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He draws nearer, and the chill seeps into my bones. The despair suffocating the land now coils around me. I want to run—to flee from the certainty of doom radiating from this wretched being—but my feet refuse to move. The weight of his presence roots me in place.

“Ready yourself, for I am the harbinger of what is yet to be—of a fate that cannot be stayed.”

The Glen is lost.

The unravelling has only just begun.

It has waited centuries to resurface, and now, nothing and no one will stop it.

Not this time.

I wake with a gasping scream, my body jolting upright as if wrenched from drowning. Cold sweat slicks my skin, the air thick, suffocating. My chest heaves, my ribs straining against the frantic rhythm of my breath. The nightmare isn’t gone—not fully. The phantom chill of it clings to me, curling like unseen chains tightening around my throat.

Before I can wrench myself free from its grip, heavy footfalls thunder outside my tent, followed by the frantic rustling of fabric. A heartbeat later, Casey and Callan burst inside, weapons drawn.

“Triona!” Casey barks, his voice sharp, cutting through the haze. His eyes—wild, frantic—sweep the dimly lit space, searching for a threat.

Callan, slightly more composed but no less tense, steps forward, his gaze locking onto mine with unnerving precision. “Nightmare?” His tone is calm, but his posture is rigid, his muscles coiled.

I try to speak, but the words lodge in my throat, trapped beneath the lingering weight of terror. My fingers clutch at the fabric over my chest as if I can physically hold myself together.

Tears blur my vision, hot and unwelcome. I hate this—hate the way my body betrays me, the way my breath shudders as I whisper, “It felt so real.”

My voice is hoarse, raw, the tremor in it betraying the depths of my fear.

Casey exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before lowering his blade. “A nightmare?” he echoes, but there’s no relief in his voice. “Sounded more like you were bein’ flayed alive.”

His words send another shiver racing down my spine. Because he isn’t wrong.

Casey hesitates, his expression shifting, softening—not enough to dull the worry etched into his brow, but enough that his voice drops a notch. “I can stay. Just until you fall back asleep.”

I want to refuse. The words are on the tip of my tongue, bitter and stubborn, but the silence waiting beyond them feels too vast, too dark, and too heavy.

I exhale slowly, hating the way my body craves the comfort I don’t want to need. Hating how the thought of being alone makes my skin crawl. The remnants of the nightmare coil around me still, cold and merciless.

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to speak past the shame curling in my gut. “Fine,” I mutter, reluctant, resigned. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Callan, watching me carefully, crosses his arms. His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

My stomach twists, and I hesitate. Then say, barely above a whisper, “No. But they’ve never been like this.”

I swallow hard, avoiding Callan’s piercing gaze. Because it isn’t the first time.

And deep down, I know—it won’t be the last.

4

Through the Gates of Connemara

Triona

Wednesday, 23 April 1823

Keiss, Scotland

When we reach the cliff’s edge along the road to our home, the day greets us with a bright, welcoming sun. Dawn breaks, and the first rays spill over the horizon, casting a much-needed warmth that settles softly around us. Despite the lingering chill in the wind, the sunlight stretches across the rugged terrain in golden beams, illuminating every curve of the landscape.

My grandfather, Taskill Sinclair, named the castle after my grandmother—his ‘Irish Gemstone’. Connemara is a well-known area in Ireland, celebrated for its beauty. According to my father, my grandfather often said no woman had ever been as strong or as beautiful as she had been. They loved each other fiercely. My parents have that same love. It is impossible to miss the way they look at each other across a crowded room, or how devoted my father is to my mother. One would hope that kind of gentlemanly comportment runs in the bloodline, though it has yet to manifest in either of my brothers.