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I open my mouth to respond, but Callan’s sharp voice cuts through the space before I can form words.

“Ye didnae think this was worth mentionin’?” His hands rake through his dark hair, frustration radiating off him like heat. “What else are ye hidin’?”

“I wasn’t hiding it!” I snap, my voice breaking. “I—I didn’t even know what it meant! I didn’t think—”

“You didnae think,” Callan interrupts bitterly, his voice dripping with anger. “That’s just it. Ye’ve got strangers in taverns and gods know who else comin’ to ye with riddles, and ye think it’s nothin’ worth sharin’? Should’ve told me the moment it happened!”

My face flushes with frustration. “I was still reeling from our parents’ deaths, Callan! It made no sense, and I didn’t want to worry anyone. Least of all you! At the time we hadn’t met a bloody feckin’ banshee, and you’ll have to excuse me if I’ve been a little muddle-brained since then!”

“That’s enough, Callan. You willnae speak to her in anger,” Finn says. Callan’s glare cuts toward Finn, and it looks as if he’s contemplating laying Finn out where he stands.

Amelia stands to walk to Callan. When she places a gentle hand on his arm, his posture seems to loosen.

“Settle, dear,” she says softly. “I know a rage grows inside your heart, but there is no enemy among you.”

Callan exhales sharply, clearly still brimming with restraint, but he gives her a tight nod.

Amelia turns her gaze to Finn. “Finn, please. Share what you heard.”

All eyes settle on him.

Finn hesitates, furrowing his brow. “How did you…”

“Amelia is a Pastseer,” Mannie supplies smoothly, his voice even and deliberate.

Finn’s jaw ticks, and suspicion flashes across his face as he shifts his gaze to Mannie. “Aye, and what about you? How would you know any of this? Why are you even here?”

But before Mannie can answer, I interject, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Wait—she talked to you too?”

Finn glances at me, still rattled. “Aye… though it was after Bran said she’d approached him at the door like a ramblin’ fool.”

Bran, sprawled like sin itself in a chair, lifts a lazy hand. “I said no such thing,” he retorts, tone lofty. “I said she was touched in the head. Big difference.” He pauses, then squints. “Though, in fairness, she was muttering about eyes meeting light, and time and... revelations, I think?”

He turns to the room at large, expression caught somewhere between bemused and deeply unnerved. “Are you actually suggesting that the batty maiden—appearing out of nowhere at a crumbling tavern in the middle of nowhere—has something to do with all this?”

Silence follows.

A charged, prickling silence.

Then Amelia, perfectly calm, sips her tea. “Not suggesting, love. Confirming.”

Finn’s brow furrows, and he tears his gaze from Bran to pin Mannie with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“I’ll ask again,” he snaps, voice low and dangerous. “How do you know any of this? And why in the seven hells are you here?”

Mannie’s eyes settle on Finn, steady and measuring. There’s no jest in his expression now, no trace of the playful irreverence he so often cloaks himself in. “I am what they call Sí uaisle—Noble Fae, in your modern tongue. My… ancestors have walked this earth longer than you can fathom. They have seen empires rise and crumble, their ashes scattering to winds that carry whispers of truths long forgotten. The threads of fate have woven a path that leads here—to you. This moment is no accident; it is the culmination of a purpose forged before your ancestors drew breath.”

Amelia steps forward, her voice soft but steady. “I owe you an apology,” she says, looking at each of us. “I should have told you more, but I thought easing you into this world might make it less overwhelming. I see now that withholding has only deepened your confusion and mistrust. Mannie and I have been aligned for longer than you can imagine. Trust that his presence here is no coincidence—it is necessary.”

Casey’s brow furrows, his frustration spilling into his voice. “What does that have to do with any of this? How does this help?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “The past weeks have been naught but chaos. We are struck repeatedly, without reason or sense, to guide us. Our world—it’s turned upside down, and now we are expected to simply abide this madness as if it were the natural order? Tell me, how.”

Mannie speaks, not truly acknowledging Casey’s questions directly. “A Pastseer peers deeply into what has come before. It is a gift of immeasurable potency, but one fraught with pain, for she carries the weight of choices made and unmade. Her insight arrives only after time is set in stone. Yet, despite this burden, Amelia carries it with a grace few could muster. To dismiss her insight is to dismiss the weapon history provides. Trust in what is spoken to you now,” Mannie says, his gaze briefly hardening as it falls upon Casey. “She has endured far worse than this inconvenience you so readily question.”

Casey, his jaw tightening, fires back quickly. “You expect us to shoulder it without question?”

Finn’s voice cuts through the tension. “It’s not her word we dinnae trust,” he asserts, his tone sharp. I place my hand in his, giving a reassuring squeeze. His gaze softens, steadied by my touch.