remember this—you are now entitled to stand in the presence of kings and never kneel before any of them. A saint kneels before her goddess alone, and no one else.”

  “But Merchecna hasn’t officially recognised me as her saint yet,” Brigid reminded him, her voice thoughtful. “In the legends, a saint has to manifest at least three miracles. I haven’t even produced a single one.”

  “Oh no, Brigid. You awoke when I thought you were gone. Since then, every day I get to spend with you as your father is a miracle in itself.”

  “Oh, Father.” Brigid buried face coyly in her father’s chest. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Brigid.”

  As Brigid’s eyes welled with tears as she leaned against Gus, I basked in the warmth of their bond. It was a feeling I never knew I needed until now.

  “Come what may, Father,” Brigid spoke up, her voice steady and strong. “We’ll face it together.”

  The steady rhythm of hooves beat against the earth as Gus looked down at his daughter, seeing not just his beloved child but something far greater—a warrior saint, a vessel of divine purpose, a beacon of light in an ever-darkening world. And in that moment, his heart swelled with nothing but pride.

  As the horses continued their unwavering gallop, the towering silhouette of Bryn Massan loomed ever closer on the horizon. As they approached the fork in the road, Bodhmall raised her hand.

  “Ewan,” she called out, “Make for Siorghlas. Find Coic and bring him to Bryn Massan. We’ll need his presence for what lies ahead.”

  Without hesitation, Ewan spurred his horse, veering off towards the village of Siorghlas. The rest of us pressed onward, the journey growing more tense with each passing mile.

  By mid-afternoon, we arrived at the palisades encircling the village outside Bryn Massan’s imposing castle walls. The once sparse defences were nearly complete now, thanks to the tireless efforts of labourers who had clearly been working through the night. Soldiers and knights moved about in a restless hum, their armour clinking and weapons gleaming in the autumn light.

  As we reached the gates, a long line of merchants and peasants awaited entry, but Gus’s commanding presence as a knight nobleman—and Bodhmall status as a druid elder—allowed us to bypass the queue with little resistance.

  Once inside, Gus brought us to the Wolf & Jackal, one of Bryn Massan’s more reputable inns. The innkeeper, upon recognising Gus, offered us a comfortable room without hesitation. Meanwhile, Bodhmall wasted no time and made her way directly to the apothecary’s shop, which Quine the elder druid, operated in the commoners’ quarter.

  The scent of dried herbs and alchemical concoctions filled the air as Bodhmall pushed open the wooden door. Quine, a wiry man with sharp features and piercing grey eyes, looked up from his ledger.

  “Bodhmall,” he greeted, setting down his quill. “I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.”

  “This isn’t a social call, Quine,” Bodhmall replied, her tone grave. “We have a matter of utmost importance. A warrior saint walks among us.”

  Quine’s eyes widened, his scepticism clear. “A warrior saint? That’s no trivial claim. I’ll admit the omens have been troubling, but this is on an entirely different plane.”

  Bodhmall stepped closer, and spoke in a serious voice. “Merchecna herself sent down one of her father’s generals to save Brigid. That warrior now resides within her mortal vessel. Through her, he defeated two armed men with nothing but a walking stick.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “Even Gus admits he’s never seen any knight fight with such deadly efficiency.”

  Before Quine could respond, the door creaked open again, and in shuffled Coic—whom Ewan had successfully brought from Siorghlas. The elderly druid leaned heavily on his staff, his wrinkled face twisted into a scowl.

  “What is this haste you force out of my old bones, Bodhmall?” Coic grumbled. “A warrior saint? We haven’t had one in a millennium! What makes you think Merchecna would drop one into your lap now?”

  The discussion grew heated, the three druids debating for hours as they compared omens and consulted the spirits. To their astonishment, every sign pointed to the same conclusion: Merchecna was moving her pieces on the mortal plane, and Brigid was at the centre of it all.

  Even as the druids grew more convinced, Quine’s brow furrowed with doubt. “So, what now?” he asked, his voice heavy with uncertainty. “Even if we barge into Riordan’s court, it’s unlikely he’ll listen to us—much less agree to anything.”

  Bodhmall’s eyes gleamed with determination. “Have you forgotten General Adair? If anyone can wrangle that fool Riordan, it’s him. We’ll present our case to the general first. Only with his backing will Riordan even consider listening.”

  With that, Bodhmall sent Ewan to fetch us from the inn. The moment Ewan arrived at our room, we followed him to the barracks, where Bodhmall and the other druid elders were already deep in conversation with General Adair, the knight commander of Bryn Massan’s garrison, effectively making him leader of the Ersean army.

