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He lingers just long enough for his words to take root, settling in the quiet between us. Then, with a heavy exhale, he steps back. The boards creak beneath his retreat, each step fading into the hush of the night, until only the rhythm of the waves remains.

My fingers curl tighter around the railing, my gaze fixed on the dark expanse ahead, where unspoken words sink beneath the endless tide.

Part 5 – The Path from Treachery

23

The Unexpected

Finn

Saturday, 31 May 1823

Port of Lisbon

The ship sways beneath us as the harbour comes into view, the scent of salt and citrus filling the air. Portugal is a feast for the senses even before we set foot on its soil. The city sprawls out before us, whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs gleaming under the afternoon sun. The gentle hum of life reaches us on the breeze—distant voices, the cries of seagulls, and the faint strum of a lute carried from somewhere unseen.

I grip the railing tighter, the warmth of the metal surprising after the chill of the voyage. The waves lap at the sides of the ship, their rhythm almost hypnotic. Triona stands a few feet away, the wind catching strands of her hair and tossing them around her face. She’s dressed simply—travel-worn but radiant in a way that seems unfair to the rest of us. I can’t look at her without feeling a pull in my chest, like the tides bending to the moon.

Her smile breaks through the haze of my thoughts when she glances back at me. “Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to help unload?” she teases, her accent thick with home, yet her voice feels at odds with the foreign shores.

Casey appears beside her, slinging an arm over her shoulder and ruffling her hair like a pup. She swats him off with a mock scowl, but her laughter bubbles up anyway, light and carefree.

“Ready to face what lies ahead, piuthar?”

The gangplank is lowered, and a cacophony of sounds greets us as the dockworkers shout instructions in rapid Portuguese. The language is a melody I don’t know the words to yet, but its rhythm is intoxicating. I follow the others off the ship, my boots landing on solid ground with a thud that reverberates up my legs. The sun feels different here, warmer, softer—like it kisses rather than scorches.

I look back, watching Triona as she takes it all in. Her lips part slightly, her expression one of awe. She’s always like this—open to every new experience, drinking in the world as if it might vanish tomorrow. She catches me staring, and I don’t look away this time.

“What?” she asks, tilting her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

“Nothing,” I say, though my chest feels full, like I’ve swallowed too much air. “Just… it suits you.”

She blinks, confused, then laughs softly. “Portugal?”

“No,” I reply, my voice lower, barely audible over the surrounding bustle. “The sun.”

Her smile falters for a moment, something flickering in her gaze, but she doesn’t press me. Instead, she reaches up and squeezes my arms before calling for Casey to help her with their bags. I watch her go, the space she leaves behind heavier than it should be.

The city waits for us, alive with possibilities. I pull my pack higher on my shoulder and follow.

As we wait for our herd to unload from the ship, I glance toward the others. Callan is busy haggling with a merchant, but Bran? He lingers at the edge of the group, arms crossed, staring at the water.

He’s been slipping away since last night. Distant. Tense.

Normally, he’d be right at Casey’s side, trading jokes or making some sarcastic remark, but now? He’s barely acknowledging anyone.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab Bran by the arm and pull him to the side. He yelps in protest, nearly dropping the pack slung over his shoulder.

“Mac, what’s your problem?” His voice is sharp, but the moment he sees my face, his expression shifts—something uneasy flickers behind his eyes.

“I need a word,” I say low enough that the others won’t hear. I glance over my shoulder, just to be sure. The last thing I want is for this conversation to turn into a spectacle.

Bran frowns, his usual smirk absent. “A word about what?”

I cross my arms, leaning closer. “Are we goin’ to talk about what happened last night?”

“We are not having this conversation,” he says, his voice clipped, “and we will never speak about it again.”