The voyage takes three days.

We sail under clear skies with favorable winds—Danú's doing, though she does not speak of it. The ships move across the water with unnatural smoothness, responding to currents that seem to bend around us rather than against us. The Trí Dée Dána's craftsmanship proves itself with every league: hulls that cut through waves without resistance, sails that catch wind even when the air goes still, enchantments woven so deeply into wood and rope that the vessels feel almost alive.

I stand at the bow of the lead ship, feeling the network hum steadily through me. The Order maintains connection across all five vessels—not actively communicating, but present, aware of each other, ready to coordinate the moment it becomes necessary.

Through the amulet, I sense the Tribe's collective emotional state: anticipation edged with anxiety, hope threaded through with old fear, determination carrying the weight of years spent preparing for this moment. Three hundred and forty-seven souls returning to the home they were violently forced to leave.

Fintan stands beside me, his aged hands gripping the rail, his mortal eyes fixed on the horizon. He has been mostly silent since we departed Falias, but I feel his attention—sharp, focused, remembering. He arrived on the island shortly before the Fomorians came, finding us already established—homes built, fields cultivated, a people who had finally found sanctuary. He witnessed what we had created there. He was there when the Fomorians attacked. When we fled.

Now he will witness our return.

"Do you see it yet?" he asks quietly.

I shake my head. The horizon remains empty—water meeting sky in an unbroken line. But I feel something shifting in the amulet's threads, a growing intensity as we draw closer to the place that holds so much memory, so much significance.

Rían, I send through the network. What do you see ahead?

There is a pause—longer than usual. When his response comes, it carries an edge of frustration I have rarely felt from him.

I should be able to trace the approach. Map the probabilities of what we'll find when we arrive. Another pause. But the readings keep... shifting. Collapsing and reforming. Every time I try to establish a stable projection, it fragments. It's like the futures are being stirred.

Unease ripples through me. Have you ever experienced this before?

Never.

I send reassurance through the connection, though his words trouble me more than I want to admit. Rían's probability-sight has proven remarkably consistent over the years—not infallible, but stable. If his gift is disrupted, something is interfering.

Deirdre, I send next. Can you sense anything ahead?

The wards around Falias are fading from my perception, she responds. We're beyond their range now. But I'm starting to feel... something else. Boundaries that shouldn't be there. Fortifications, maybe? Strong ones. Aggressive. A pause. And something underneath. Concealed.

Can you identify what?

No. Frustration colors her response. Every time I try to trace the pattern, it slips away from me. Like trying to hold water.

I open my awareness through the amulet, searching for Danú. She stands at the stern of the lead ship with Luchtaine, his arm around her waist, her luminescence dim in the daylight but visible—a soft glow beneath her skin that marks her divine nature. Even from this distance, I can sense the tension in her, the way her foresight reaches forward and finds... nothing.

She has not said it aloud, but I know: her gift is blocked. Whatever waits for us on that island, she cannot see it.

The island appears on the horizon just before noon on the third day.

I feel the Tribe's reaction through the amulet before I hear it—a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly staggers me. Recognition. Longing. Grief for years lost. Hope that we might finally reclaim what was taken.

The island rises from the water like a memory made solid: green hills, rocky cliffs, forests that spread across the interior like a dark green blanket. From this distance, it looks unchanged—the same silhouette we fled from all those years ago.

But as we draw closer, I begin to see the differences.

Fortifications, Nuada sends through the network, his tactical assessment immediate and precise. Stone structures along the northern cliff. Watchtowers. Defensive positions.

I see them, Cairbre confirms. But the trees around them are dead. Uprooted. The Fomorians cleared the forest to build.

The fields, Ríona sends, and her thread carries sorrow. Look at the eastern fields.

I turn my attention where she indicates and see what she means: the cultivated land we once tended, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass, the careful patterns of planting obliterated by years of neglect.

They took the land but did not care for it, Éadaoin observes quietly.

Through the amulet, I feel Danú's grief sharpening into something else—not quite anger, but close. She loved this island. We all did. Seeing what has been done to it in our absence cuts deeper than I expected.

Dagda, Deirdre sends, her thread urgent. The island's natural wards—the protective boundaries we felt when we first arrived here—they've been corrupted. Overwritten with something else. Fomorian work.

Can you break through them?

