The village of Dunmara lay nestled among emerald hills, its round wooden huts clustered around a central stone circle used for council gatherings and festivals. Smoke curled gently from the thatched rooftops, mingling with the scent of peat and heather. Chickens pecked at the dirt paths, and sheep bleated in nearby pens. It was a simple life, rich in earth and sky.
But today, the wind carried more than the usual chill from the northern highlands. It carried whispers—whispers of war, of fire, of the Saren.
Once a distant rumor, the Saren had become a creeping dread, their banners advancing across the lands faster than even the druids had foreseen. Their legions—men of gleaming armor and brutal discipline—were swallowing villages whole. Where once stood proud hill-forts and sacred groves, now rose stone roads and the spearheads of Skarn, the God of the Spear.
Children played in the fields, chasing one another with wooden swords, ignorant of the storm gathering at the edges of their world. Their laughter was loud, reckless. Only the adults watched the hills, their eyes dark with fear.
Near the well, three women stood huddled, their voices hushed but urgent.
"Nuala…" said one of them, a woman with streaks of silver in her brown hair. Her name was Doireann, "When will your husband return? Without him… the village will not hold when the Saren will arrive. You know this."
Nuala brushed a strand of golden hair from her face. Her eyes, a stormy ocean blue, had once been full of joy. Now, they were clouded by dread.
"I don't know, Doireann," she murmured, fingers unconsciously tightening around the silver pendant that hung from her neck—a snowflake.
Suddenly, with a thud and a gleeful giggle, something—or rather, someone—landed on her back.
"Artair!" she cried, twisting around with practiced reflexes. Her son clung to her shoulders like a wildcat, grinning ear to ear.
His hair was as black as ravens' wings and his eyes darker still, a rarity in these lands of fair skin and light eyes. His skin, unusually pale, made the boy seem almost fey, as though he didn't quite belong to this world.
"How many times have I told you not to do that? You've gotten heavy!" she scolded, grabbing him by the front of his tunic.
"Hehe…" Artair chuckled mischievously, then, like a wisp of smoke, slipped from her grasp—leaving his tunic behind—and sprinted away shirtless.
"Bye-bye!" he called over his shoulder, disappearing into the fields to join the other children.
"Come back here, Artair! You'll catch a cold like that!" Nuala shouted, exasperated. But he was already gone, chasing joy in a world beginning to darken.
She sighed heavily, watching him vanish through the kids. 'That scoundrel… he's all his father…'
Dearbhla, the third woman by the well, folded her arms across her chest, her sharp green eyes following the boy as he vanished into the tall grass. She was the same age as Nuala, her auburn hair tied in a loose braid that swung behind her like a fox's tail.
"Nuala…" she said, her voice calm but edged with curiosity, "he still has to undergo the Fìrath, right? He celebrates eight years tomorrow, if I remember correctly."
Nuala's shoulders slumped. "Yeah…" she muttered, dragging a hand across her face. "But at this rate… I don't think any god will ever want to bless him."
"Come now, Nuala…" Doireann said with a short laugh, stepping closer and resting a warm hand on her friend's shoulder. "You're being too dramatic. The gods love difficult people the most. You're just… the exception to that rule."
Nuala shot her a tired glare, but couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"She's right," Dearbhla chimed in, her tone teasing but kind. "Just look at your husband. He was just as much of a wild thing as Artair when we were young. And yet, one of the strongest gods still chose him."
Nuala exhaled, long and slow. Their words weren't wrong. She remembered those days clearly—when her husband had been more flame than flesh, trouble and laughter rolled into one. And yet, Bellovan, the God of the Sword, had blessed him with divine skills.
...
Later that day, inside a small, smoky roundhouse...
Achoo!
Achoo!
Sneezes echoed against the curved wooden walls. The fire in the central hearth flickered low, casting soft amber light across bundles of dried herbs and old woolen tapestries.
Artair lay bundled in a heap of blankets, only his dark tousled hair and flushed cheeks poking out. His nose was red, his eyes watery.
Nuala knelt at his bedside with a weary sigh, gently tucking the covers higher beneath his chin. Her hands moved with care, practiced and patient.
"I told you that you would catch a cold," she chided softly, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. "Why do you never listen to me?"
"Y-Yes, Mom... achoo!"
Artair sneezed again, voice muffled under the layers. "I-I'll listen to you from now on..."
Nuala narrowed her eyes. "You've said that a lot of times already..." She shook her head and dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water, wringing it out with a practiced twist. "I wonder if you'll ever grow up one day..."
Artair blinked up at her through half-lidded eyes. "Mom... I-I am already big..."
She gave a dry little laugh. "Yeah, yeah... big like a frog trying to roar."
She gently laid the wet cloth across his forehead. Artair blinked at the chill, but smiled faintly.
The wind outside had begun to pick up again, rattling the wooden shutters like old bones. Nuala stared at the flickering fire for a long moment, then turned back to her son. Her expression softened.
She reached for a small harp tucked near the hearth—an old thing, carved from rowan wood and strung with silver gut.
Her fingers plucked a few gentle notes, clear and soft as morning frost. Then, without needing to think, she began to sing.
Her voice didn't simply rise—it bloomed. It shimmered in the firelight like silver threads, weaving through the rafters, slipping between the gaps in the wood, curling around the room like incense. It wasn't loud, nor proud, but pure—a sound too beautiful to belong fully to the world of men.
"Hush now, child, close your eyes,
Dream where northern starlight lies…"
Artair stirred beneath the blankets, his small fingers unclenching, the tension in his pale brow easing.
"Past the hills and frozen foam,
There lies the gods' forgotten home."
The fire crackled low, casting golden halos across Nuala's hair, making her seem like some ancient spirit seated at the hearth.
"Hyperborea, silver land,
Where sun and song go hand in hand.
No cold wind bites, no shadows grow,
Just skies of gold and fields of snow."
Artair's breathing slowed. He blinked once, twice... then let his eyes close fully.
"The swans fly low on crystal seas,
They sing to stone and ancient trees.
And those who hear, and those who see,
Are marked by fate, and chosen be."
His little chest rose and fell in time with the rhythm of her words, his face now slack with sleep. He murmured something—perhaps a dream already beginning—but it was too soft to catch.
"So dream, my star, my wayward flame,
The gods may whisper you a name.
And should they call you far from me,
Remember where your heart shall be."
Her voice faded to a hush, barely louder than breath.
"For even lands of endless dawn,
Cannot unmake a mother's song.
So sleep, and let your spirit stray—
To Hyperborea, far away."
Silence returned.
The wind seemed gentler now, the fire a little warmer.
Nuala watched her son sleep—his dark lashes still damp, his small mouth parted slightly—and gently set the harp aside. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, the cloth there still cool against his skin.
Then she rose, slow and quiet, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she moved to stir the fire and keep the cold at bay—for just a little longer.
To be continued...