Alar understood the feeling. They couldn’t linger here, not with the full moon so close. Nonetheless, for him, something else made him restless this morning.
Foreboding had woken him well before dawn—a cold certainty lodged behind his ribs like a blade. He’d lain there bythe dying hearth, watching the embers pulse and fade, knowing something was about to go catastrophically wrong.
Then he’d remembered.
Something already had.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Apologizing to Lara had been a mistake—what had he been thinking? The need had been building for days, a constant pressure under his breastbone, gnawing at him until he couldn’t think straight. But giving in had led to an encounter that would haunt him until his last breath.
He was to blame. She’d initiated it—pulled him close, kissed him first. She’d made it clear what she wanted. But a better man would have stopped it, would have told her she’d regret it afterward. She would have been angry then, aye. But grateful later, once the madness of lust burned itself out.
He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. But he wasn’t a better man. That was the core of it. And he’d never stop wanting her.
Behind him, the others were mounting up—horses, elks, and stags stamping, leather creaking, low voices murmuring farewells. Duana and Eithne stood at the edge of the walkway, wrapped in borrowed cloaks against the morning chill.
Alar stayed where he was. It wasn’t him they’d come to see.
Roth moved forward and bent his head close to Duana’s. Whatever he whispered made color rise in her cheeks. She nodded, shy and pleased at once.
Beyond them, a cluster of crannog-dwellers had gathered at the walkway’s end. Connor stood among them, worry carved into the grooves around his mouth. The whole settlement had that look now—shadows under eyes, mouths pressed thin, the hunted wariness of people waiting for the next blow to fall. Lifehad grown brutal at Crask. But Lara had given them something: hope that the darkness closing in might finally end.
Reedav snorted again, tossing his head.
“Very well, lad.” Alar let the stag move forward. Someone had to lead. It might as well be him. He’d deliberately left the roundhouse before Lara emerged from her alcove this morning—he couldn’t face her, couldn’t trust himself not to—
He cut the thought off. He’d keep his word. He wouldn’t approach her again.
He urged Reedav to the front of the group, past Ravens on their elks and stags, past Vyr adjusting the weapons belt slung across his chest, past where Cailean and Bree whispered together. They all fell in behind him.
To the east, the last of the Goatfells reared up, their jagged tips catching the pale morning sun. To the north—their destination—the mountains of Darkmere rose like a wall against the sky. Alar’s gaze lingered on those high-domed summits. Bleak country. Few Marav ventured that far into the northwest Uplands. It had brutal weather year-round: floods in summer, avalanches in winter. Nothing grew up there but tough grasses and lichen clinging to bare rock.
Only the Shee traveled there regularly, slipping in and out of Darkmere barrow like ghosts.
They left Loch Glass behind, riding into a steep-sided glen that carved north through the hills. A burn wound along the bottom, clear water bubbling over pale stones. The mist pulled back as they rode, but the clouds pressed lower, a grey ceiling bearing down.
After an hour, a wind kicked up—sharp, high-pitched, cutting through cloaks and tunics as if they were paper. The Whistle.
Alar pulled his borrowed cloak tighter. The wool helped against the cold biting at his face and hands. But it couldn’t touch the ice lodged in his gut.
Nothing would.
He glanced back once—just once—to check everyone was following. His gaze skipped over Roth, just behind him. Over Bree and Cailean, and Annis, Ren, and Ruari hunched against the wind, and the Ravens riding in tight formation around Mor.
It found Lara.
She sat straight on Bracken’s bare back despite the cold, chin lifted, eyes fixed ahead. Not looking at him. Deliberately not looking at him.
Good.And itwasgood. It was what they both needed.
Alar turned back to the path ahead, shoulders squared, and led them deeper into the North.
“There are cries on the air.”
Lara’s hands froze mid-motion, a stick halfway to the flames. She looked up.
Bree stood motionless, head tilted back, eyes scanning the darkening sky. Her body had gone still—the hunter’s stillness that meant danger.
“The Slew?” Lara’s voice came out hoarse. She dropped the stick, her fingers flexing.