I don't need to. Her response carries wonder. The island is... opening. To us. Like it recognizes—

She does not finish, but I feel what she means through the network: the land itself is responding to our presence, welcoming us in a way it clearly never welcomed the Fomorians.

The ships slow as we approach the shore—not from any command I give, but from Danú's will flowing through the water itself. The Tribe gathers on the decks, every soul watching as our home draws near.

Then Danú's voice rings out, clear and commanding: "Now."

The air shifts.

Mist rises from the water—thick, white, unnatural. It rolls across the waves in great billowing clouds, surrounding our ships, concealing us from any eyes that might be watching from the island's shore. Through the network, I feel the Order respond instinctively, lending their strength to what Danú is doing, anchoring the magic so it holds steady.

And then—

The ships rise.

Water streams from the hulls as they lift into the air, no longer sailing but flying, suspended by Danú's will and the collective power we have spent years learning to wield. Through the mist, I see the wood beginning to shimmer, the ordinary appearance of the vessels transforming into something extraordinary: hulls that gleam like gold, sails that shine like captured sunlight, ships that move through the sky as easily as they moved through water.

We are not the refugees who fled this place.

We are gods returning home.

The ships glide over the shoreline, over the ruined fields and damaged forests, carrying us inland until Danú finds what she seeks: the clearing where we once gathered, where we built our first homes, where we learned what it meant to be a people rather than scattered consciousness.

The ships descend slowly, gracefully, touching down on solid ground with barely a whisper of impact.

"Set foot on the land," Danú commands, and the Tribe obeys.

One by one, we step from the ships onto the earth that was always meant to be ours. I feel it the moment my boots touch soil—a surge of recognition, of rightness, as though the island has been waiting for this moment as long as we have.

And then something extraordinary happens.

The ships begin to fade.

Not disappearing, but shifting—moving from this realm into another, into a space that opens like a pocket in the fabric of reality itself. Through the network, through the amulet, I feel it: the island helping, working with us, recognizing our connection and responding. The ships slip into the hidden realm and vanish from sight, safe and waiting for when we need them again.

The land remembers us, Fíora sends through the Order, wonder coloring her thread. It chose us. It's choosing us still.

I turn to look at Danú, and she meets my gaze across the clearing. Her luminescence flares bright for just a moment—triumph and relief and something deeper, something that speaks to the bond between a people and their home.

We have returned.

We have arrived.

The Tribe spreads across the clearing cautiously, taking in what remains and what has changed.

I feel their emotions through the amulet—a complex weave of recognition and loss, hope struggling against disappointment. Some move toward places they remember: the eastern edge where homes once stood, the southern path that led to the shore, the grove where we held our first gatherings. Others simply stand, absorbing the reality that we are finally here, that the years of preparation and exile have led to this moment.

Dagda, Cairbre sends through the network. The grove where we used to gather—most of the old trees are still standing. Damaged, but alive. They remember.

The brook still runs clear, Ríona adds from somewhere to the west. Unpolluted. Whatever the Fomorians built, they left the water sources alone.

Small mercies. But through the amulet, I sense the darker discoveries spreading through the Tribe: homes that once stood are gone, obliterated so completely that even the foundations have been removed. The careful gardens we tended have been overrun or trampled. The places we marked as sacred—the meditation spaces, the teaching grounds—show signs of deliberate desecration.

They tried to erase us, Lachtna observes, his shadow-sight perceiving what others might miss. Every trace of our presence. As though we never existed here at all.

But the island itself has not forgotten. I feel it through my connection to the earth, through the way the ground seems to settle beneath our feet, welcoming us home. The land recognizes its first inhabitants, and no amount of Fomorian occupation could change that.

Movement, Nuada sends sharply through the network. North, approximately two hundred paces. Multiple figures approaching.

The Order responds instinctively—not with panic, but with coordinated awareness. Every member shifts their perception toward where Nuada indicates, ready to act if necessary.

Through the network, I feel what they feel: a group moving through the forest toward our position. Not attempting stealth. Not moving with the tactical precision of an attack force.

Walking openly. Deliberately.

Fomorians, Deirdre confirms, her boundary-sense identifying the signatures. At least a dozen. They know we're here.

Of course they do. We arrived on ships of gold flying through the sky. We were not attempting subtlety.

"Form up," I call to the Tribe, my voice carrying across the clearing. Not a command to prepare for battle—we are not there yet—but an instruction to gather, to present ourselves as unified rather than scattered.

