Eithne stirred.
Her breath caught like a thread in her throat as the scent of smoke pried her eyes open. The last thing she remembered was the iron taste of fear; and her sister's voice.
Róisín.
She sat up too fast, the room spinning. The fire had already begun to consume the priory. The sacred walls groaned under the weight of flame and ruin, and death was thick in the air. Its perfume a blend of scorched wood, blood, and holy oil.
But Eithne did not cry. She did not tremble. She ran.
Clutching her sleeve over her mouth, she plunged into the burning corridor, the hem of her garment sweeping through soot and ash. Her bare feet splashed through crimson puddles.
The elderly had been slaughtered where they stood. Those too young or weak to resist had vanished; spirited away like grain stolen from a burning granary.
The sacred halls of her childhood were now a tomb.
And yet, she did not falter.
Driven by a single, blinding thought: Save Róisín.
