Magnus and Erik stood near the hearth with Harald, flanked by the towering, silent presence of Ragnar and the restless energy of Ivar. There were no long speeches—only the firm, heavy thud of hands on shoulders, a language of men who had seen the worst of each other and survived it.
"Ye’ve a good woman there, Alvsson," Magnus rumbled, his voice low and sincere. He glanced toward Enya with a nod of genuine respect. "And a solid keep. Keep the fires burning. We'll be back before the first snows o’ winter."
Erik nodded, his usual grin replaced by a look of hard-won gravity. "The islands are quiet today, braither. Let’s keep them that way. Though if ye get bored o' the peace, ye ken where tae find me."
Ragnar stepped forward next. He didn't speak at first, his pale eyes fixed on Harald with a steady, unblinking intensity. He reached out and gripped Harald’s forearm, his hand like a stone vice. "The north remembers its debts, Harald," he said, his voice a deep, tectonic rasp. "If men come wi’ more than just silk and wax... send word. Uist will answer."
Ivar let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, clapping Harald on the shoulder with enough force to rattle a lesser man's teeth. "And if they dinnae come, I’ll come back anyway just tae see if this Cameron firebrand has finally managed tae singe that beard o' yers off. Drink well, Alvsson. Ye’ve earned a rest."
Harald gripped their forearms in turn, his jaw still tight from the morning’s insult, but his eyes were clear and burning with a fierce, quiet pride. "Safe roads tae ye all," he rumbled, his voice thick with the weight of the moment. "Me gates are always open tae the men who stood by me when the mists were thickest. Ye are blood tae me."
Enya watched them, feeling a strange, bittersweet tug at her heart. She hadn't realized until this moment how much she had come to enjoy on the presence of those people—the only people who hadn't looked at her as a curse.
Claricia approached her first, looking as lethal and elegant as ever, even in her travel cloak.
"Safe travels, Claricia," Enya said, her voice steady. A small, dry smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I trust the road will be kinder tae yer carriage than yer son has been tae these stone walls. I’m fairly certain he was attemptin' tae summon the ancestors with that set o’ lungs."
Claricia gave a startled, watery laugh, her eyes softening in a way that bypassed Enya's armor. "Ye’ve a sharp tongue, Enya. See that ye use it tae keep that mountain o’ a man in line. He needs a flame tae keep him from turning tae stone." She leaned in, her voice a mere whisper. "I am glad it is ye, Enya. Truly."
Ada stepped forward next, her expression uncharacteristically gentle. She didn't offer a polite curtsy; she simply reached out and caught Enya’s hand, her fingers grazing Enya’s palm in a quick, warm squeeze that felt like a lifeline.
"Dinnae let the Crown settle too cold on yer heart today, lass," Ada murmured, her gaze piercing. "The rag they took means naething. What ye gave him... that belongs tae nay king."
Enya swallowed hard, her throat tightening until it ached. "Thank ye, Ada. Fer... everything."
Ada smiled, a knowing, motherly look, before turning to Harald. She gave him a curt, respectful nod. "Look after her, Norseman."
Harald actually offered a ghost of a smile, bowing his head. "She's the heart o' this keep, Ada. I'd die before I let her catch a chill."
As the last of the horses disappeared through the iron gates and the heavy thud of the portcullis echoed through the yard, the keep fell into a sudden, ringing silence.
Harald stepped up behind her, his presence a solid, warm shadow. He looked out at the empty courtyard, his jaw still tight with the remnants of the fury he’d held back for her sake.
"They're gone," he said softly, his voice a low vibration that usually calmed her.
"Aye," Enya replied, her gaze fixed on the empty gateway where the dust still settled. "They’re gone. And now we see what’s left."
Harald turned toward her, his dark eyes searching hers, filled with a raw, bleeding apology for the morning’s violation. He reached out and stroked her cheekbone with a tenderness
"I have tae go," he murmured, his tone shifting back to pragmatic grit. "I must check the perimeter guards and settle the accounts fer the feast. The men need tae see their laird after such an... emotional morning." He paused, his hand hovering near her shoulder as if he wanted to pull her back into the sanctuary of his chest and never let go. "Will ye be alright, Enya?"
Enya lifted her chin, the dry humor returning to her like a dented shield. "I’ve survived me broaiher’s knives and a king’senvoy who smells like a florist’s stand. I can manage a quiet keep wi’out trippin' over me own skirts. Go. Dae yer laird duties and we will see each other later."
He didn't smile, but his gaze softened for a heartbeat. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and strode toward the armory, his heavy boots echoing against the stone like a countdown.
The silence Harald left behind didn't just feel cold; it felt accusatory. Enya stood in the center of the vast, emptying hall, her breath hitching in the sudden, crushing stillness.
The guilt hit her then, a physical blow to the stomach that left her reeling. Her mind became a jagged whirl of the previous night—the way Harald’s hands had trembled with a reverence she didn’t deserve, the way he had looked at her as if she were a holy thing, a light to guide him home.
And all the while, the secret of her original purpose—the maps she’d memorized, the secrets she was meant to steal for Finley—sat like shards of glass in her marrow.
She was a fox that had been welcomed into the den, only to measure the height of the walls for the hounds. Every time his heart had beaten against hers the night before, it had been a reminder of the woman he thought she was, and the traitor she had been sent to be.
The weight of it was suffocating. Every kind word Harald had spoken, every protective glance he had leveled at the envoy to shield her honor, was a debt she had paid in the currency of lies. She wasn't a cursed bride anymore; she was a thief of a good man's heart, and the cost of the theft was starting to burn her alive.
"Me lady?" Amelia’s voice was soft, breaking through the static of her spiraling thoughts.
Enya turned, her eyes wide and slightly wild, to see Amelia standing by the arched entrance to the kitchens. The girl’s hands were twisted tight in her apron, her face etched with a mixture of worry and that quiet, unbearable reverence.
