Page 14 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The Hag and Bran

(The last husband, the final daughters, and the war that rewrote the seasons).

Calea’s final husband was Bran the Blessed.

A mortal by birth, Bran was the youngest son of a Scottish chieftain, drawn into the Shadow Realm by a recurring vision of a radiant woman with a silver bough.

He left with twenty-seven men, sailing for over a week—twice thrown off course—until starvation forced them to land on a remote island known as Ais Chrona.

The land had been locked in winter for over four hundred years.

There, Bran sought the mythical ash apple tree his vision had promised. It was said the silver bough would grant divinity to any who claimed it.

And he did find it—but just as he reached it, a woman’s song lured him into a nearby cavern. Believing it to be the voice of his dream-lady, Bran followed the melody and found Calea, shrouded and waiting.

They performed a blood rite—ancient and binding. The ritual restored Calea’s youth temporarily and elevated Bran to something more than mortal. In the months that followed, the two had twin daughters: Branwen and Beira.

Branwen embodied spring. Beira, winter. As Freyja and Calea once had, the sisters mirrored the cycle of seasons.

Calea, long barren and embittered, found comfort in her daughters—and, for a time, in Bran. He was the first husband she seemed to genuinely connect with. The family, such as it was, began to take root.

But the girls matured quickly.

Branwen caught the eye of King Matholwch III of Dun Chrioch. Beira loved him in silence. When Bran arranged a political marriage between the island of Ais Chrona and Matholwch’s court, the twins devised a plan. Beira veiled herself in her sister’s place and wed the king.

The deception did not last.

Once revealed, Matholwch enslaved Beira. For three years she remained captive, forced into service even as she bore him a son—Dare. Eventually, word of her imprisonment reached Bran, who rallied an army and sailed across the frozen sea to confront the king of Dun Chrioch.

While he was gone, Calea—faced again with the prophecy that her own daughter would be her undoing—acted.

Fearing Branwen’s growing influence over spring, she tricked the girl into sacrificing herself.

With that stolen vitality, Calea regained her youth, and, as always, ensured the season turned in her favor.

Bran returned victorious, only to learn of Branwen’s death. Beira, inconsolable, took her own life.

Shattered by the loss of both daughters and unable to forgive Calea’s betrayal, Bran abandoned her. He returned to the Mortal Realm to raise his grandson, Dare, alone.

—Reema

P.S. This myth is dense, but important. The seasonal cycles, the ash apple, the origin of Dare—they all surface again. Especially here. Especially now.

#

Except I don’t have time to think of anything . Between wrapping my head around all the new material that I historically dismissed as useless, and Reema’s boot camp-like study sessions, I’m whupped.

And I’m still dead last in the rankings. The month’s almost out, leaving me only three more to push out of the bottom ten.

No stress, or anything.

By the time Picca crossss my mind again, I’m preoccupied with my first field exercise for my Combat Strategy and Survival course.

It’s my least favorite, because Percy Murphy, the senior teaching assistant, is a smug, silver-tongued sadist who thinks humiliation is a valid teaching method.

And he hates mortals.

Reema’s helping with our pack-out, spreading gear across the common room table like she’s dissecting a crime scene.

“Cat’s boots are two years out of date,” she says, not looking up. “They won’t hold up in marsh terrain. And this—,” she lifts my canvas jacket between two fingers like it’s contaminated, “is decorative. I can practically smell the department store polyester.”

“That’s everything that was on the packing list.”

“The basic list,” she corrects, pulling a clipboard from under her arm. Of course she has a clipboard. She passes it to me. “I cross-referenced it with last year’s casualty data and made some adjustments.”

“You what?” Cat’s slouched upside-down on the couch, a sucker stick bobbing in her mouth. “You made a death spreadsheet?”

“Statistical analysis,” Reema defends. “Ninety percent of first-year injuries happen due to poor gear choices and underdeveloped reflexes. I can’t fix your reflexes, but I can at least keep you from being gutted by a blindside swipe.”

Cat snorts. “You say that like you’ve never been gutted before.”

“I haven’t,” Reema says.

“Yet,” Cat mutters.

“Is all this really necessary?” I wave an arm over the conglomeration of woobie blankets, camping equipment, snacks, hydration flasks, maps, matches, a compass, and weapons.

