"Easy, lass," Moira murmured. "Just a bit further."
The castle interior was warmer, but not by much. Stone walls rose around them, torches casting flickering shadows that made everything seem strange and unfamiliar.
Enya followed Moira through a maze of corridors, Amelia close at her side, very aware of the servants they passed and the way conversations stopped when they approached.
They were almost to the guest chamber when Harald appeared behind them.
Enya stopped so abruptly that Amelia nearly crashed into her.
"Lady Cameron." Harald's gaze swept over her—assessing, she thought, checking for injuries. "I wanted tae make certain ye had everythin' ye needed."
"Why are they starin'?" The question burst out before Enya could stop it. "Yer people. They keep lookin' at me like... like I'm somethin' tae be afraid of."
Harald's expression shifted—something that might have been regret crossing his features. He glanced at Moira, who immediately took Amelia's arm.
"Come, lass," the older woman said gently. "Let's get that chamber ready, aye?"
Amelia looked like she wanted to protest, but Enya gave her a small nod. Once they'd disappeared around the corner, she turned back to Harald.
"Well?" she demanded. "Are ye goin' to tell me, or am I meant tae guess?"
"It's yer eyes." Harald said it plainly, without hesitation. "They mean something... in Norse belief."
"Ye mean cursed." Enya's voice was flat. "Everyone thinks they're cursed. I ken that already."
"Nae cursed. Marked." Harald stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The Norse believe that certain people are touched by the Norns, the weavers of fate. Women who decide who lives, who dies, when and how. They're the most feared beings in our stories, more than any god or monster."
Enya's throat was tight. "And ye think I'm touched by them."
"I think that tae people who grew up with those stories, yer eyes mean somethin'." Harald's gaze held hers steadily. "To them, ye're marked by powers that bring death and ruin. Chosen by fate itself."
"That's..." Enya didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it more ridiculous than believin' ye're touched by the devil? Or cursed by God?" Harald's expression was unreadable. "Different people, different fears. Same outcome."
He was right. Saints, he was right, and that made it worse somehow. She'd spent her whole life fleeing one superstition only to walk straight into another.
"So yer people are afraid of me," Enya said quietly.
"Some of them, aye. For now." Harald's voice softened slightly. "But fear will fade when people get tae ken ye. When they see ye're just a woman, nae a weapon of fate."
"Just a woman with devil's eyes."
"Just a woman with unusual eyes," Harald corrected. "There's a difference."
Enya wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that maybe here, on this island full of people who didn't know her history, she could be something other than the cursed Cameron lass.
But she'd tried that before. It had never worked.
"Ye should rest," Harald said, stepping back. "Get warm. We can speak more later, after ye've recovered."
"Thank ye."
“Ye’re welcome lass.” Harald's gaze lingered on her face—on the cut along her jaw, the bruise forming beneath it. "The healer will come tae ye. That needs tendin'."
"It's just a scratch."
"It's nae a scratch. And I'll nae have ye sufferin' when there's help to be had." Harald's voice was firm. "Let the healer see tae it, Enya."