The Tribe responds with the discipline Scáthach taught them, moving into loose formation without appearing aggressive. Nuada and others with combat training position themselves at strategic points. The Order maintains connection, ready to coordinate if this encounter turns hostile.

Danú moves to stand beside me, Luchtaine at her shoulder, Credne and Goibniu flanking her other side. Her luminescence brightens—not threatening, but impossible to ignore. She is radiant, divine power made visible, a goddess standing on the land that belongs to her people.

The Fomorians emerge from the tree line.

I have not seen them since the day they drove us from this island, and the sight of them now sends a ripple of old fear through the amulet's threads—the Tribe remembering violence, remembering the shock of discovering we could be killed, remembering the desperate flight that separated us.

But these Fomorians are not attacking.

They walk toward us slowly, hands visible and empty of weapons. Most of them match what I remember: tall, powerful builds, features that range from roughly humanoid to distinctly monstrous. Skin in shades of grey and green and mottled brown. Eyes that reflect light strangely. The physical markers of beings who were never meant to be beautiful.

Except one.

He walks at the front of the group, and he is... wrong. Not in the way the others are wrong—monstrous and inhuman—but wrong because he is the opposite. Beautiful in a way that seems deliberate, calculated. Golden hair that catches the light. Features so perfectly symmetrical they seem almost unreal. Skin that glows with warmth rather than the cold pallor of his companions.

He looks like he could be one of us.

And that wrongness makes my skin crawl.

That's Elatha, Lachtna sends through the network, his shadow-sight perceiving something the rest of us cannot fully see. One of their chiefs. I remember him from before—he was there when they attacked.

He looks different, Ríona responds uncertainly.

No, Lachtna corrects. He looked like this then too. We just... couldn't see past the others. Couldn't see him clearly through the chaos.

Elatha stops approximately twenty paces from where Danú and I stand. His companions halt with him, forming a loose line that mirrors our own formation—non-threatening, but clearly present.

He smiles.

It is a beautiful smile. Warm. Genuine. The kind of smile that invites trust.

I do not trust it at all.

"Anand," he says, and his voice is as beautiful as the rest of him—rich and warm, with the kind of resonance that makes people want to listen. His gaze shifts to me. "And Cera." He pauses, his eyes moving over us with something that might be wonder. "Though I see you have become... more than you were. Something divine." He inclines his head in a gesture that manages to convey respect without submission. "Welcome home."

Silence.

The Tribe does not respond. Neither does Danú. We simply stand, watching, waiting to understand what this is.

Elatha's smile does not falter. "I imagine you are surprised to find us greeting you with words rather than weapons."

"Yes," Danú says simply. Her voice carries none of the warmth his does—flat, careful, revealing nothing.

"We owe you an explanation." Elatha spreads his hands in a gesture of openness. "What happened years ago—when we drove you from this island—was wrong. You were here first. You had built your homes, cultivated your fields. You offered to share this place with us when we arrived." His expression shifts to something that looks like shame. "We refused. We wanted it for ourselves, and when you would not leave willingly, we..." He trails off, shaking his head. "We saw what we wanted to see. We told ourselves you were a threat, that you were dangerous. But the truth is simpler and more shameful: we were selfish. Greedy. We wanted what you had built, and we were willing to use violence to take it."

He's lying, my instincts scream. But I cannot prove it. The words sound reasonable. His expression appears genuine. There is nothing provably false in what he says.

"And now?" Danú asks.

"Now we have had years to reflect on our mistake." Elatha's gaze moves across the gathered Tribe, and I feel several members shift uncomfortably under his attention. "We remained on this island, but it never welcomed us as it welcomed you. We built our homes, but the land remained... distant. Unresponsive. We realized, slowly, that we had claimed something that was never meant to be ours alone."

He steps forward—just one step, but several members of the Tribe tense instinctively.

"We wish to offer alliance," Elatha says. "True alliance. We will share this island as we should have done from the beginning. Your people and ours, living in peace rather than conflict. Building together rather than destroying what the other creates."

Through the network, I feel the Order's collective uncertainty. Through the amulet, I sense the Tribe's confused hope warring with learned caution.

Something is wrong, Fíora sends through the network. I can feel the imbalance, but I cannot locate its source.

His words are too perfect, Lachtna adds. Too calculated to trigger exactly the response he wants.

What do we do? Éadaoin asks.

I do not have an answer.

