Prologue
Her name was Alonwyn—a daughter, an orphan, a daughter of druids, a priestess, and the vessel of the gods.
Her parents lived worlds apart; her father was once a Roman enslaved person, stolen from his homeland, known to the Romans as Aethiopia.
He became a freedman, but Rome wasn't done with him. He was drafted as an auxiliary soldier in their army. Soon, his orders were given:
“March on the land of the Gauls and raze their villages, take anything and anyone of value, dispose of the rest. We will civilize this land and show them the might of Rome.”
After many battles and many lives taken, he grew weary of the carnage and longed to return home; however, he knew even to think of such a thing was to ask for death.
As the days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, with village after village falling to Rome’s might, there was finally a period of peace.
One day, while patrolling a small village market, he saw her: her skin, the most radiant olive hue he had ever seen, her hair as dark as night that shimmered like it was made of stars in the sunlight, and her eyes grey like the sky on a cloudy day. Her smile’s glow lit up the darkest depths of his soul and gave him new life.
He made his way to her small vendor tent to see what she could offer him.
“A lovely cloak for your lady, my lord?” she asked as she presented him with a beautifully woven cloak of vibrant purple, golden blossoms, and ivy delicately embroidered along the hems. “It is perfect for a beautiful woman, such as one you would call yours,” she smiled warmly at him. She spoke broken Latin, and this endeared her to his heart.
“Perhaps,” he answered, bowing his head politely. “Did you craft this yourself?” he asked as he gently touched the delicate tassels that lined the bottom of the cloak.
“Aye, my lord,” she said, setting the cloak back on the small viewing table in front of her.
“I will take it,” he said with a smile, handing her a Roman denarius.
“This is too much, my lord,” she said, trying to hand the coin back to the soldier.
“Perhaps,” he said, “but please, accept it as a token of my appreciation for something so skillfully crafted by hands such as yours.” He gave her a slight bow and gently accepted the cloak.
“My deepest gratitude, my lord,” she said, tears wetting her eyes.
He visited her vendor tent as often as he could, but he didn't want to draw attention to the woman – he knew it would put her in danger.
The days stretched into weeks, and she began to feel excited whenever she saw him walking toward her tent, though she also knew she couldn’t show her affection openly. She had seen women flogged for much less than expressing anything toward a Roman soldier besides fear and respect.
The season shifted from summer to autumn, and with it, the day her people honored their ancestors – Samhain. She decorated her tent with small ornaments so as not to attract the attention of Roman soldiers.
Then she saw him, and part of her feared he would reprimand her for holding onto her gods and traditions. She considered taking down the decorations, but then she thought: if he feels for me the way I feel for him, he should accept that I am not Roman.
And she waited.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, nodding his head. He gently touched a bundle of holly and a string of ivy. “These are relics you use to show reverence to your ancestors, are they not?” he asked, his voice never giving her the feeling he was angry.
“They are,” she said, organizing a small bowl of nuts and a few gourds she had set out. “They are only small things, but they allow me to feel close to my ancestors on this day.”
He browsed more of her woven goods as the sun lowered in the sky. He paused and sighed heavily.
“Is everything all right, my lord?” she asked while packing away her merchandise. “You seem as if you are troubled.”
“If I offered you a life away from this,” he gestured toward all the Roman things taking over her village, erasing her gods and her culture. “Would you go with me?”
She stilled, looking down at her hands; her heart pounded, and her mind raced with exhilaration and fear.
Then –
“I would go with you,” she whispered, looking up at his face, her eyes brimming with tears.
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Their escape had been perilous, fraught with the constant fear of discovery. For six weeks, they traveled by night, hiding among forests, wading through streams, and enduring bitter winds and starvation. The first snow of the cold season caught them unprepared, biting at their fingers and toes, turning breath into mist.
Exhausted and near collapse, they stumbled upon a village nestled among towering oaks. A river gurgled downhill from the stables, and near the forest’s edge, a sacred grove whispered with the wind.
The first to see them were a pair of druids, carrying firewood to their shared roundhouse. Dropping their burdens, they hurried to the strangers, noting their ragged, frozen forms.
“By the gods,” one gasped, grasping the Roman soldier’s shoulder. “Can you follow me to my hearth?”
“Aye,” he rasped, his teeth chattering, “but my wife… she is weak and injured. Please, help her.”
“There are two of us. We will help you both,” the other druid said, taking her hand in his. He guided her through the snow, warmth, and safety promised with each step.
