The waves crash upon Eilean Draoidheachd, the Island of Magic. From the mainland it is little more than a shadow, forever veiled in mist and salt-born fog. Sailors whisper that it is cursed, that the storm itself makes its home there. Others speak of endless wind and rain, bound to that shore by some forgotten spell.

But the islanders know better. They tell of An Naoimh, the Holy One, whose breath stirs the clouds and whose voice moves the sea. Some still name her An Cailleach, the ancient crone who weaves her will through storm and silence alike. And when the waves rise higher than the cliffs, they say she is speaking again, chanting her spells into the wind.