Danú is silent for a long moment, her luminescence flickering as though reflecting internal turbulence. Finally, she speaks.

"You speak of alliance, but we have only just arrived. We do not yet know the state of this island, what you have built here, what you have destroyed. We cannot make such a decision without—"

"Of course," Elatha interrupts smoothly. "We would not expect immediate trust. You need time to explore, to assess, to determine whether our offer is genuine." His smile returns. "Take all the time you need. The island is large enough for both our peoples while you decide."

He starts to turn away, then pauses as though remembering something.

"Oh—there is something else you should know." His expression shifts to something that almost looks like genuine pleasure. "About a year ago, others arrived on this island. They came from the south—scattered, weary, searching." He pauses. "They were looking for you. For their kin. The ones they were separated from many years ago."

Unease spikes through the amulet.

"What do you mean?" I ask carefully.

"We welcomed them, of course. Offered them sanctuary while they waited, hoping you would return." Elatha gestures toward the eastern forest. "They have been living here peacefully. We have been... learning to coexist. To trust." His smile returns. "Perhaps it is better if you see for yourselves. They have been waiting for you."

And with that cryptic statement, he and his Fomorians turn and walk back toward the tree line, leaving us standing in confused silence.

Who has been waiting? Cairbre sends through the network.

I don't know, I reply. But we need to find out.

Danú meets my gaze, and I see my own unease reflected in her eyes. Everything about this encounter felt wrong—not wrong enough to justify attacking, not wrong enough to prove deception, but wrong enough to make every instinct scream caution.

"We investigate," she says quietly, for my ears alone. "But carefully."

I nod.

Through the network, I coordinate the Order: Nuada, Deirdre, take point. Assess for threats. Fíora, Lachtna, maintain awareness of balance and shadow. Ríona, Cairbre, Éadaoin, Rían—support and observe. Stay connected.

The Tribe moves as one, following the direction Elatha indicated, moving through the forest that was once familiar and now feels strange. The trees remember us—I can feel it in the way their roots settle as we pass, the way branches seem to lean toward rather than away—but years of Fomorian presence have left their mark.

We walk for perhaps ten minutes before we hear it:

Voices.

Laughter.

The sound of a camp—people living, talking, existing in the casual way of those who feel safe.

We emerge into another clearing, and—

The world stops.

There are people here. Dozens of them. Perhaps a hundred or more, gathered in what appears to be a temporary settlement: tents and cook fires, supplies and tools, the organized chaos of a community that has fairly recently arrived and is still establishing itself.

And they are ours.

Not Fomorians. Not strangers.

Ours.

I feel it through the amulet—recognition slamming into the Tribe like a physical blow. These are the people we lost. The ones who fled south when we fled north, separated in the chaos of the Fomorian attack all those years ago. The half of our people we have mourned, grieved, carried as loss and incompleteness every day since.

Our family.

They look like us—of course they do, they are us—but they are also different. Where we have spent years training, learning to understand and wield our gifts, they carry themselves with the unguarded openness of those who never learned to be cautious. They are untrained. Unascended. Still innocent in ways we have not been innocent since we left Falias with Scáthach's lessons carved into our bodies and the phrontistery's wisdom woven through our minds.

For a moment, there is only stunned silence. Both groups frozen, staring at each other across the clearing, unable to quite believe what they are seeing.

Then someone breaks—I do not even see who moves first—and suddenly the clearing erupts into motion.

People running toward each other. Voices shouting names. Arms reaching, embracing, holding as though afraid to let go. The Tribe surging forward to meet the Fir Bolg, two halves of a sundered whole finally, finally reuniting.

Through the amulet, the emotional surge nearly brings me to my knees: joy and grief and relief and desperate, aching love. Families finding each other again. Friends recognizing faces they thought lost forever. The incompleteness we have all carried—some consciously, some as a dull ache they could not name—suddenly resolving as the missing pieces slot back into place.

Among the embraces and reunions, I catch fragments of conversation—Fir Bolg voices speaking with open enthusiasm about their time here, about the Fomorians who "welcomed us when we arrived," about "learning to live together in peace." They speak without suspicion, without the careful weighing of words that marks someone who has learned to question what they are told.

They do not sense what we sense.

They cannot feel what is wrong.