Inside the roundhouse, a wave of heat embraced them. The scent of burning wood mixed with fresh bread and boiled oats, a welcome balm to frozen bodies. Two more druids jumped up, bringing blankets and hot water, their movements quick and urgent.
“Out of those wet clothes! Warmth, now!” one called. The other handed them fresh garments, helping them dress, rubbing fingers and toes to restore circulation.
The village healer arrived shortly after, kneeling beside the woman, her eyes wide with concern. She wiped a hot cloth across the woman’s brow, murmuring soothing words in the Gaulish tongue.
“She is very ill,” the healer whispered to the Roman, her gaze firm yet gentle. “Her fingers and feet bear frostbite. If I cannot mend her, Carthwyn may claim her… to the Otherworld.”
He pressed a trembling hand over hers, a quiet promise in the gesture: he would not leave her.
Days passed, each one a slow march toward recovery. On the third day of the third week, the village wise woman arrived. To their relief, the woman sat upright, sipping honeyed mead, her hands healing, her feet regaining color. The healer clapped her hands, smiling.
“How lovely to see you awake and drinking on your own! I feared I had arrived too late.”
As winter gave way to spring, life returned to the forest. The Roman shed his armor and his identity, leaving the old world behind. During Beltane, before the village and the druids, the man and woman were handfasted, their vows whispered and witnessed by firelight.
Nine moons later, the first cry of a new life echoed through the village—a girl, welcomed with joy and celebrated for a week. She was named Alonwyn: “noble memory” or “story,” a fitting name for a child born of two worlds never meant to meet, yet bound together by love, resilience, and the whispering legacy of the ancestors.
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It was an overcast and cold early spring day. The trees and fields were budding with new life, pale shoots pushing up through lingering frost that clung stubbornly to the earth. Though the skies were heavy with clouds, the air carried the chatter of birds and the shrieks of children at play. Villagers bustled with quiet cheer, some preparing to travel to the nearest market to purchase communal goods. They planned to leave in a fortnight.
The man and woman sat in their roundhouse near the entrance of the village. She sat close to the hearth, its embers glowing faintly against the chill, as she nursed Alonwyn at her breast.
“She will have your complexion and my eyes,” the woman whispered, gazing at the baby in her arms with a love that softened her entire face.
“I believe you are right,” he said, moving closer, letting himself sink into the warmth of the moment.
“Will you teach her your language, my love?” she asked, reaching for his hand. Her eyes searched his, tender and earnest.
For a heartbeat, he was silent. They had always spoken in Latin, with him slowly learning her tongue, yet this question cut deeper. It pulled him back to a land he thought he would never see again.
“If it is what you want,” he said at last, pressing his lips to her hair. He bent close to Alonwyn and murmured, “ḥubbanī.”
The woman tilted her head, curious. “And what does that mean?”
“It means, ‘my loves,’” he answered, his smile carrying both joy and ache as he brushed Alonwyn’s soft hair.
Her lips curved gently, repeating the foreign word under her breath as if vowing never to forget it.
Then—distant at first, but growing nearer—the ground trembled. The low thunder of marching feet, the clash of armor, and harsh voices cut through the hum of village life. A faint acrid scent of smoke drifted on the breeze.
The man’s head snapped up. He met his wife’s eyes, and in that instant, they both understood.
The thunder became a roar. Shouts filled the air, joined by the crack of splintering wood and the screams of neighbors. The soldiers descended like a storm—torches hurled through windows, doors splintered by iron boots, villagers dragged from their homes and driven toward the village square.
Before he could move, their door burst open. Three armored Romans filled the threshold, their faces twisted with fury as they fixed their gaze on the deserter before them.
And then they saw her.
“Leave her out of this—” he began, but a blow from a sword hilt smashed against his skull, sending him to his knees. Blood streamed down his face as his vision blurred.
“You demand nothing, traitor,” one soldier snarled, stepping toward the woman.
She clutched Alonwyn tighter to her chest, her eyes wide, her body trembling, but she did not move.
The soldier wrenched the infant from her arms. Alonwyn screamed, flailing, before slipping from his grip and tumbling to the floor with a dull thud. The child’s wail cut through the chaos, piercing and raw.
“No!” The woman lunged forward, desperate, but the blade came swiftly. Steel drove into her chest. Her body arched, lips parting in a soundless gasp as crimson spread across her dress. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed beside her child, her hand reaching, failing to touch her daughter. Her eyes glazed over, still wide with love and terror, as her final breath shuddered out.
