Alasdair Eógan

Northern Front, Ireland, 828 AD The once tranquil meadow now lay in ruins, patches of grass burnt, the land ripped apart my horses' hooves, littered with the bodies of fallen soldiers. High King Cillian lay amongst them, his bloody war dying with him. Near the stream, Crown Prince Alasdair was very close to joining him. But Alasdair wasn't scared of death. He was angry. Was this his end? A lost battle, a failed retreat, a legacy wiped away before it even began? Alasdair's tears mixed with the blood and dirt on his face, trailing down into the mud. He had dreamed of a crown, of glory, of a history that would sing his name. But the gods, cruel and indifferent, seemed to have other plans. 'Why?' he thought bitterly, his vision blurring. 'Why give me the skills, the drive, the ambition, only to snuff me out here, before I’ve even had the chance to prove myself?' He felt himself slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying as the dark abyss of death loomed ever closer. The world dimmed, the night sky above him a swirling, incomprehensible expanse.