A woman I recall who was named Ériu approaches Danú—young, with a babe in her arms, perhaps about a month or two old. "Anand?" she says tentatively, wonder and joy in her voice. "Is it truly you? We thought—we hoped—but we did not know if you would ever return."

Danú embraces her carefully, mindful of the child. "We came as soon as we were able. As soon as we were strong enough."

"Strong enough?" The woman looks confused. "But the Fomorians—they have been nothing but kind. They welcomed us. They have been helping us—"

She stops, noticing something in Danú's expression.

"What is it?" the woman asks. "What's wrong?"

Danú hesitates, and I can feel her struggling through the amulet: how do you tell someone that the kindness they have experienced might be deception? How do you plant suspicion in those who have not yet learned to be suspicious?

"Nothing," Danú says finally, gently. "I am simply overwhelmed. We have missed you all so much."

The woman smiles, relief evident. "We have missed you too. So much." She adjusts the babe in her arms. "There is so much to tell you. So much has happened."

I see Danú standing at the edge of the clearing, tears streaming down her luminescent face, watching her people embrace their long-lost kin. Through our connection, I feel what she feels: the sense of rightness, of becoming whole again after years of being fractured.

This is what we came for.

This is what we have been missing.

But even as joy spreads through the reunion, even as I watch the Tribe and our lost ones weave back together like separated threads finally reuniting—

Something feels wrong.

I cannot name it. Cannot point to a specific detail that proves deception.

But standing here, watching this perfect reunion, thinking of Elatha's perfect words and perfect smile—

The timing still troubles me, Rían sends through the network, his voice tight. They arrived a year ago. The Fomorians have had a year to establish trust, to position themselves, to prepare for our arrival. This isn't coincidence—this is orchestration.

The Fomorians knew, Deirdre adds. They knew the Fir Bolg were here. They were waiting to tell us. Waiting to use this as...

She does not finish. None of us can finish.

Because we cannot prove anything. We can only feel that something is wrong.

And feeling is not enough.

Night falls before the reunions quiet enough for us to slip away.

The Tribe and the Fir Bolg have merged into a single celebration—fires burning, food being shared, stories exchanging across the years of separation. Through the amulet, I feel the overwhelming joy still radiating from our people, the sense of wholeness they have not felt since the day we fled this island.

But beneath that joy, among those connected to the Order, runs a darker current: unease we cannot name, suspicion we cannot prove, the sense that we are all walking into something carefully constructed to trap us.

Council, I send through the network to the specific threads I need. The old grove. Quietly.

They respond without question, slipping away from the celebration one by one, their absences small enough not to draw attention.

The old grove lies west of the main clearing—one of the few places the Fomorians left relatively untouched, perhaps because the trees here are ancient and massive, too large to easily uproot, too deeply rooted to kill without significant effort. It was a sacred space for us once, a place where we came to think and meditate and simply be.

It feels both familiar and foreign now.

Danú arrives first, her luminescence dimmed to barely a glow, accompanied by Luchtaine. The other two members of the Trí Dée Dána remain at the celebration, maintaining the appearance that nothing unusual is happening. Fintan comes next, moving with the careful deliberation of aged joints, his expression grave. Fíora, Lachtna, Rían, and Deirdre arrive in quick succession, and finally, I sense the perimeter secure—Nuada and Cairbre have positioned themselves at strategic points to ensure we are not overheard.

Seven of us gathered in the darkness, preparing to articulate fears we barely understand.

"Something is wrong," Danú says without preamble. No greeting, no easing into the conversation. Just the blunt statement of what we all feel.

"Yes," Fíora agrees immediately. "But I cannot locate the source of the imbalance. Every time I try to assess it, the center shifts. It's like trying to grab smoke."

"Elatha," Lachtna says, his voice quiet but certain. "He is the source. Or at least, he is at the center of it."

"His words were reasonable," I point out, playing the role I need to play—the grounded one, the one who tests their certainty by questioning it. "He admitted fault for the original attack. He offered alliance. What specifically makes you distrust him?"

"Everything." Lachtna's shadow-sight flickers in his eyes—darkness perceiving darkness. "His beauty is a weapon. His charm is calculated. Every word he spoke was designed to elicit a specific response. He is performing, and he is very, very good at it."

"But performing what?" Danú presses. "To what end?"

Silence.

We do not have an answer.

"My foresight is blocked," Danú admits finally, frustration coloring her words. "I cannot see what comes next. Every time I try to look forward, I encounter... nothing. Not darkness, not confusion—just nothing. As though the future itself has been obscured."