In addition to my issued double daggers, Cody has loaned me five of his. They glint before me, deceptively polished and clean.

“It’s just a day trip. A couple hours, tops.”

“Always prepare for a day trip to turn into an overnight, at least. Even on such a small island. There are leys between worlds. If your guides don’t bring you to the Shadow Realm for the exercise, you could accidentally walk through a barrier and find yourself there, anyway.”

Reema tilts her lips, then drops a ceremonial dagger above the others.

“When in doubt, barter with blood.”

“You’re overreacting,” Cat jumps on my shoulders. “I’ll be with her to keep her safe.”

“You won’t,” Reema warns. “You’ll be split into the same groups you had at orientation. She’ll be with all the other humans in the bottom ranks.”

All the students who don’t trust me.

Great .

I sit on the edge of the armchair, watching Reema re-organize my materials like a surgeon laying out scalpels. My fingers twitch against my knees. “Am I going to die tomorrow?”

“Not if you listen to me.”

Cat flips herself upright and grabs a dagger from the pile, spinning it on the table.

“Look, Nari. Field Rotation’s mostly about control.

Keep your cool. Don’t get cocky. And whatever creature they throw at you—aim for the kill zones Reema made you memorize, not the ones your panic brain tells you are ‘probably good enough.’”

Reema hands me a laminated sheet of pressure points and weak spots, color-coded by creature type. “I also marked the shadow variants. Expect them.”

“Of course we’re fighting shadows,” I mutter. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“It’s randomized,” Cat says. “So it’ll definitely be something terrible. We’re fresh meat. They want to see if we freeze or run.”

“Or cry,” Reema adds. “That happens more than you think.”

“Great.” I rub the heel of my palm over my eye. “What happens if I do freeze?”

“You won’t,” Cat vows. Her tone is surprisingly serious. “You might panic. That’s fine. But your body will remember what we drilled into it all month. Move. React. Adapt. And if that doesn’t work—stab something until it stops moving.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. They’re so different—Reema’s all precision and prep, Cat’s chaos with just enough wisdom buried under the flippancy to keep you alive. And between the two of them, I feel… a little less like the freshman who doesn’t belong.

Reema checks her watch. “You need to rest. You’ll be called at sunrise.”

Cat hops off the couch. “I’ll sneak some stims into your jacket pocket. It helps with adrenaline shakes. And you’ll want to eat something salty before—trust me.”

I glance between them, my throat tight. “Thanks. For all of this.”

Reema’s already repacking my gear with clinical efficiency. “Don’t thank us yet.”

Cat grins, slapping my shoulder as she heads for the door. “Just don’t die. I can’t go the rest of my life with just Cody for family.”

#

The truck that we’re piled into looks like something you’d see on an army reserve. All first years are crowded into the boxcar, standing room only. With eighty-something other people, it’s a wonder I’m not sweating. I can’t help but wonder if the cargo bed is spelled to prevent overheating.

At least we’re not in our usual Van Ritten getup. No tailored blazers or embroidered crests. Today’s uniform is all grit and zero glamour.

Black tactical pants with reinforced knees, laced up the sides like something from a post-apocalyptic fashion show. The boots are heavy—steel-toed, soul-marked, and enchant-resistant. You can’t run quietly in them, but they’ll keep your toes attached if something tries to bite.

The top’s a fitted combat shirt, breathable but layered with hidden runes stitched into the seams. It looks simple—dark gray, close to the body—but it hums if you focus too hard. Supposed to react to divine energy. Mine just makes my skin itch.

Over that, a modular vest with too many clips and not enough instruction. It holds a dagger, a flare charm, water capsule, and plenty of other things I can’t name.

Cat’s beside me, slapping loudly on a stick of gum.

“Quit it.” I elbow her stomach with the little room I can muster, given our tight quarters.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” Cat chirps. “The first exercise is all about safety.”

“Why do we even have classes like this?” I complain. “I thought most of the fighting between pantheons ended when Calea took over.”

“There are still skirmishes,” Stella retorts, her lips pursed like talking to me is comparable to sucking on a lemon. “It’s our job to be ready when peace doesn’t hold.”

“Which, shocker, it never does when gods are involved,” Cat adds. “I mean, wasn’t it just last year that the Celts were deployed to Yugoslavia because the Illyrian pantheon backed different war lords?”

“That was, like, three years ago,” Stella retorts.

