Ailbe, hound of Brian Boru

Clontarf, 1014 CE — the battlefield soaked in rain and smoke, the sea whispering against the shore beyond the dead. When the high king fell, his wolfhound Ailbe stood guard over the body, hackles up, eyes fixed on the horizon until they closed for good. The wolfhounds had fought beside the Irish long before kings learned to write their victories down — tall as men, bred to pull riders from horses and boars from thickets. At Clontarf they went with the warriors, their collars woven with gold thread, their loyalty unshaken by the chaos of clans. When dawn came, the monks found the dog still there, stiff and silent, guarding a crown that no one could wear again. In the annals, they wrote only one word beside his master’s name: faithful.