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Casey takes my hand in his and squeezes, his own rare softness showing. “Whatever happens, wherever life takes us, ye’ll always have a place with us. Never doubt that.”

Before I can respond, Callan’s voice cuts through the moment. “Careful, Triona. If Casey gets any softer, we’ll need to pack him in straw so he doesn’t fall apart.”

Casey groans, his sincerity breaking. “Ach, Callan, can you not let a man have a moment?”

“Oh, aye, have yer moment. Jus dinnae ask us to call ye Saint Casey anytime soon.” Callan quips.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, I’d never let it go that far.”

Casey rolls his eyes. “And now the two of you have me thinkin’ I should’ve been an only child.”

The sound of our combined laughter fills the space, but then we sit in comfortable silence. Bran clears his throat, breaking the quiet. “All right, now that we’ve all had our sentimental moment, back to the book. We can all agree that Mary Shelley’s got a mighty unusual way with words, aye?”

I chuckle, tilting my head in curiosity. “How do you figure?”

Bran leans forward, his voice thoughtful. “Doc thinks he can play God, so he builds himself a monster and then blames it for everything wrong. The real villain isn’t the creature—it’s him. He’s less human than the monster itself.”

I nod, considering his perspective. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s about what it means to be human. To long for connection, for belonging. The creature’s desolation—that’s the real tragedy.”

Finn tilts his head, letting my words sink in. “Aye, desolation. It’s not just loneliness—it’s something deeper. A hollow that makes a person take what they want without carin’ for others.”

“Unmonitored power’s a dangerous beast. We’ve seen the destruction it brings,” I say, then glance around at them, my voice softening. “We know it all too well.”

Casey looks at me with an expression that conveys understanding—to pain lived and felt. “‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.’” He adds, with a deep mocking tone, quoting the book word for word.

I set my eyes upward, watching the stars flicker faintly against a velvet black. “They say power corrupts,” I murmur, “but I don’t believe that—not entirely. Power doesn’t change someone. It unveils them. Shows who they’ve been all along, buried beneath the quiet.”

Casey lets out a bitter laugh. “We’ve faced the worst of unchecked power—our land, our kin, our culture taken from us by those who saw us as nothin’.”

As the impact of Casey’s words settle, Callan cuts in, low and resolute.

“And that’s why we fight,” he mutters. Then he turns, his eyes locking onto mine, and there’s a fire in them, something fierce and unyielding. “One day, they’ll reap what they’ve sown.”

Words hang heavy in the air surrounding us, as promises etch themselves into the silence.

Callan glances ahead, then shifts his posture. I can tell that his body is just as tense as my own. “We should probably rest for the night,” he says.

Casey stretches with a sigh. With a laugh, he starts, “I cannae believe a woman—” he cuts himself off, all too aware of the blunder he was about to make.

“Casey Sinclair, why do I feel as if you were about to say something senseless?”

The look on his face is one of a guilty man. “I might’ve been about to say something senseless.”

“Possibly about, oh I don’t know, the gender of the novelist?” I cross my arms, awaiting his confession.

“Oh, what was that Callan? Did you need something?” Casey gestures towards Callan’s position near the deck’s railing and darts off.

Bran snorts, shaking his head as he watches Casey flee. “Aye, run while you can, Sinclair. That tongue of yours will be the death of you one day.”

With a chuckle, he pushes himself up. “Ah, might as well see what trouble they’re getting into. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or do,” he adds with a smirk.

Finn shoots him a look, unimpressed.

Bran just grins and winks before striding off to join Callan and Casey.

The boat rocks gently, the sounds of the night settling around me. My thoughts drift, tangled in the conversation’s weight, in the meaning of the stories we tell.

I don’t hear Finn move until he’s beside me. He lowers himself onto the bench, his presence steady and quiet. After a beat, he speaks. “Not headin’ to bed?”