Brigid sat beneath the great oak near their home, sunlight dappling the grass as a warm breeze stirred the leaves.

  She had refused to stay in bed despite her mother’s insistence.

  “The whole of summer went by while I was asleep!” she had protested as Ennie tugged her outside.

  The sisters ran barefoot through the meadow, laughing as the cool grass tickled their ankles. Ennie squealed with delight as Brigid gave chase, already full of life despite waking from her long slumber only a week prior.

  Now, beneath the oak, Ennie slumped beside her, mumbling, “I’m not sleepy,” as her eyes drooped shut.

  Brigid smiled and stroked her sleeping sister’s hair. “Of course not, my little bandit.”

  I had watched the whole time, quietly observing.

  “You’re a really lovely sister to Ennie,” I said softly. “I wish I’d had someone like you growing up.”

  Brigid didn’t look at me, but replied like it were a thought spoken aloud. “So you were watching? You’re always this quiet. I almost forgot you were here.”

  “It’s a habit—just observing. My friends used to say I acted like a researcher studying primates.”

  Brigid smiled faintly. “You do like your big words.” She paused. “Still, it’s strange how I understand your thoughts like recalling memories from inside my head.”

  We sat in silence, sharing the breeze—and the same senses—for a while.

  “What made you this way?” Brigid asked gently. “I sense a kind of wistful emptiness from you sometimes, especially when I’m with my family.”

  “It’s because I never had one,” I said. “I was abandoned at birth—no name, no keepsake, just a blank space where a past should’ve been.”

  Brigid’s eyes softened. “That’s… awful.”

  “I was raised in a children’s home after my grandmother died. It wasn’t cruel, but I always knew I’d been left behind. Even when a kind foster couple took me in, the hole was already there.”

  “The hole?”

  “A kind of loneliness,” I explained. “Not the kind cured by being around people. I kept to myself. Buried myself in books—programming, electronics, encyclopaedias—anything that’s predictable, neutral. Unlike people, knowledge didn’t judge.”

  Brigid frowned. “That sounds… lonely.”

  “It was.”

  The breeze whispered through the leaves.

  Brigid’s voice was soft but steady. “I can’t imagine life without my family… without Ennie.” She stroked her sister’s hair. “If I’d been left behind like that, I’d have a hole in my heart too.”

  Her words struck something deep in me.

  She looked to the horizon. “Even if you didn’t have a family… you’ll always have me.”

  That caught me off guard.

  “I don’t know what world you came from, but you saved me, Lucas. No matter what you’ve lost… I’m grateful you exist.”

  We sat in silence. Then, gently, I echoed what she once said to me: “…Thank you.”

  Brigid smiled sweetly in response, patting Ennie as he stirred slightly in her sleep.

  “So… this is your family?” I asked.

  Brigid nodded. “My father’s Sir Gus Ahearn. Strong, but gentle—his hugs felt like being wrapped in a bear’s arms.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Lady Rowena. Kind, patient… and still beautiful. I think she always wanted to give Father a son, but I never resented that. Anyway, I got Ennie instead—and I wouldn’t trade her for anything.”

  “You love her deeply, don’t you?”

  Brigid smiled. “She’s my little shadow. We did everything together… I’d braid her hair, we’d sing, run in the fields…”

  She trailed off, fingers curling gently around her ribbon.

  Lucas caught the shift in her emotions. "And then... the dog attack."

  Brigid flinched.

  Suddenly, a vivid flashback surged into Brigid’s mind and I saw it as clearly as if I had been there. The snarling jaws, the frenzied bites, Ennie’s terrified screams. Panic clawed at Brigid as she threw herself over her sister, shielding her with everything she had, while the rabid beast tore into her back, its teeth sinking deep.

  It lasted an agonizing minute until a patrolling guard managed to kill the rabid dog. But through it all, Brigid never once thought of herself, only of keeping Ennie safe.

  I felt it through her memories—the way she tried to smile through her own tears after the attack, soothing her sister even as she endured the hideous agony of her shredded skin hanging in ragged strips from her back.

  The instant that memory hit me, I recoiled, gasping, shaken by the sheer horror of it by how brutal the attack had been through her eyes.

  What struck me most was how her fear of death had been overridden by instinct—to protect. That kind of selflessness… it explained how she’d recovered without lasting trauma.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Brigid whispered. “She just wanted to feed it. I didn’t think. I just threw myself over her. Ennie cried for days.”

  “You nearly died,” I murmured.

  “But Ennie lived,” she said firmly. “That’s what matters. It was my duty.”

  “You don’t regret it?”

  “Never.”

  I let out a breath, admiring her quiet resolve. “You know you’re reckless?”

  “Maybe.” She grinned faintly. “But I can’t help it.”

  Watching her toy with her braids, I added, “You don’t act twelve.”

  Brigid blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “The way you talk about duty and sacrifice—it’s more than maturity. You think like someone twice your age.”

