The Dragon and Bryn had spoken of Albion's seers earlier that day. Long had they debated which questions were worthy of asking, for prophecy was no gift to squander. Once they had settled upon them, it was decided they would enter the Albion camp at the stroke of midnight when the seers claimed their sight was keenest, and the veil between worlds hung at its thinnest.

They had asked Barrow to accompany them.

Though his craft differed from theirs, he too sought answers in carved stone and whispered possibility. As midnight crept across the land, Barrow fell into step behind Bryn and the Dragon, the Atlantean trophy from earlier clenched between his teeth.

As they passed between the Albion tents, peasants bowed, knights saluted, and nobles offered respectful greetings to Bryn and the Dragon. Yet when their gazes settled upon Barrow, something changed. Smiles faltered. Conversations died half-spoken. Some lowered their eyes, while others stared a heartbeat too long before hurriedly looking away.

The scents of Albion were no less peculiar than its people. Strange incense lingered beneath woodsmoke and damp canvas, masking unfamiliar herbs, old blood, and the stale sweetness of flowers long since dead. Barrow found the smell as foreign as the folk themselves, though the Hill Tans had long since learned that Albion delighted in oddities.

At the heart of the tent stood the famed Round Table.

Barrow could not help but think it an extraordinary waste of perfectly good timber.

Still, these people had always possessed curious customs.

They took their seats, then the seers entered.

They settled opposite the trio and began laying the instruments of their craft upon the table. A polished shard of black crystal that seemed to drink the lantern light. A deck of immaculate cards, untouched by age. Lastly, a shallow vessel filled with blood so dark it reflected nothing.

The moment the final object touched the wood, the air changed.

Only slightly, so slightly that Bryn, the Dragon and those of albion come to witness appeared oblivious.

But Barrow felt it. He saw it, too, in the eyes of the seers, recognition. Every witch, every seer, every soul who had ever reached beyond the veil knew this sensation. The quiet pressure gathering beneath the skin. The world drawing a breath it refused to release.

The Dragon turned toward Barrow.

"Will you read the currents of possibility ?"

Barrow rested a hand upon the pouch at his hip before slowly shaking his head.

"This is Albion," he rumbled. "I will not trespass upon another's sacred ground."

Instead, he loosened the pouch and offered the carved stones to the seers.

"A gift from the mountain. Let them lend their voices to yours."

As he stepped beside the table, warmth bloomed in his hand. The pouch.

The stones within had begun to stir, not with movement but with heat.

The seers exchanged no words, yet each inclined their head in unison.

Permission.

Barrow cast the stones, they struck the tabletop with a weight that should have splintered the ancient oak. The sound rang through the tent like distant gravestones colliding beneath the earth.

Silence followed.

Then

Click.

Another.

Click.

Click.

The stones had stopped moving.

Yet the sound continued.

A slow, patient chattering of teeth echoed across the tabletop, as they fell almost without end in front of the seers of Albion, "Thats a lot of teeth" muttered one from the edges, disgust colouring their voice.

The cards trembled.

The blood rippled without touch.

The black crystal swallowed what little light remained.

None of the three seers recoiled as those around the table who came to bear witness shifted uneasily at the sight, the odd behaviour of the Albions and their delicate sense abilities, were making themselves clear again.

As the questions were uttered, Barrow could feel the veil beginning to open. With each answer, the seers seemed to draw closer to one another, until they were almost a single being. They finished each other's sentences, moved in perfect unison, and when laughter spilled from them, it was the same voice emerging from three different throats

Bryn uncorked her ink, quill poised above fresh parchment and begins scratching down the words spoken.

As the seers fell silent, Barrow turned to collect his instruments. They lay scattered across the map of Cymria, each stone strangely warm beneath his fingertips, as if fresh from the hearth. One stood apart from the others, radiating a heat that bordered on painful. It had been cast onto a barren patch of land near the border. Carved into its surface was the symbol of the Moon.