chalice and cauldron

Some stories don’t begin—they bleed. They slip through time, boil over the cauldron, and burn the tongue that dares to taste. Three drops of sot and sin, of sorrow and spark.

These are the stories of the Mabinogion, reborn. Not as relics, but as mirrors—held up to what was, what is, and what still waits beneath the skin of tomorrow.