CHRONICLES OF EOIN AND EILIDH: Celestial Codex

THE TWINS OF GLEN CAORANN

The village of Glen Caorann was the sort of place that most people never left. A place where life followed the same rhythm as it had for generations, where the hills whispered old stories in the wind and the loch reflected the changing sky like a quiet observer. It was a village of farmers, blacksmiths, and fishermen. A village of simple folk who mended their roofs before the winter came and never asked for more than the land could give.

But for Eoin and Eilidh MacKenna, the quiet, predictable life of Glen Caorann was a slow, suffocating kind of death.

They were sixteen, twins born minutes apart but as different as fire and water. Eoin was restless, always moving, always searching for something he couldn’t name. He had an easy grin and a quick temper, a boy who climbed trees just to see how high he could get and leapt from rooftops for the thrill of it. If there was a rule, he’d test it. If there was a locked door, he’d find a way to open it.

Eilidh, on the other hand, was careful where her brother was reckless. Sharp where he was impulsive. She was the one who thought ahead, who could read people like an open book, who always had a plan. But there was something behind her steady gaze, a hunger just as deep as Eoin’s, a longing for something beyond the narrow streets and stone cottages of Glen Caorann.

They were known throughout the village, not just because they were twins, but because they were MacKennas. Their grandfather, Alasdair MacKenna, had been the village storyteller, a man of wild tales and long-lost legends. He’d filled their childhood with stories of ancient stars and forgotten relics, of doors that led to other worlds and kings who spoke in riddles. He had died two years ago, leaving behind nothing but an attic full of old books and a longing in their hearts that neither of them knew how to fill.

And so, they lived. Day after day, in the same familiar patterns.

The morning air was crisp as Eoin sprinted through the narrow streets, boots slamming against the cobblestones. His breath fogged in the cold, but he didn’t slow. He was late. Again.

“Come on, Eilidh,” he called, glancing over his shoulder.

His sister wasn’t running. She never ran if she could help it. Instead, she walked with measured steps, a bundle of books in her arms.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” she said without looking up.

Eoin rolled his eyes. “Alec won’t care.”

Alec was the blacksmith they worked for. Well, technically, Eilidh worked for him, helping with ledger books and orders, while Eoin was more of an occasional helper-slash-menace, depending on the day.

“He does care,” Eilidh said, shifting her books under one arm to adjust her scarf. “And I care. Some of us don’t like getting yelled at before breakfast.”

Eoin just grinned, ducking under a hanging laundry line and nearly tripping over a stray chicken. “You care too much,” he teased.

She didn’t answer, just gave him a look that said, One day, you’ll learn.

By the time they reached Alec’s forge, the fire was already roaring, sending waves of heat into the chilly morning. The man himself was standing outside, arms crossed, waiting.

Eilidh nudged Eoin hard in the ribs before stepping forward. “Sorry we’re late,” she said smoothly.

Alec grunted. “You’re late every day.”

Eoin shrugged. “Yeah, but at least we’re consistent.”

Alec gave him a look, then jerked his head toward the forge. “Inside. Now.”

As they got to work, Eoin hammering metal while Eilidh worked through inventory, the familiar rhythm of the day settled in. Work, break, work again. The village went about its usual business: farmers hauling sacks of grain, fishermen gutting their morning catch, children running through the streets with wooden swords.

It was ordinary. So painfully, frustratingly ordinary.

And the twins were growing tired of it.

As the sun dipped lower, Eoin and Eilidh found themselves sitting on the old stone wall overlooking the village. They did this most evenings, staring out at the rolling hills and the stretch of wild, untouched land beyond them.

“Do you ever wonder,” Eoin said suddenly, “if this is it? If we’re just meant to stay here forever, doing the same thing every day until we’re old?”

Eilidh didn’t answer right away. She had thought about it. A lot.

“Maybe,” she said at last. “But maybe not.”

Eoin frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

She smirked. “It’s the only answer I’ve got.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the wind pulling at their clothes.

Then, Eoin nudged her. “What if we left?”

Eilidh turned her head. “And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he said. “We could go to Inverness. Or even Edinburgh. There has to be something more than just… this.”

Eilidh hesitated. Leaving Glen Caorann was a bold idea, a reckless idea. But something about it stirred something deep inside her.

And then, before she could answer, something moved in the distance.

A flash of silver in the darkening sky. A streak of light, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Eoin sat up. “Did you see that?”

Eilidh narrowed her eyes, scanning the horizon. “I saw something.”

“It wasn’t a star,” Eoin said, standing now. “It was too close.”

Eilidh bit her lip, thoughtful. “Maybe.”

Eoin grinned, the kind of grin that meant trouble. “I’m going to find out.”

Eilidh sighed. “Of course you are.”

And just like that, the routine of their lives began to shift.

They didn’t know it yet, but the world they knew was about to change forever.