It wasn’t clear at first, what we’d found. This strange little thing, caked in rotten-smelling mud. We’d been digging trenches in the misty bogs, a mile or so from some village. Can’t remember its name now. But I’ll never forget digging up that chunk of metal. A figure; ice-cold and heavy as a paperweight. Smooth and shiny like steel. The way it stared at me from the mud, with those beady eyes. The design looked Celtic enough; it was a rare enough find in itself. But… it hadn’t rusted. Thousands of years, soaking in this marshland, and the thing was smooth and pristine as the day it was forged. That was the other thing – we weren’t entirely sure if it’d been forged at all. The style, the dating… it was all wrong. It was too perfect. The metal was too pure. The workmanship, too advanced and too symmetrical. Like nothing we’d ever seen before. Almost as if… I know how ridiculous this must sound. But it looked like a template, for artists to follow. Like it’d been given to them by someone else. Like it didn’t… didn’t belong in this world.