“Sit,mo chroí.”
She does. Smoothly. Gracefully. Like a queen taking her throne. Her hands rest in her lap. Her posture is perfect. Calm. Observant. The gold at her throat catches the light—O’Callaghan gold now, heavy with meaning. Her eyes move over the men not with hatred, but with assessment. As if she’s already decided how this ends and is merely waiting to see who deserves which version of it.
One of the men begins to shake. I step past her and begin to circle them. My boots echo softly on stone as I walk behind the first man, then the second. I say nothing. Silence does the work for me. It always has.
“They told us,” the third man croaks suddenly, voice cracking. “They told us you wouldn’t—”
I stop behind him. “Who,” I ask quietly, “isthey?”
He swallows hard. Róisín shifts in the chair. Just enough. The sound of iron creaking overhead fills the pause. I turn back toward her, resting a hand on the back of her chair as I lean in slightly, my voice low enough that it’s only for her.
“Do you hear it too?” I murmur. “The way lies always rush to the surface when the air gets thin.”
Her mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper.
“Aye,” she says softly. “They always sing before they break.”
I straighten and resume my slow circle, eyes fixed on the men as their fear deepens, their breathing ragged now. The truth is close. I can smell it.
I stop moving. Silence drops heavy and wet, broken only by the slow drip of water somewhere in the walls and the ragged breathing of men who know they’ve run out of time.
The oldest one lifts his head. He’s clever enough to know screaming won’t save him.
“It wasn’t meant to be the brother,” he says hoarsely. “It was meant to beboth of you.”
Róisín doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. I turn, slow as a blade being drawn.
“Go on,” I say quietly.
“The Keanes,” he spits, like the name burns his tongue. “They’ve been laying the groundwork since you were kids. Since ye were sneaking off to chapels and thinking love made ye untouchable.”
That earns him my full attention.
“They said you were the cracks,” he continues, voice trembling now. “The soft spots. Malloy’s girl with her violin. O’Callaghan’s heir chasing ghosts instead of power. Two legacies tied together by sentiment instead of sense.”
Róisín exhales through her nose. A controlled thing.
“They thought if you both died,” the man says, “the families would fracture. Turn inward. Fight each other. Keanes would move in, take land, routes, ports. Clean. Quiet. No kings left to stop them.”
I laugh. It’s not loud. It’s worse than that.
“So they used the chapel,” I say. “Used our history. Used her brother to make it believable.”
“Aye,” he whispers. “Ciaran wasn’t the target. He was collateral.”
Something shifts beside me. Not rage. Focus. Róisín rises from the chair. The men flinch as she approaches, her steps unhurried, silk whispering against stone. She stops in front of the speaker, tilts her head slightly.
“All that planning,” she says softly. “All those years.” She reaches up and wipes a smear of blood from his cheek with her thumb, like a lover might. “And ye still underestimated me.”
I don’t stop her. That’s the first mercy I give her.
She steps forward, silk whispering against stone, the sound somehow louder than the men’s breathing, louder than the chains. The knife is already in her hand—herblade, the one she’s carried since girlhood, the one that learned her pulse before it ever tasted blood.
I move back. Just one step. Enough to give her the room she deserves. The first man tries to speak. It’s a mistake. She doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t snarl or scream or sob. She circles him the way a violinist circles a piece she knows too well—counting beats, listening for the weakness.
“You remember my brother?” she asks softly.
The man shakes his head too quickly. She smiles. The knife goes in low, not deep—just enough to make him scream, just enough to remind him that pain is a language she’s fluent in.
