Your Avelrow shelf.

Celtic Fantasy

Ashes at Blackwater

Sadhbh Éireann

On the day Bríd Ó Corráin is buried, blood boils beneath a kettle in the Blackwater Arms and her missing St Brigid medal rises from it with a warning: the fourth ash wakes. As Niamh confronts the enigmatic Cian Vale and the secrets her family kept in the name of survival, a drowned kingdom lights beneath Blackwater Harbour and an ancient oath tied to her blood begins to break.

Paranormal Fantasy

Dont Open the Red Door

Muirne Dubhán

The Red House Cycle, Book Three · Book 3

The Vale Hotel had been closed for eleven years, but the bells still rang. Not often. Not with any rhythm a sensible person could name. They waited for fog, for the hour after midnight when the Atlantic pressed its black shoulder against the cliffs and every road into Ballyrue narrowed under hawthorn and salt. Then one bell would answer another in the walls, a thin silver shiver travelling through the old service wires, from the kitchens to the linen rooms, from the linen rooms to the third-floor suites, from the third-floor suites down to the east corridor where the red door sat at the end like a sealed mouth.

Mythic Maritime Fantasy

Oathtide

Fionnlagh MacAlpin

Oathtide Cycle • Book One · Book 1

Saltwater, old oaths and a world shaped by the sea give Oathtide its mythic pull. This maritime fantasy is about loyalty, consequence and promises that refuse to stay buried.

Epic Fantasy

The Bloodstar Heir

Aisling Vire

THE BOY BENEATH THE RED TIDE Ciaran Daire had learned, long before he had the height to reach a latch, that a man could survive almost anything if he kept his hands busy. That morning, his hands were in a barrel of brine up to the wrist. The salt bit into the old cracks across his knuckles, found the raw place under his thumbnail, and stung there with the private cheer of something delighted to be useful.

Epic Fantasy

The Drowned Oath

Aisling Vire

Dúnmara Chronicles · Book 4

The drowned boat came home without its men at the hour when the tide should have been going out. By then, Cara O’Dálaigh had learned to distrust every mercy that arrived clean. A boat returning was supposed to be a blessing. A small one, perhaps, compared with childbirth, harvest, fever breaking before dawn, or a husband’s hand finding yours beneath a table while men argued law around you as if women were furniture with opinions.