  She smiled, thoughtful. “I suppose growing up with knights does that. I want to live like them. Like my father.”

  “Most kids chase glory. You chase responsibility.”

  She laughed lightly. “That makes me sound so serious.”

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  “It suits you.”

  Brigid’s eyes drifted to the horizon. Her fingers brushed the indigo ribbons in her hair.

  “These ribbons—Dawn and Dusk—were a gift from my mother. I received them when I swore my devotion to Merchecna. They’re the colours of the sunset. They remind me of her… of everything I believe in.”

  I was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re something else, Brigid.”

  She laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  The days that followed gave me a glimpse into a life far removed from my past as a digital nomad.

  Brigid and her family lived modestly among the Erse, a people resembling the ancient Celts. Though of low nobility, the Ahearns lived only slightly better than peasants. Gus’s income as a knight spared Rowena from fieldwork, but they still tended their own vegetable garden—practical, not decorative.

  Through Brigid’s eyes, I watched her hum as she worked the soil, content despite the hardships. I wondered how she’d react to modern comforts—but she seemed at peace here.

  Cullfinn woke with the sun. Roosters crowed, bread baked in communal ovens, and gossip mingled with the morning smoke. Brigid’s routine became mine: fetching water, gathering vegetables, helping her mother. Yet she always lingered near the practice yard, watching Gus drill the men.

  Father says a knight’s duty is to protect those who can’t protect themselves, she shared. That’s why he trains every man.

  It made sense—Cullfinn was far from Bryn Massan. They had to defend themselves, especially against bandits.

  I was a soldier too, I told her. But my weapons weren’t swords. They were faster. Deadlier.

  Magic? she guessed.

  No. Something your world hasn’t invented yet.

  Brigid hesitated. I fear war. I’d rather leave the fighting to the men.

  Even if you don’t wield a sword, you might still be slain by one.

  She was silent.

  Are you sure you wouldn’t fight if you were all that stood between your family and the enemy? If your father wasn’t there to protect you, what then?

  I could feel the conflict within her as she replied, No, I won’t fight. By the grace of the divine shall I live and perish. Besides, I know Father will always be there to protect us.

  Would you stop your father from fighting?

  No, why should I? she asked, puzzled by my question. The gods have given everyone a purpose. Neith rules over warriors, and so war is their way. That is simply how things are.

  I sighed. She was so deeply entrenched in this world’s faith that she had justified everything with divine order.

  Would you stop me?

  You claim to be a warrior and a servant of Merchecna. That means you serve the divine father and daughter, who symbolize cunning in battle and justice in war. Why should I stop you?

  If I fight, then it will be with your hands that I shall swing my blade.

  Then I shall serve merely as the conduit, allowing Merchecna’s authority to flow through your sword, replied Brigid, utterly unfazed.

  I was struck by how effortlessly Brigid compartmentalized her world. With a few simple words, she had granted me permission to summon the horrors of war before her very eyes.

  Merchecna had warned me about the violence of this world, but what would she think when faced with real war?

  Something told me I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Though I doubted the gods, I couldn’t ignore their role in Brigid’s life. She prayed to Merchecna three times daily, her faith sincere and unshaken.

  Do you miss your gods? she once asked.

  I never had any, I admitted. In my world, belief varies.

  Brigid’s eyes widened. How strange. Would you like to see the temple someday?

  Faith here wasn’t abstract—it was heritage, survival. Even Bodhmall’s "magic" was ancient medicine wrapped in folklore. Belief passed down like memory.

  I could see why Merchecna had chosen Brigid for her saint. It wasn’t just for her piety.

  One night, Brigid prepared food and slipped out quietly. She was visiting Mairenn, the old village weaver who had no family and lived alone on Cullfinn’s outskirts.

  Brigid’s illness had interrupted these visits, but now that she’d recovered, she resumed them without fanfare.

  Mairenn greeted her warmly. “You’ve just recovered, child. You shouldn’t be out in the cold.”

  Brigid smiled. “I missed talking to you.”

  As they sat by the hearth, Brigid asked about Cullfinn’s history.

  “Cullfinn has seen more than its share of war,” Mairenn said. “My husband fought for Lord Riordan—not out of loyalty, but hatred for his brother, Tadhg. But war cares little for reasons. He died all the same.”

  “Look at Lord Riordan now, he’s no better than his brother. In the end, it wouldn’t have mattered whom my husband fought for.” She gave a weary chuckle. “Sometimes, I still chide him at his grave—why should he have even bothered fighting.”

  “Do you think our land will ever recover?” Brigid asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Mairenn replied. “For those left behind, war never truly ends.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, child,” the old woman added. “But some wounds won’t heal—not even with all the kindness in the world.”

  Later, as Brigid slipped home, the weight of Cullfinn’s past clung to the night air.

  “The world can be harsh,” she whispered. “Those who have must never forget those who have not.”

  When Gus found out about her visits, he only smiled.

  “You have your mother’s heart,” he said. “Just go before sunset next time.”

