Chapter Thirty-One: The Secrets in Stone
Dawn painted the moors in ethereal silver as their carriage creaked to a halt before the grove. Gnarled trees loomed, silent sentinels in soft morning hush.
Lucien led the way, boots crunching over frost-matted moss. Isabelle followed, Lydia just behind—shawl wrapped tight, breath steaming in the chill.
Before them stood eight standing stones, tall as sentries, etched with Pictish spirals and arcane sigils. Mist curled between their bases, and the earth seemed to lean forward, listening.
“There were only seven before,” Isabelle whispered.
Lucien nodded. “We believed that. But as the veil thins… the eighth has returned.”
Each monolith pulsed with faint life—spirals, stars, beasts, fire—older than Britain and more alive than any dusty volume.
He knelt by the largest stone and retrieved a weathered copy of The Celtic Druids by Godfrey Higgins (circa 1827–1829). He flipped to a woodcut of a Druid circle and read aloud:
“The Druids emigrated from regions east of Europe, bringing celestial knowledge and carving great cyclopean circles… including the sacred stones of Pictland.”
Isabelle caught her breath. These stones were part of that network—junctions where the world and otherworld kissed.
He turned the page:
“In the north, Druidic priestesses entwined the bloodlines of fae and mortal… binding mortal oaths with faerie gold… forming a living pact between man and the Otherworld… these pacts are the roots of the Accord.”
“This isn’t legend,” Isabelle said. “It’s history.”
Lucien’s gaze softened. “And your mother’s line—the Bandrui—descends from those priestesses.”
She closed her eyes. “So the Accord wasn’t woven. It was forged—by wolf blood, druid power, human will.”
“And now it’s reawakened,” Lucien added. “Because you felt the pull.”
He looked at Lydia. “Your father knew. He didn’t tell you, but he knew. Women of royal Pictish descent carried the rites. Blood older than crowns.”
Lydia stared at the stone. “Then I’m one of them.”
“You’re the second bond,” Lucien confirmed. “The Accord is calling.”
Isabelle exhaled. “Then there were always eight bloodlines. Not three, not seven—eight.”
She stepped into the circle, touching each stone with reverence. The ground beneath thrummed like a heartbeat.
“The Accord was forged from eight bloodlines: Fenwick wolf, Royal Pictish druid, Fir’Blog fae, Anunnaki dragon, Tuatha Dé Danann, Pendragon elves, Dál Riata horse-lords, Avalon Del Acqs.”
Lydia’s voice trembled, but clear: “Then we still have five to find.”
Lucien nodded eastward. “We know three. Two are lost. Two unawakened. But none are truly gone. We must gather them before Duval can corrupt them.”
“But we will find them,” Isabelle said, voice steady. “Who do we seek next?”
Lucien opened the book again to a hand-inked spiral near Avalon:
“Next is the Line of Avalon—Merlin’s heir, Aibhilín Del Acqs.”
The wind sighed through the stones, grass stirring at their feet.
Eight lines. One purpose—and time running dangerously thin.
“The stones remember,” Isabelle murmured, “and now so do we.”
They stepped away as the grove held its breath, and the quest resumed—with Wales in their sights.