“I daenae ken what he’ll be like as a faither,” Lydia continued, her voice barely above the storm. “I daenae even ken if he sent me away to protect me and the bairn or if he…”
She hesitated, the words refusing to be spoken aloud.
“What, Lydia?” asked Iris, gently urging her.
“If he doesnae even want to be a faither,” Lydia mumbled. “If he sent me away because he wants to rid himself of me and the bairn.”
Her eyes burned though she refused to let tears fall.
Iris held her hand in a vice grip, forcing Lydia to look at her. “Come now. Daenae think like this. I’m sure he did it to protect ye.”
“I daenae ken. I was so angry,” Lydia admitted. “I still am. But every time the thunder sounds, I think of him ridin’ through this storm. And I hate that I still worry.”
Iris leaned in, resting her forehead briefly against Lydia’s temple.
“That doesnae make ye weak,” she said. “It makes ye human.”
A particularly fierce gust of wind howled outside, forcing both sisters to flinch. The fire in the hearth popped and hissed, throwing sparks upward before settling again.
“What if they’re hurt?” Lydia asked. “What if Elijah?—”
“He willnae be,” Iris said firmly. “And neither will Kieran. They’re both too stubborn to die in a storm.”
That earned a small, breathy laugh from Lydia.
“Ye always ken what to say.”
Iris smiled softly, giving her a small nod. “Only when it matters.”
They sat together then, their shoulders touching, listening to the storm rage itself hoarse against stone and sky. The waiting was unbearable, each second stretched thin with fear, but there was comfort, too, in their shared warmth, in the quiet strength of their sisterhood.
Lydia closed her eyes and breathed, slow and careful.
“If she’s a lassie, I hope she’s like ye,” she said quietly, and Iris patted her shoulder gently, her breath soft against Lydia’s crown.
And if he’s a laddie, I hope he’s like his faither.
The storm showed no mercy.
Rain battered the temporary camp in relentless sheets, turning the ground under their boots into sucking mud and the air into something thick enough to choke on. The wind tore at canvas and cloaks alike, snapping ropes taut and carrying the sharp scent of wet iron and smoke through the trees. Torches hissed and flickered despite the men’s best efforts, their light bending and shuddering as if afraid.
Kieran did not sit. He paced back and forth along the edge of the camp, his boots sinking into the mud, his cloak thrown back as though the rain itself were an insult he refused to acknowledge. His hands flexed repeatedly at his sides, fingers curling as ifthey sought the familiar weight of a sword hilt—something solid, something he could put to good use.
Waiting was worse than battle.
“She’ll be terrified,” he mumbled, more to the storm than to anyone else. “And I’m here, standin’ still.”
Elijah watched him from beside the largest fire, his arms crossed, his expression grim but patient. He had dismissed most of his men to their tents, keeping only a small watch posted. There was nothing to be done in weather like this, and every commander there knew it.
Kieran reached the edge of the camp again, spun on his heel, and started back.
“I’m ridin’ out,” he said abruptly.
Elijah straightened. “Nay, ye’re nae.”
Kieran didn’t even slow. “I’ve ridden through worse.”
“And buried men who thought the same,” Elijah shot back.