  Evening was the best part of the day.

  As the village of Cullfinn quieted, its people retreating into their homes, a rare kind of peace settled over us.

  It was a simple life. Ordinary. Beautiful.

  And without realizing it, I fell into its rhythm.

  For the first time in my life, both of them, actually, I felt something I had never known.

  Belonging.

  A quiet, unspoken warmth settled in my chest whenever I saw Gus ruffle Brigid’s hair with pride or when Ennie clung to her arm.

  Night came early in Cullfinn. As the last embers of daylight faded beyond the horizon, most families withdrew indoors. Candles were costly, even for those who could afford them, so they used rush lights, bundles of dried reeds soaked in leftover cooking fats.

  Primitive. Inefficient. And they smelled like burnt dinner.

  Still, there was something oddly nostalgic about the flickering glow they cast over the wooden beams of the Ahearn home.

  I once joked that they were ‘steak-scented aromatherapy wax tapers’, much to Brigid’s horror.

  "That’s disgusting, Lucas!" she exclaimed. “But does that mean the people of your world burn scented candles too? We make ours in early summer when we gather lavender.”

  "Oh, absolutely. And they're quite popular!" I grinned. "I guess some things are universal, even across different worlds."

  Brigid hummed thoughtfully, twisting a loose strand of her braid around her finger. "I suppose there’s something comforting about familiar scents. Lavender in summer, pine and spice in winter…" She smiled slightly. "It makes a house feel like home."

  "And burnt fat makes a house smell like a failed dinner," I muttered.

  Brigid let out a small, breathy laugh. "If you keep talking like that, I'll start thinking you're just a spoiled noble’s son who’s never had to live without luxuries."

  "I wish," I muttered.

  Before Brigid could respond, a voice behind us cut through the warmth of our conversation.

  "Brigid?"

  Brigid stiffened.

  She turned sharply, her body suddenly rigid. Behind her, Rowena stood in the dim light of the rush lamps, her expression unreadable.

  Neither of us had noticed her approach. And both of us had spoken out loud.

  "Mother!" Brigid’s voice came a little too quickly, her smile slightly forced. "I… um… I didn’t hear you come in."

  Rowena’s sharp gaze flicked between her daughter and the empty space beside her, as though she had caught the tail end of a conversation she wasn’t meant to hear.

  "What was so disgusting?" Rowena asked.

  Brigid hesitated for the briefest moment before forcing a laugh. "Oh, just the rush lights, Mother. You know how they smell. I was just… thinking out loud."

  Rowena didn’t look entirely convinced.

  "You seemed… different just now," she murmured, stepping closer. “You appeared to be chatting along happily with someone.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was something about the way she studied Brigid’s face, her brows knitting together ever so slightly, that made me uneasy.

  Brigid must have sensed it too because she straightened her posture, smoothing her expression into something carefully neutral.

  "Oh, that!" She laughed lightly. “I was just talking to myself. Like how I used to play with my dolls before I gave them to Ennie.”

  Rowena hesitated.

  Her daughter had been smiling just moments ago. A natural, easy smile. A lightness in her voice that had been absent for too long.

  She should have been relieved. Instead, a cold unease curled in her stomach.

  "You just…" Rowena trailed off, lips pressing together. Madness often begins with laughter.

  "Are you certain you’re feeling well?" she asked at last, her voice carefully measured.

  Brigid didn’t falter. She had long since learned how to ease her mother’s lingering fears.

  "Of course, Mother," she said gently, reaching for Rowena’s hand. "It’s nothing. Just a child’s mental musings, that’s all."

  For a moment, Rowena said nothing.

  She didn’t move, didn’t pull away. She simply stared at Brigid, searching her face for something unseen.

  Then, finally, she exhaled, nodding slowly. "Alright."

  But she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  Brigid held onto her mother’s hand for a moment longer before squeezing it lightly and letting go.

  Rowena gave her a final look, then turned away, the glow of the rush lights casting long shadows behind her as she left the room.

  Brigid let out a quiet breath, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off unseen tension.

  "That was close," I murmured inwardly.

  "She worries too much," Brigid whispered back in her thoughts, though her hand lingered on her sleeve, lightly gripping the fabric.

  We really must be more careful from now on. You never know when someone might be watching.

  With no nightlife to speak of no taverns, no entertainment… people went to sleep soon after sunset. Unless Gus or Rowena had urgent chores, there was little reason to stay awake past nightfall.

  As she did every night, Brigid clasped her hands in prayer.

  “Thank you, Merchecna, for another day. May you watch over my family as we rest.”

  Her lips curled into a soft, peaceful smile.

  She shifted under the covers, her voice a quiet whisper. “Goodnight, Lucas.”

  I hesitated.

  Then, softly, almost instinctively, I replied, “Sweet dreams, Brigid.”

  I waited until her breathing grew slow and even.

  Then, in the silence of the night, I finally called out.

  "Merchecna?"