Short Stories

Scotia

By Rebecca Kay Bright

At the circle of stones in the Scottish Highlands, this story begins. Not at Stonehenge with its tourist crowds and postcard views, but at a lesser-known sister site, hidden among moss and fog. Here, the wind still carries the old voices, and the stones drink moonlight in silence. A Pagan festival had drawn a strange mix of believers, seekers, and skeptics. Among them stood Morgaine, a recent widow and mother of three, her grief still fresh as raw bone.

American-born but blood-bound to the MacKay clan, Morgaine was neither fully Witch nor Druid. She was something older and quieter, something the land recognized even if the people did not. She had come to gather herbs and knowledge, to breathe under the stars without being asked to smile.

Her children, Jonathan, the eldest and most careful, Nikolai with his wildfire mind, and Gwydion, quiet and watchful, tugged at her cloak, impatient to explore. She warned them not to go near the circle, her voice low but firm. The High Priestess had given clear instructions: those who enter must leave the way they came. The stones do not suffer forgetfulness.

But boys chase adventure like cats chase birds. One moment, they were by her side, and the next, they were laughing within the ring.

Panic took her by the throat.

She dropped her basket and shouted, “Jonathan, now,” then ran with him into the circle. Her heart pounded with a single thought — she had already buried one man. She would not bury a child.

She caught them quickly and scolded them with more fear than anger. As they turned to leave, she made a simple mistake. In her haste, she forgot to exit through the same arch they entered.

The wind did not howl. The ground did not shake. But when they stepped beyond the stones, the world was wrong.

The air was sharper, cleaner. The hills rolled like sleeping giants, untouched by modern scars. No roads, no wires, no fences. The sky itself seemed taller.

Morgaine turned back to the stones. Her fingers brushed the rock. It was colder now, smoother, somehow younger. The circle had sealed itself. They could not return the way they had come.

She did not cry. She gathered her children and began walking.

Later, from a rise, they saw two armies clashing in a clearing below. Steel flashed, banners flapped. She tried to circle wide, but the hills funneled them down. On the field’s edge stood three riderless horses. She wasted no time.

She handed the reins to Jonathan. “Take your brothers and ride if things go wrong. Hide in the woods above. Wait for me.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “I can fight.”

“You will, but not today.”

She turned to the younger boys. “You listen to him. Promise me.”

They promised, eyes wide with fear.

The battle rolled closer. One of the soldiers grabbed for her boot. She kicked him down and struck without thinking, her blade flashing.

“Ride,” she yelled. “Now!”

They hesitated.

“Go!”

They vanished into the woods, and Morgaine turned to face the chaos. She fought with the force of grief and fury, cutting down anyone who came too near. Her strength burned low, but still she stood. Her horse was gone. Her limbs ached. Blood soaked her tunic.

She dropped to her knees and drove her sword into the earth. She called to the Goddess, not as a servant but as kin. She asked to be the Raven, the winged fury of battle, the warning and the wrath.

The wind shifted. Her vision stretched. She rose.

She became the shadow above the field. Black wings beat against the sky. Her voice was no longer hers, yet it rang out with clarity and power.

“Invaders,” she cried, “you are not welcome here. Leave this land or die.”

They stopped. Then they broke. First in confusion, then in terror. Some ran to the sea. Others flung themselves into the surf, too panicked to remove their armor.

When the last had gone, she let the spell fade. Her body collapsed beside her sword, shaking and spent.

A voice came from behind her. She turned, half-expecting another blade. Instead, a man stood there. Young, battle-worn, but calm. He offered his hand.

“You are one of the priestesses of Avalon, aren’t you? You saved us. Come. Rest. You’ll be safe with me.”

He helped her up and led her to the forest, where her sons waited, shaken but safe. They camped there for several nights as the clans buried their dead. The man’s name was Accolon, of the de Bruce clan.

When they reached his stronghold, he offered Morgaine and her children their own space. She accepted, but remained guarded. Accolon, patient and kind, did not press.

During the harvest festival, he spoke to Jonathan.

“I would marry your mother if she’ll have me. I will build lands for her sons and honor her name with mine.”

Jonathan, unsure how to answer, told him to ask her directly.

When Accolon did, Morgaine studied him for a long time.

“That is a fair bride price,” she said.

They were wed in the spring. A son was born, named Uwaine. But peace never lingers.

The Saxons returned, and battle followed. Accolon was wounded. Morgaine fought again, and the clans held.

Yet it was not the sword that the people remembered. It was the Raven who had once flown above them, crying warning and wrath, who turned the tide.

And so the story was told — of the foreign woman who stepped from the stones, fought beside the clans, and became a legend not of magic alone, but of blood, grit, and fire.

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The Prince Be, the Beginning

By Rebecca Kay Bright

In a time long past, nearly forgotten by modern men and obscured by the fog of centuries, this tale begins. Since the dawn of the pre-modern era—around the 1400s—countless stories have been told of King Arthur and his court. Yet, my friend, what I offer you now is not another invention, but the first part of what truly happened.

