Page 77 of The Last Kelpie

“Yes.” I kept my hand on the page, covering the text. “That's what happened.”

“But I also remember circling the boat. I remember the way he looked at me when I surfaced. I remember thinking it would be easy. So easy to just—”

“No.” I grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look at me. “That's not your memory. That's what you just read.”

“Both feel real.” Áedán's voice was barely a whisper. “Both memories are in my head now, and I cannae tell which one actually happened.”

The horror of it hit me like a physical blow. This was how it worked. It wasn't just an attack; it was also a corruption. And this was how the corruption spread. Not by erasing the truth, but by planting lies within it. And within those lies was enough magic to confuse even the myth himself.

If enough false stories existed, memory itself began bending toward the new belief. That's what that line meant—Truth yields to the tale most often told. Truth, even within its origin, could be corrupted if enough lies were told about it.

“Give me the book.” I held out my hand.

“I need to finish—”

“No.” I tore it from his hands before he could protest. “Every sentence you read is making it worse. It's strengthening the false version inside you. And once your memory submits to these lies, you'll fade, Áedán.”

Áedán stared at his empty hands. “I cannae remember. I cannae remember which version is true.”

“The true version is the one you told me.” I set the book on the desk, then saw what was on its cover—the spiral. I flipped the book over. “You've spent six hundred years protecting people, not killing them.”

“How do you ken?” His face was tight, confusion and fear filling his eyes. “How do you ken I'm not the monster they say I am? How do you ken I havenae been lying to myself for centuries?”

“Because I know you.” I cupped his face in my hands. “I know who you are.”

“Do you?” His voice broke. “Because right now, I'm not sure I do.”

“I saw it in the water. You saw it too, remember?”

“I don't know if I can trust the water anymore.”

“But you can trust me.”

I kissed him then, hard and desperate. I shoved everything I felt for him and knew to be true about him into that kiss. He kissed back for a moment, then pulled away.

“We need to search the rest of the chamber.” His voice and eyes were dull. “If there's one book aboot me, there might be more.”

He was right. I didn't want him to be right, but he was.

We split up, each taking a section of the shelves. I moved methodically, pulling down manuscripts and checking the content. Most were ancient—centuries old, preserved by whatever magic Áedán had felt when we first entered. They all had the spiral on their covers and contained stories about myths from across Europe.

Recalling the placement of the truth-sentence in Áedán's book, I went to the end of the stories. Each one bore the sentence. But the stories in those books were good. Every one of them was about myths helping people, guarding them. At worst, the myth was mischievous. It didn't make sense.

Then I found another modern book. This one was bound in blue. The name on the first page was Muireann—a myth from the Hebrides that I didn't know. Because she'd faded in 1923. I knew she faded in that year because the author had written it at the top of the page, above her name, as if it were a completed mission or a paid debt.

I turned the page. It was the same precise handwriting as that in Áedán's book. And the same systematic corruption. Granted, I didn't know her. I didn't know if she was a good myth or not. But judging by Áedán's book, the terrible stories in her book were lies. Which meant she'd been a wonderful myth. And her stories all ended in the truth-sentence.

“Áedán.” My voice came out steady despite the ice spreading through my chest. “There are more.”

Áedán appeared beside me and looked at the book in my hands. He nodded, his expression grim, and set the book beside his. Then we returned to searching. We found six more, all written on modern paper. I didn't recognize any of them.

“I've never heard of these myths.” I added another book to our pile.

“They're gone.”

“So, you're not the first they've done this to.”

The scope of what we'd uncovered was staggering. This wasn't just about Áedán. This wasn't even just about the myths the Velasca was actively trying to preserve. This was a systematic campaign to reshape mythology itself. To take every protective spirit, every guardian, every creature that had once helped humans, and transform them into monsters.