"My probability readings are fractured," Rían adds. "I can trace immediate outcomes—what happens if we walk left versus right, if we speak versus stay silent—but anything beyond the next few hours collapses into chaos. Multiple timelines existing simultaneously, all equally probable, all contradicting each other." He shakes his head. "I have never experienced anything like it."

"The boundaries around this island have been manipulated," Deirdre says. "The Fomorian fortifications are one thing—aggressive but straightforward. But underneath, there are *layers*. Concealment wards. Misdirection patterns. Every time I try to trace them to their source, the pattern shifts and I lose the thread." She meets Danú's gaze. "Someone does not want us to see clearly. Someone is actively working to keep us confused."

"Elatha," Lachtna says again.

"We cannot prove it," I point out. "We cannot point to a single thing he said or did that was demonstrably false."

"That is what makes him dangerous," Fintan speaks for the first time, his aged voice carrying weight the others lack. "I have lived long enough to recognize this kind of deception. It is not about lying—it is about truth shaped to serve a purpose. Everything Elatha said may be technically true, but the meaning beneath the words is something else entirely."

"The Fir Bolg do not sense it," Fíora observes quietly. "They trust the Fomorians completely. They have been here a year, living in 'tentative peace,' learning to believe the welcome is genuine."

"They are untrained," Danú says, grief threading through her words. "They have not learned to question, to perceive beneath surfaces, to recognize manipulation. They are still..." She trails off.

"Innocent," Luchtaine finishes gently. "As we once were."

The truth of that hangs heavy in the air.

"So what do we do?" Rían asks. "We cannot warn the Fir Bolg without evidence—they will think we are paranoid, damaged by our exile, unable to accept genuine peace. We cannot confront the Fomorians without proof of deception. We cannot leave, not when we have only just reunited with our kin and reclaimed our home."

"We proceed carefully," Danú says, and I hear the leader in her voice now—not uncertain, not questioning, but deciding. "We do not reveal our suspicions to anyone outside this council. We gather information. We watch. We look for proof of what we sense but cannot yet prove."

"And if we find that proof?" Deirdre asks.

"Then we act." Danú's luminescence flares slightly. "But not before. We will not start a war based on instinct alone, no matter how strong that instinct is."

"The Fir Bolg need training," Fíora says. "Not just combat training, though they need that too. They need to learn to perceive, to question, to recognize when they are being manipulated. They need the phrontistery."

"Agreed," I say. "But we cannot rush it. If we suddenly start intensive training, the Fomorians will notice. They will recognize that we are preparing for conflict."

"Then we introduce it gradually," Fíora suggests. "Frame it as sharing what we learned during our exile. Teaching them meditation, foundational awareness, the same beginning practices we all learned. Nothing that appears threatening."

"The Fomorians will still notice," Lachtna points out.

"Let them," Danú says. "We have every right to share knowledge with our own people. If Elatha truly wants alliance, he will not object to us educating our kin."

"And if he does object?" Rían asks.

"Then we learn something," Danú replies.

It is not a perfect plan. It is barely a plan at all—more a commitment to vigilance, to patience, to gathering evidence before acting. But it is all we have.

"There is something else," Deirdre says hesitantly. "The woman with the child—the one who approached you during the reunion. I sensed something when I was near her. A... connection. Between her and the Fomorians. Specifically, between her child and—"

"Elatha," Danú finishes quietly. "I saw it too. In the child's features, in the way Elatha's gaze lingered on them during his greeting." She closes her eyes briefly. "One of our people has borne his child."

Silence falls heavy and complicated.

"Does she know what he is?" Fíora asks finally.

"I do not think so," Danú says. "She spoke of him with... warmth. Trust. She has been here a year, and he has been kind to her. She has no reason to suspect deception."

"A child ties her to him," I observe. "Ties the Fir Bolg to the Fomorians in a way that complicates any future conflict."

"Yes," Danú agrees. "That is exactly what it does."

We all absorb the implications: if we discover proof of Fomorian deception, if we determine that war is inevitable, we will be asking a mother to fight against the father of her child. We will be asking the Fir Bolg to attack the people who welcomed them, sheltered them, lived peacefully beside them for a year.

Elatha has been very, very clever.

"We need more information," Fintan says into the heavy silence. "About what happened to the Fir Bolg during their separation from us. About how they came to be here, what the Fomorians told them, what agreements have been made."

