The Trickster's Gold

Chapter One: The Trickster

The morning was shrouded in a mist so thick that the world beyond the stone walls of the small farm seemed distant, almost unreal. Sorcha, standing by the hearth, watched the lazy curl of smoke rise from the embers of the fire, her hands busy with the rough wool she was spinning. Outside, the sheep bleated softly, their wool damp with dew, and the chickens rustled restlessly in their coop. The fog had a way of settling deep into the bones on mornings like this, but there was a peace in the stillness. Her family had lived in these hills for generations, and Sorcha had always loved the quiet of the land—the way it seemed to hum with life just beneath the surface.

Her father was already out in the fields, his shadow barely visible through the haze as he worked on the stone fence that had weathered centuries of Irish winds and rains. Her younger brother, Eamon, was likely off wandering again, chasing rabbits or lost in his endless pursuit of adventure.