The air hums with static beneath the Dublin
skyline, where the old gods sleep in the bones
of the city. The 1920s have turned the streets
into a war zone, but for Mairéad, the real
battle is in the shadows of the Liberties, where
the last of the fae still walk among the living.
She is a navigator of the unseen, mapping the
ley lines that pulse beneath the cobbled roads.
Her hands are stained with ink and blood, her
mind sharp with the knowledge of what the church
and the rebels both fear.
The curse of the Bitter Rose binds her to the
son of a British officer, a man whose name is
whispered in the pubs and burned in the
newspapers. Their love is an act of treason, a
violation of the old laws that govern the
balance between the mortal and the magical.
When the Free State army raids the home of his
father, Mairéad is forced to choose: save the
man she loves or let the rebellion claim him.
She chooses the latter, but not without cost.
The rose blooms again, its petals blackened by
the blood of the dead. The curse breaks, but the
price is written in fire. Mairéad’s map is torn,
her power spent. The city shifts, the old gods
stir, and the rebellion moves on without her.
She walks the streets alone, a ghost in a world
that has changed, but not enough to forget the
taste of betrayal.
The rules were clear: no love between the enemy.
No magic in the hands of the weak. Mairéad broke
them both, and the world did not forgive.