"I will speak with them," Danú says. "Carefully. Framing it as simple curiosity, a desire to understand their experiences during the years we were apart."

"I will explore the island," Cairbre's voice comes from the darkness beyond the grove—he has been listening, maintaining watch. "Map what the Fomorians have built, where they have settled, what resources they control. Information that appears innocent but might prove useful."

"I will observe," Lachtna says. "Watch the Fomorians when they think they are not being watched. Shadow-sight sees truth in unguarded moments."

"I will trace patterns," Deirdre adds. "Work to unravel the concealment wards, understand what they are hiding and why."

"And I will keep calculating probabilities," Rían says. "Even if the readings are fractured, I can look for patterns in the chaos. Sometimes what is being hidden reveals itself by the shape of the absence."

Danú nods, accepting their commitments. "We maintain the appearance of celebration, of joy at reunion, of tentative willingness to consider alliance. We do not reveal suspicion. We do not act on instinct alone." Her gaze moves across each of us in turn. "But we remain vigilant. We protect our people—*all* our people, Tuatha Dé and Fir Bolg alike. And if we discover that Elatha is what we suspect..."

She does not finish.

She does not need to.

"We should return to the celebration," I say. "Before our absence is noted."

They disperse as quietly as they arrived, slipping back toward the fires and laughter, resuming their roles in the joyful reunion while carrying the weight of unspoken knowledge.

Danú remains behind with me, standing in the darkness of the ancient grove.

"I do not know how to protect them from something I cannot prove exists," she says quietly, vulnerability cracking through her leader's voice.

I move to stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch. "You do what you have always done. You lead them with wisdom and transparency. You gather information before acting. You trust your instincts while demanding evidence." I turn to face her. "And you remember that you are not alone in this. You have me. You have the council. You have an entire people who have spent years learning to be strong precisely for moments like this."

She leans into me slightly, and I feel the tremor of uncertainty through the amulet.

"What if I am wrong?" she whispers. "What if my suspicion is simply trauma from the last time we faced the Fomorians? What if Elatha's offer is genuine, and I am so damaged by exile that I cannot recognize peace when it is offered?"

"Then we will discover that through investigation," I tell her. "And we will apologize for our caution and build the alliance he claims to want." I pause. "But I do not think you are wrong."

"Neither do I," she admits.

We stand together in the darkness, two gods who ascended to protect their people, now facing a threat they cannot name and an enemy they cannot prove exists.

But we are not helpless.

We are not the frightened refugees who fled this island years ago.

We have spent years learning, training, building strength and wisdom and unity. We have the Order, the phrontistery's knowledge, Scáthach's combat training woven into every member of the Tribe. We have foresight and probability-sight and shadow-work and boundary-detection.

We have each other.

Whatever Elatha is planning—whatever trap he is setting—we will find it.

And when we do, we will be ready.

The celebration continues long into the night.

I return to stand at the edge of the gathering, watching the Tribe and the Fir Bolg dance and sing and tell stories across the gap of separation. Through the amulet, I feel their joy—genuine, uncomplicated, the happiness of family reunited.

But I also feel the seven threads of the council—steady, vigilant, watching.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the firelight, Nuada patrols the perimeter. Cairbre studies the land, mapping Fomorian settlements. Lachtna observes from shadow, his gift perceiving what others miss. Deirdre traces concealment patterns, looking for the shape of what is hidden.

And across the fire, Danú sits among the Fir Bolg, listening to their stories with a smile on her luminescent face, gathering information while appearing to simply reconnect with lost kin.

We look like a people celebrating.

We are a people preparing.

Tomorrow, we begin the careful work of uncovering truth.

Tonight, we let our people have this moment of joy—because it may be one of the last uncomplicated moments they experience for a very long time.

I close my eyes and open my awareness through the amulet, feeling the collective presence of everyone I am sworn to protect. Three hundred and forty-seven souls who sailed with me from Falias. However many Fir Bolg have returned to swell our numbers.

All of them are my responsibility.

All of them are Danú's responsibility.

And we will not fail them.

Whatever is coming—whatever Elatha has planned—we will face it together.

The way we have faced everything else.

As one people.

As one Tribe.

Home, I think, looking at the firelit faces of my reunited people. We came home.

But the truth whispers darker underneath:

We came home to find a trap already set and waiting.