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He exhales heavily, setting his blade and whetstone aside.

For a moment, I think he might brush me off, but then he looks at me, really looks at me. Something in his expression shifts—an older brother’s love mingled with reluctant acceptance.

“There’s no sane way to say it—in fact, that it’s a truth is something I’m still sortin’ through,” he begins, running a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the trees as if searching for the right words.

“It’s not uncommon for families like ours—families tied to the old ways—to attract… protectors. Guardians of a sort.”

“Protectors?”

“Banshees,” he says bluntly, watching my reaction. “Spirits drawn to families—especially bloodlines with daughters. They’re not just harbingers of death, like the stories say. They watch over us, protect us—especially the women—from horrors they themselves endured when they were alive…”

A chill races down my spine. “And you think… one of them is protecting me?”

“I dinnae think, lass. I ken.” His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “I was told long ago that Sinclairs never walk alone in the darkness. Even if we dinnae see them, guardians linger. They’re there, in the shadows, tied to us in ways we cannae hope to understand.”

“Who told you that?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

Callan hesitates. “Triona—” he starts.

A bark of laughter snaps the tension like a whip.

“Ach, you’re havin’ a laugh,” Casey says, shaking his head as he strides closer. “So we’ve got a family banshee now? Hauntin’ us, but bein’ downright civil about it?”

Bran flicks a pebble into the stream. “Sounds like the start of a bedtime story gone wrong. ‘Once upon a time, your ancestors were so tragically tortured that the spirits belonging to the great beyond stuck around.’”

Callan rounds on them. “It’s no jest, ye daft bastards. I’m tellin’ ye what’s real.”

Bran raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying it sounds like something out of a fairytale. Banshees lurking around like some sort of spiritual escorts?”

“It might not make sense to you two eejits,” Callan snaps, “Seein’ as ye’ve been too far up each other’s arses to see what’s happenin’ around you. But Triona’s healin’ ability doesnae make much sense either, now does it?”

That shuts them up. Casey’s smirk fades. Bran’s humour dims to curiosity.

Casey crosses his arms. “All right. So how would you know all of this?”

“Because I was told,” Callan growls. “Years ago. By someone who knew more about this sort of thing than ye ever will.”

Bran tilts his head. “By who? A wise old mystic? A local seer? Someone drunk off his tits at the pub?”

“By someone who cared if we lived,” Callan snaps.

Casey steps forward. “Say it’s all true. How—”

“Enough!” I snap, my voice cracking as I cut him off.

They all freeze, playful banter fading as I glare at Bran and Casey.

“I saw her.” The words tremble out of me. “I saw her. So whether you believe in banshees or ghost stories or bloodline curses… I’m telling you. She’s real.” I pause, swallowing hard.

“They almost… if I’d been held down a minute longer…” I trail off. My throat tightens, the memory searing.

As if summoned, Finn steps into the clearing. His presence steadies me, and when words fail, he speaks for me.

“They were gonna force themselves on her,” Finn says, his voice low and cold. “And I watched as they were torn limb from limb. So I dinnae care what it was, but I’m damn grateful for its arrival. I’ll be thankin’ it every night I draw breath.”

Silence chokes the clearing.

Even Bran doesn’t have a quip. Casey’s expression twists with shame and something deeper—fear, maybe.