Why only a part, you ask? Because my lord has requested but a simple tale to close this evening’s festivities. If the court finds favor with this telling, then I, your humble bard, would be honored to continue this saga whenever my lord or lady should desire more. Let your mind journey back to the days of old, when the Roman Empire was crumbling and the eastern barbarians pressed ever harder against the frontiers. Recall a time when the eastern and southern coasts of Briton had been ravaged, left vulnerable to invaders who had already begun establishing settlements of their own. Remember...

The barbarians were growing bolder. Their raids stretched farther west and north, no longer content with the coastal spoils. The fractured tribes of Briton, weary from generations of war and domination, now faced the grim reality that they had merely exchanged one master for another. The threat could no longer be ignored. And so, a great council was called. From the northernmost highlands of the Scots to the farthest reaches of Wales, from the tattered remnants of the eastern shore to the green fields of the south, every tribe and clan was summoned.

Many still clung to the old ways, the sacred traditions from before the Roman legions arrived with their crosses and Latin tongues. The leaders agreed to gather at the second most sacred place in all the isles, a place older than memory and only surpassed in reverence by the stone circle: the Isle of Man.

The meeting was set for two full moons before Beltane, a time of fire and renewal. By the appointed day, the island was alive with the voices of warriors and wise men. All the leaders knew, if not aloud then in the secret corners of their hearts, that they must forge a united alliance. The age of inter-tribal feuding had to end. They would need to fight not only with the courage of their Celtic ancestors but with the discipline and strategy of the Romans—armored, organized, relentless.

Gone were the days when charging naked into battle with war paint, a small shield, and a sword would suffice. The eastern barbarians now came in full armor, and if Briton’s defenders did not adapt, their homeland would be lost.

The holy ones—druids, seers, and priestesses—quietly hoped the council would conclude before Beltane Eve. Their vision was clear: the one chosen to lead the allied forces must be crowned at the sacred fires of Beltane. In the sacred circle of tents and stone, the leaders debated and argued. They negotiated endlessly over matters both symbolic and practical: who would command, how the forces would be structured, which banners would fly highest, and how many men and horses each tribe must contribute.

As the week wore on, agreement was reached on nearly every point—save the most important. For a fortnight, they quarreled bitterly over who should be given supreme command. The larger clans put forward the firstborn sons of their chieftains, confident in their birthright. But the smaller clans bristled at this, knowing they would be pushed to the fringes, denied equality.

To break the impasse, the holy ones proposed a different path. Let the firstborn sons remain with their clans, to inherit titles and lead local forces. Instead, each tribe would enter the name of a second- or third-born son into a lottery. The high priestess herself would draw a name, guided by the gods and elements. The chosen man would lead the allied army, and all other young nobles submitted would serve as his lieutenants, equals among themselves, but sworn to defend Briton under one banner. They would take oaths to serve faithfully, to fight as one, and to show no favoritism to any region or people.

Reluctantly, with grumbling and quiet hopes, the leaders agreed. Scribes from each tribe recorded the names on parchment, and one by one, the names were placed into a large basket, collected by the handmaiden of the high priestess. She carried the basket into the sacred grove, where the priestess waited.

Calling upon the five elements—earth, air, fire, water, and spirit—and invoking the ancient gods and goddesses, the high priestess closed her eyes and reached into the basket. Her hand drifted among the folded parchments, pausing here and there, until finally, it settled. She drew forth a single slip, opened her eyes, and gazed at the name.

A soft smile touched her lips. The vision she had kept secret was now manifest. She held the name of Briton’s future in her hand.

All around her, silence reigned. Not a single breath stirred, not an eye blinked. Every man present waited, hearts pounding, for the name of their chosen leader.

At last, the high priestess spoke.

“Arthurius Pendragon.”

The silence broke like a wave crashing on stone. Confused murmurs and excited voices rippled through the assembly.

The Pendragon clan was small, a proud but modest people from the northwestern edge of the Scots’ territory. Arthurius was the second son of Uthen, chieftain of the clan. His elder brother, Uthurius, was the rightful heir, though he had long been crippled by a shattered leg, the result of an ambush by rogue Roman soldiers. Arthurius, by contrast, was barely known outside his clan. Only eighteen years old, he had recently returned from his fosterage in Avon, and few beyond his kin had seen him fight or lead.

Still, the gods had chosen him.

The old men grumbled, the young men whispered. Some doubted, others hoped. But the high priestess’s word was final. The name had been drawn in sacred trust. Now, Arthurius Pendragon would rise. He would stand at the head of Briton’s united tribes, against the tide of iron-clad barbarians, with nothing but faith, courage, and the will of the gods to guide him.

And so, on the eve of Beltane, as the sacred fires were lit and the drums of war began to thunder, the boy who would become legend took his first step into history.