Page 114

The harbour is a hive of activity, bustling with sailors unloading cargo, shouting dockworkers, and the sharp tang of brine in the air.

Beneath the noise, beneath the movement, a suffocating unease lingers as the same thought loops in all our minds.

Did the others survive the journey?

We move through the throng, our urgency at odds with the ordinary bustle of the port. Each glance over a shoulder, each pause of hesitation, carries the weight of unasked questions. We make our way to the inn where we were told to meet Alex. The common room is noisy, filled with the hum of conversations and the clink of mugs. Bran wastes no time approaching the innkeeper, a stout man with a sharp eye for newcomers.

“We’re looking for Alex Mumford,” Bran says, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “He left word for us to meet him here.”

The innkeeper doesn’t answer right away. The world seems to slow, the din of the common room fading into a dull hum as we wait—each second stretching unbearably long. My breath catches in my throat, and though no one speaks, the weight of our shared fear presses down like a stone.

The innkeeper studies Bran, his expression unreadable, dragging the moment out further.

And then he exhales, leaning in slightly. “Mumford? Hmm, no’ sure,” he mutters. Then, quieter still, he recites: “Born in the West, yet I wander with ease…”

Bran hesitates, the faintest flicker of something—relief, maybe—crossing his face before he responds. “My laughter echoes on the salt-kissed seas.” His voice is sure, but there’s an edge to it. A warning not to play games with us.

The man grunts in approval. “Yer da’s gone. Left word wi’ the harbourmaster, he did.”

Bran exhales, nodding. “Thanks.”

We step out of the inn, the noise behind us doing nothing to drown out the frustration boiling in the group.

“Sweet shite on a biscuit.” Bran paces, as his mind seems to race ahead.

“He’s just gone?” Callan mutters, throwing his hands in the air.

Bran grunts. “Let’s go get answers before panicking.”

For the first time since we set foot in this harbour, something settles inside me—not entirely at peace, but steadier.

They made it.

That is all that matters right now.

We stride toward the harbourmaster’s office, but the man himself is barking orders at a group of dockworkers when Bran approaches. He stands tall, unaffected by the man’s sharp gaze. Their conversation is barely audible from where we wait.

“If ye’re here for a berth, ye’ll need to wait,” the man says to Bran, barely sparing him a glance.

“I’m not here for a berth,” Bran replies, his voice firm. “I’m looking for Alex Mumford. He left word for his son, Bran.”

The harbourmaster pauses, then looks him over. “He did, did he?” Then the man clears his throat and gets close to Bran’s ear. Bran produces a compass from his pocket, which seems to satisfy whatever question he’d asked.

“He left instructions,” the harbourmaster says, gesturing toward his office. “Covered transport for you lot, and anything ye’d have wi’ ye. Also, left coin to see you through. Gave little else, but he seemed to know what he was about.”

“Where did he go?” Bran presses.

“Ireland,” the harbourmaster replies, narrowing his eyes. “Said yer paths would cross soon enough.”

Bran’s jaw tightens, but he nods. The harbourmaster hands him a small pouch of coin and a folded note. “Here. He left this, too.”

Bran returns with the note. One with his name scrawled on the front.

His fingers tremble slightly as he unfolds the letter, but the moment his eyes scan the words, his entire body sags with relief. His chest rises and falls in a heavy exhale, the tension that had coiled in his shoulders finally breaking.

For a second, he just stares at the letter, his knuckles tightening around the edges as if anchoring himself to the words before him.

“They’re all alive. All and well.” His voice, though thick with emotion, carries the weight of absolute certainty.