They moved along the back passages the servants used, keeping to the darkness. Amelia led her through a narrow stairwell and out through a side door that opened onto the lee of the wall where the wind was quieter.
The night air struck Enya’s face like a slap. It was biting and sharp, clearing the fog of the keep but making her heart hammer against her ribs with a frantic, irregular rhythm. Enya felt the rough texture of the stone walls against her shoulder as they hugged the shadows. They reached the postern gate—the small, iron-bound door that bled out toward the forest.
Amelia stopped there, her hand gripping Enya’s sleeve so hard her fingers shook.
“Say it,” Amelia whispered, voice cracking. “Say ye’ll come back.”
Enya turned. In the moonlight, Amelia’s face was a mask of terror. Her mouth trembled, and her eyes were wide, searching Enya’s face for a promise that felt impossible to keep.
The shame Enya had felt earlier flared again, hot and stinging. She was leaving this girl to face whatever storm followed her disappearance.
“I’ll come back,” Enya said. She forced her voice to be level, a solid thing for Amelia to hold onto. “I’ll come back, Amelia. I promise.”
Amelia swallowed, nodding sharply as if trying to beat back her own panic. “I’ll wait. If ye’re nae back by?—”
“Dinnae,” Enya murmured. She reached out, her fingers catching Amelia’s chin. “Dinnae start countin’ minutes. Ye’ll drive yerself mad.”
Amelia let out a choked sound, a ghost of a laugh that died before it reached her lips. “As if I’m nae already.”
Enya squeezed her hand one last time—a brief, desperate contact—then slipped away into the dark.
The woods were a wall of cold, shifting black. Every snap of a twig sounded like a bone breaking; every rustle of the wind felt like a hand reaching for her cloak.
She kept her steps light, her heart a drum in her ears. Her hand stayed tucked beneath her cloak, her fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of a small knife. The cold steel was the only thing that felt real.
She stepped into the center of the clearing and waited, her breath hitching as the shadows began to move.
Finley arrived without subtlety, his boots thudding against the wet earth. His cloak was damp and heavy, dragging behind him. His eyes were bright with a feverish, restless light that made Enya’s skin crawl.
“There ye are,” he said. He sounded irritated, as if she were a servant who had kept him waiting in the rain. “I thought ye’d decided tae refuse me. I thought ye’d forgotten yer blood.”
The air in Enya’s chest turned to fire at the sound of his voice. Her anger surged so fast it blurred her vision, a hot, white-hot prickle behind her eyes.
“Ye sent a child,” she said. Her voice was low, vibrating with a raw, shaking fury that she couldn't suppress “How could ye, Finley? How could ye put that child in danger just tae deliver a message?”
Finley scoffed, as if she’d accused him of something ridiculous. “Danger,” he repeated, his mouth twisting. “He walked intae a castle wi’ a note. He didnae fight a war.”
She looked at him, the brother who used to shield her from the wind, but his face was different now. It was harder. Sharper. He looked like a man who had traded his heart for a cause, and it terrified her.
“He could have been stopped,” Enya snapped. She stepped closer towards him, her restraint finally snapping. “He could have been questioned. Punished.Killedfer carryin’ yer mark.”
Enya stared at him, her breath hitching. She waited for a flicker of regret, a shadow of the boy who used to share his bread with her. It never came.
“Sacrifices must be made,” Finley said briskly, as if he were discussing grain and cattle. “If ye dinnae understand that, then ye dinnae understand what we’re facin’.”
He is hollow. He thinks morality is a lamp he can simply blow out.
“We have tae stop,” Enya said. She forced the words out, making them precise. Making them final. “We have tae stop this, Finley.”
His eyes narrowed, the light in them turning sharp and dangerous. “Stop?”
“I went into his study. I read his ledgers. I saw the maps.” Enya watched his face sharpen, looking for a trace of the reason she knew he still had. “Harald is nae preparing for war. He is only protecting what is his. Lewis is nay a threat tae the Highlands.”
Finley stared at her for a long, agonizing beat. The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of everything they had survived together—and everything he was now throwing away.
Then his mouth curled in pure, unadulterated contempt. “And ye believe him?” he spat. “Ye think a few ink marks on parchment change what they are? They are wolves, Enya. They always have been.”
“I believe what I see with me own eyes!” Enya shot back. Her voice rose, thick with a conviction that terrified her. “There was nay ambition in those papers, Finley. Only care fer his people.”
