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A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes me, my limbs suddenly weak with the sheer force of relief. Finn lets out a quiet exhale beside me, and Callan rolls his shoulders, the tightness in his expression easing—but only slightly.

Bran lifts the letter slightly, his grip firm. “My father did indeed leave for Ireland. It doesn’t say why, but I know he wouldn’t make an unnecessary decision.” His expression hardens, his voice steady, decisive. “But this changes nothing for us. We still need to forge forward. Our destination remains the same—we continue to Portugal.”

Callan’s eyes narrow. “That’s it? He just left?”

“Do we even know it’s really from Alex?” I ask, stepping closer. “This could be a trap for all we know—anyone leaving us a message.”

Bran doesn’t flinch under the barrage of questions. Instead, he lifts the note, scanning it carefully. “He’ll have left something. Something only I can find.”

“And if that’s not the case?” Callan presses.

Bran doesn’t answer. He walks to the edge of the dock where the sunlight is strongest and holds the note up to the light. For a moment, it looks like an ordinary scrap of paper, but as I step closer, I make out a faint wolf’s head, its features sharp. Beneath it, four words glow faintly in the sunlight:

We endure, we prevail.

Bran exhales softly, folding the note with care. “That’s his mark. It’s him.”

Silence settles over the group, thick and uncertain. Callan crosses his arms, his expression hard. “And we’re just supposed to trust this?”

Bran turns to Finn suddenly, his gaze steady and direct. “Do you trust my judgment on this?”

Without hesitation, Finn meets his eyes and nods. “Aye, I do.”

Bran’s shoulders relax slightly, and he looks at us. “Then we trust the plan. My father has never let me down before, and he’s not about to start now.”

Callan mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t argue further.

Casey sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “All right. We trust the plan. We’ll stay the course. I trust you too, Bran.” Casey gives him the faintest smile, which Bran returns in kind.

We settle into the corner of the dock, waiting for the next steps. Bran stands a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his hand absentmindedly brushing the note in his coat. The tension lingers, thick and heavy, despite the despite the assurances laid before us.

I sit on a crate nearby, elbows on my knees, head lowered. Finally, I break the silence, voice low and trembling with frustration. “I’m trying so hard to push forward, but I don’t know how much blind faith I have left in me.”

To my surprise, it’s Bran that crouches in front of me.

“I feel it too,” he says, his voice low but fierce. “The uncertainty and doubt clawing at the back of my mind. Wanting something solid when all we’ve got are whispers and shadows. I’ve never been so torn in my life.”

He continues. “What matters now is that we keep stepping, even though it feels as if the ground could fall away at any moment.”

All that I find when I look at him is steadfast sincerity.

“You’ve been through fire before, and you came out stronger,” he continues. “We all see it. And I know we’ll see it again.”

His words hit something deep, cracking the wall I’d built around my frustration. A reluctant smile pulls at my lips, and I let out a shaky laugh. “Who could resist feeling better after that?”

Bran grins, standing and offering me a hand. “Now get up. We’ve got a long road ahead, and I’d rather not face it without your sharp tongue keeping us all in line.”

I take his hand, and he holds mine as he says, “We endure, we prevail.”

I loop my arm through his and repeat his words with quiet conviction. “We endure, we prevail.”

With that, we turn toward the brigantine moored at the dock. The ship is smaller than I expected but sleek and sturdy, its masts stretching skyward like black spires. The name Bán Sídhe is painted in bold letters along its bow. One by one, we load up, horses included, the creak of wood and the rhythmic thud of hooves filling the air.

Curiosity gets the better of me as I approach a deckhand near the gangway. “Excuse me, sir. What does the name of the boat mean?”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Sir, is it? Ah, that’s rich. Ye hopin’ a bit o’ sweet talk’ll get ye far? We’re crammed on this floatin’ tub for a good stretch—plenty o’ time to learn how to handle a man proper, if ye’ve the nerve for it.”

I blink at him, my lips parting in disbelief before settling into a firm, unimpressed line. My brows lift just enough to convey silent exasperation—the same look a mother gives a child when they find themselves toeing the line of trouble.