  The barracks were abuzz with activity, soldiers drilling in the courtyard while officers barked orders. But as we stepped into the headquarters, the din faded into a tense silence. General Adair stood at the centre of his planning room, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought as he listened to the druids’ account.

  When he noticed us entering, his sharp gaze shifted, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Speak of the devil,” Adair called out, his voice carrying across the room. “Gus! Your darling daughter is turning out to be someone quite spectacular, according to these three old geezers here.”

  He chuckled, though his eyes remained serious. “I’ll tell you straight—I’m not putting any coin on the saint part of the story. But the warrior? Now that’s something I can related to!” He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Brigid. “Pull General Lucas out of her. I’d like to plumb the depths of his battle experience myself.”

  Brigid felt my eagerness and ceded control. I stepped forward, meeting Adair’s gaze with confidence.

  “And so here I am,” I announced, my voice steady. “Lucas, Neith’s general of the Black Standard, at your service. Would drafting a plan to defeat the Horde convince you that I’m worth the trouble of twisting Riordan’s arm and getting him to stay out of our way?”

  Adair’s eyes widened slightly, though he quickly masked his surprise. “By the gods, it’s true. I could never have imagined Brigid speaking to me like this.”

  He leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Tell me then—how is the Horde able to massacre formations twice their strength? I didn’t believe in their shamans’ fire magic until I rode out with my scouts and saw it with my own eyes.”

  What followed was the first of what I suspected would be many long discussions with General Adair. It quickly became clear that he wasn’t just a capable fighter but a strategist who had worked his way up through the ranks, educating himself in the art of war.

  After listening to the accounts of how the Horde fought, I began to piece together a picture. Their tactics were reminiscent of ancient Earth cultures that had relied heavily on mounted archers.

  Cavalry had remained a formidable asset in battle until the advent of machine guns and modern artillery. Even then, the last great cavalry charge at Beersheba during World War I had been victorious against machine guns, entrenched riflemen and field artillery.

  “The Horde’s archers can hold many arrows in their hand at once,” I explained, “and fire them with such speed and precision that they’d hit a thrown target with all their arrows before it even touches the ground. Their heavy warbows are powerful enough to pierce breastplates at close range and can reach targets up to four hundred paces away. To the untrained eye, their abilities seem almost demonic.”

  Adair’s expression darkened. “Indeed, and I even observed them defeat an infantry square, which we usually use for countering cavalry”

  “That’s correct,” I nodded. “The square works well against lancers but not against mounted archers. Bows are far more effective as ranged weapons than spears, which can only be thrown once. Mounted archers simply circle the square beyond reach and rain arrows down until the formation till it breaks.”

  “But we have shields…” Adair began.

  “…which they shoot over,” I interrupted. “Firing from horseback gives them a higher vantage point. They can shoot over shields to hit soldiers clustered in the middle of the square. I’d wager their bows are unusually shaped—probably with a backward curve?”

  Adair’s eyes widened. “Indeed. How did you know that?”

  “It’s common for cultures that rely on mounted archers to develop composite bows. The longbows of the Erse and Morwyn are made from a single piece of wood. But theirs are crafted from multiple materials—wood, horn, and sinew—giving them greater draw strength and range. They can shoot through chainmail and shields at close quarters, right?”

  Adair nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “Your mind is keen, General Lucas. We’ve observed the same with Horde bows retrieved after battle. Our shields stop their arrows, but the tips protrude through—sometimes even nailing the shield to the arm of the soldier holding it.”

  “And I imagine you’ve heard of the Horde’s ability to shoot from various positions even at full gallop—backwards, sideways, using their horses as cover.”

  Adair raised an eyebrow. “You speak as if from experience.”

  I met his gaze evenly. “Let’s just say… I possess knowledge not of this world.”

  Adair was silent for a moment before shifting topics. “And what of their shamans’ fireballs?”

  “They’re likely pots of flaming tar,” I replied. “Launched from concealed war machines—catapults or trebuchets—hidden behind tall barriers. They make their enemies believe they’re witnessing shamanic magic when, in reality, it’s just clever deception.”

  Adair cursed under his breath. “My scouts reported the Horde's shamans casting their spells from behind those barriers, but none of us considered they might be hiding siege engines.”

  “All of these factors,” I concluded, “combine to make the Horde a formidable war machine. Their tactics, equipment, and deception give them a decisive advantage over Ersean forces.”

  Adair leaned back, exhaling slowly. “By the gods… so that’s how they do it.”

  He straightened, his eyes gleaming with newfound determination. “General Lucas, you have my word. I’ll get Riordan to do whatever it takes to support your mission.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “Now, let’s go beat some sense into that numbskull first thing tomorrow morning!”