“The point is, Calea might be queen of the cosmos or whatever, but the rest of them still fight like drunk uncles at Thanksgiving,” Cat replies.

Before I can say anything else, the truck draws to a stop and we’re rushed to dismount.

On the ground, I join Stella and the rest of our crew from orientation.

There’s Devon, the man who heckled me when I was talking to Bri, and Jamal, his best friend.

Stella stands beside Keisha and Jasmine, her usual companions.

That leaves Diamond, who’s sharpening his dagger, Yesenia, who’s as clueless as always, Neveah, who’s repacking her bag, and Carlos, who looks ready to pass out.

If Reema’s advice is sound, this is the group I’m going to be with.

“Gather round!” Percy shouts, his voice carrying over the field we’re stopped in. I look around, wondering what our task will consist of. We’ve focused on basic survival strategies and safety this month, so I can only imagine it will be something along those lines.

Our setting, however, is unexpected. We’re right beside a beach, but it’s like no beach I’ve seen. The air is a permanent grey, and the water flows like black ink over white sand, corrupting each pebble.

I tighten my grip on my ruck. We must be inside the Shadow Realm. I guess it’s best to just get it over with, but I can’t help the shivers that rake my spine.

I’d always imagined the world of the gods as some beautiful oasis. With birds singing and never ending sunrises and shit.

This …

This is just depressing.

“You’ll have three hours to complete your tasks. Madolyn’s passing the packets out, now. Don’t open until you’ve been told to.

“We’re doing things a little differently this year. In an effort to be fair ,” his python eyes shoot a pointed roll at Nikolai, his favorite, “everyone will be matched with a partner outside of your class ranking. Bonus points if you both come back alive.”

Boos echo around the circle from the shades. Nikolai and Kilronan playfully shove each other. I can only imagine what they’re talking about.

“Maybe we’ll be together after all.” Cat wraps an arm over my shoulder.

“Maybe,” I echo, though I don’t share her confidence. My eyes remain glued to Nikolai.

Water slams into my vision—cold, rising, inescapable. Not a wave, but a room filling up. A girl’s scream echoes somewhere above me, high and sharp, like it’s being swallowed by the sea.

My breath stutters. It’s not the first time I’ve seen flashes of drowning, but this feels different. Closer.

I clench my fists. Great. Another cryptic hallucination with no context, no timing, no useful way to stop it.

If I make it out of here, I’m tracking down Picca. There has to be a better way to control these things.

Because what’s the point of seeing the future if I can’t stop it?

Madolyn, a visiting senior—and Percy’s girlfriend, I think—thrusts a packet into my hands. I stare down at the neatly folded brown paper, two names scrawled across the front:

Nikolai Matholwch & Nari Harper.

“This can’t be right,” I blurt, waving the packet like it might change its mind.

Cat peers over my shoulder and winces.

Across the group, Nikolai’s head turns—summoned by the sound of his name and my voice. His eyes narrow when he sees the paper, and then he makes a strangled noise of pure offense.

“You’re setting me up for failure!” he snaps, yanking the packet from my hands and storming toward Percy.

Other students begin murmuring as they sort into pairs.

I push past them to follow Nikolai, because of course I do.

“The top-ranked cadet with the lowest-ranked,” Percy explains with a shrug. “Skawa thought it would challenge you both.”

Skawa—our actual professor, who none of us have met yet. Legend says she trained the Hound of Cu Chulainn and some of the IRA’s ghost agents.

But what has she done lately? Not teach this class, that’s for damn sure. And apparently make bad decisions about partnerships.

“It’s not a worthy challenge,” Nikolai huffs, looking every bit like a sulking child. “She’s not worthy.” He jabs a petty finger in my direction.

“Yeah,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Well, I can handle myself.”

To that, both Nikolai and Percy snort.

I should be offended.

They’re not wrong.

Percy pats Nikolai on the back, whispers, “Have fun,” then strolls back to the front.

“Is there anyone who hasn’t received their missions?”

Cat tosses me a sympathetic smile. Not that she has it much better. She’s standing beside Carlo, who’s two seconds away from a panic attack.

And somehow I’m still in eighty-sixth place.

“No? Alright, your three hours begins…” Percy lays one finger over a giant timer, blinking red zeroes. “Now!”

Three zero zero flashes on the screen, before counting down.