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“Stop,” Ailsa murmured to Darach.
He held up a hand, signaling to the others to halt, and drew Rùn up.
A pause followed before he gently asked, “Did you know her?”
“Aye.” Ailsa’s gaze never left the cage and the remains of the woman who’d helped her all those turns of the moon ago. “Her name was Nenia. She was one of your brother’s sacrificers … until he became convinced she was Lara’s spy and sentenced her to death.”
He tensed against her.
“I only spoke to her briefly … on the night I left Braewall,” Ailsa added, “but I always hoped that, somehow, she’d survived.”
Heaviness settled in the center of her chest. It had been a vain hope, yet she’d clung to it, all the same.
Moments passed, and when Darach answered, his voice held a hard edge. “This will be the last person you’ll ever see die this way in Braewall.” He then twisted in the saddle, beckoning to a warrior. “Cut that cage down and see that the woman inside it is given a proper burial pyre.”
“Aye, sire,” the man replied without hesitation.
Reaching forward, Ailsa placed her hand over his. “Thank you.”
He turned his head slightly, giving her his profile. His expression was unusually stern. “My brother has left a scar upon this fort,” he answered. “One that’ll take time to heal.”
“It will though.” Her fingers tightened over his. “Now you’re home.”
They rode into the fort itself under a stone archway. The gates had been drawn open to admit them, and the warriors guarding them bowed low as Darach rode by.
In return, he nodded to them.
They crossed the market ground and made their way up onto the wide road that curled its way up to the broch. After spending time in Duncrag, Braewall seemed much more compact than Ailsa remembered.
And as they rode up the hill, past the narrow wynds of The Reek, something tightened in her chest. Aye, it felt surprisingly good to be home. For years, this place had suffocated her, yet she was a different person now. She’d seen the world beyond these walls, and it gave her a new appreciation for Braewall.
She hadn’t always felt welcome here, yet she knew its wynds and vennels like the lines upon her palm. She appreciated its beauty and how it changed with the turn of the seasons. And now that Niall was dead, the southern capital could breathe once more.
She spied a familiar face in the crowd then: a fair-haired woman who ran one of the busiest ale-halls in The Reek was elbowing her way forward.
However, she wasn’t looking at Ailsa but at the woman who rode next to her. “Kayla!”
The tattooist’s gaze snapped her way, a smile splitting her face. “Lilias.”
Their gazes held, the moment stretching out before Lilias’s cheeks went a charming shade of pink.
Kayla didn’t miss her reaction, and her smile softened. Her hazel eyes hooded slightly. “I’ll be down to see you later.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Aye.”
Ailsa’s lips curved as she watched them. Finally—Kayla was going to give Lilias the attention she deserved.
They continued up the road. A few yards on, Ailsa recognized more faces.
Lewis was there, wearing his smith’s apron, soot smearing his arms.
He’d just emerged from the forge. His friends were with him: Rabbie, Una, and the others.
Most of the crowd was focused on Darach, but not this group.
They’d be wondering what she was doing riding with the new king of Braewall, her arms wrapped around his waist.