A howl tore from the man’s throat. Blind with rage, he staggered to his feet, seized a soldier’s sword, and drove it into his chest. The Roman’s eyes went wide, a wet gurgle spilling from his lips before he crumpled to the ground.
But the others were upon him at once. He slashed wildly, grief and fury fueling him, yet he was outnumbered. Blades rained against him, fists and boots breaking his strength until they forced him down, bloodied and bound.
From beneath the table, Alonwyn had gone silent, hidden by shadows. He did not see her. His eyes were fixed instead on the line of his neighbors, bound and trembling in the square beyond.
One soldier raised his voice over the chaos. “Do you see this man?” he shouted in the villagers’ tongue. “This traitor who turned against Rome? His betrayal condemns you all. Friends of traitors are themselves traitors!”
“Speak no more with poisoned words!” spat the village wise woman. “Stick to the tongue of monsters! May the gods curse you!”
The soldier sneered, ignoring her.
The deserter lifted his head, forcing himself to meet the old woman’s gaze. He expected hatred, blame, even despair. Instead, her eyes shone with forgiveness, deep and unwavering, as if to say his fate was not his alone to bear.
And then, at last, the world turned black.
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The light faded as the cloud-thick sky sank into starless darkness. The air grew colder, and the wind sharpened, rattling branches as though the land itself mourned. Alonwyn’s cries had long since weakened—at first strong with hunger and fear, then softer, like whispers from a fading spirit. Now, as she drifted in and out of restless sleep, the Otherworld seemed to draw near, listening.
From beyond the hills came a group of druids, their white cloaks catching the night’s breath. They had seen the smoke by day, and now they smelled the bitter mingling of charred wood and death. Faces grim, they pressed forward, their steps heavy with dread.
“The village is gone,” murmured one, his voice breaking.
“The entire village has been massacred,” said Senovarus, the eldest among them. His words trembled with both sorrow and fury. “We must search for survivors.”
The druids scattered through the ruins. Senovarus turned first toward the sacred grove. At the sight of it, he nearly fell to his knees. Great oaks lay hacked and scarred, their lifeblood seeping into blackened bark. Stones that had stood for generations were toppled, cracked, and desecrated. Within their circle, four druids lay still, their robes burned and torn.
“By Carthwyn,” he choked, lifting his hands skyward. “Why?” His voice cracked into sobs, yet he forced himself upright.
Back among the ruins of the roundhouses, he passed the body of a Roman soldier crumpled at a doorway. “Romans,” he spat, stepping over him. Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and silence. A woman lay against the wall, her eyes half-closed as though she were only sleeping. Her face, even in death, held a strange peace.
Senovarus kneeled beside her. “Be with your ancestors,” he whispered, laying a trembling hand upon her brow. He drew a blanket across her form and made to leave.
Then—he froze. A sound. Faint, uncertain.
A whimper.
He turned, listening hard. Another soft cry, weak but alive. He followed the line of the woman’s arm, her hand outstretched toward a corner. There, wrapped in worn cloth, lay a tiny child.
Senovarus’s breath caught. He hurried forward, his hands suddenly gentle, reverent, as he gathered the infant against his chest. “A miracle,” he whispered, wrapping her tighter in the blanket. “Your mother gave her life for you, little one. And the gods have marked you.”
When he stepped back into the cold night, the other druids stared in stunned silence.
In the firelight’s glow, Senovarus saw a body lying nearby, sprawled with a wound at the neck—a man not of this land. His skin, his bearing, spoke of far-off places. Still cradling the child, Senovarus knelt. He laid his hand upon the man’s forehead. “Be with your ancestors.”
Another druid approached, voice low. “Rome did this.”
“Yes,” Senovarus answered, his sorrow edged with bitterness. “This man was once their slave, or perhaps a soldier cast aside. And the village sheltered him. For Rome, that is guilt enough.”
“And the infant?” another asked softly.
“This child is of two worlds,” Senovarus said, lifting the blanket so her small face shone in the fire’s glow. “A Gaulish mother, a foreign father. Yet she has been spared, and the gods led us here. This is no accident. She has been marked.”
“Then we must bring her to the priestesses,” said the youngest druid.
“No,” Senovarus said firmly, pulling the child closer. His voice steadied, his sorrow burning into resolve. “She will be raised as one of us, a daughter of the druids. Our path has led us here. Her path begins with us.”
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