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“Aye,” I say, and it’s all I can manage.

Because I lost more than Finn.

I lost the last part of me that believed I can keep anyone safe.

It’s easier to focus on her pain than face the truth of my failure—facing the fact that I let my greatest friend walk into death’s arms. It doesn’t matter that he chose it. I’ll always believe I should have fought harder. Should have done more.

“I don’t hate you.” She admits, her words a quiet vow amidst the storm of her emotions.

“I ken that, too.” I answer, wishing I could offer more comfort. There are no words to fix this, no way to make her feel whole again.

For now, all I can do is help her survive this. To convince her to finish what was set in motion. To keep moving. To make his sacrifice count. To live for others when she feels too beaten to live for herself.

One breath at a time. One heartbeat after another.

She believes she is lost forever. But I have seen her rise from ruin before. And when she stands again—

Gods help anyone who tries to stop her.

40

Upon the Ivory Seat, She Reigns

Callan

Tuesday, 24 June 1823

County Meath, Ireland

Formerly Province of Mide: Seat of the High Kings

The cottage feels like a tomb, its walls pressing in with the weight of everything left unsaid. The Stone of Fál sits in my pack now, its light muted but constant, like a heartbeat I can’t escape. The faint hum of its power fills the silence between us, an unwelcome reminder of what has been lost to bring it here.

Triona is seated on the floor, her back against the cracked wooden wall, her knees drawn to her chest. Her hands tremble as she grips the edges of her sleeves, the movement subtle but telling.

I kneel a few paces from her, close enough to offer support but not so near as to crowd her. “Tri,” I begin softly, “we cannae stay here.”

Her fingers tighten until her knuckles turn white. Her gaze doesn’t waver from the splintered floorboards beneath her.

“Let them come. Let them see what it means to stand against someone who has nothing left to lose.”

I freeze, my hand falling from the hilt of my sword. My head snaps toward her, and I know my eyes are blazing. “Dinnae be daft, Triona.”

Her glare hardens. “Daft? For wanting to stop running? For standing up for myself?” Her voice rises, echoing in the enclosed space. “You think I should just keep running forever? That I should keep cowering while they destroy everything? The only thing we haven’t tried is to stop running and fight back.”

I move closer, my towering frame casting her in shadow, my expression thunderous. “Aye, if it keeps ye alive, I do. I’m not about to let ye throw yerself into the wolves’ den because ye’re too bloody stubborn to listen.”

She screams and turns to meet my heated gaze. “You think this is about being stubborn? I want their blood, Callan!” Her shout echoes through the enclosed space, and for a fleeting moment, I swear I see the colour of her eyes change.

I grip the hilt of my sword tighter, my voice cutting through the air like steel. “Wantin’ their blood willnae bring back what ye’ve lost, Triona.”

“You think I haven’t felt the weight of it every second since I opened my eyes?” she shoots back, her voice shaking.

I move closer still, my voice dropping to a dangerous, biting growl. “Then act like it, Triona. Being angry doesnae make ye invincible. And if ye die because of some daft need to prove yerself, the rest of us die with ye. Think that’s strength? That’s not fightin’ back—that’s surrenderin’ to the anger they’ve already put inside.”

I take a deep breath in and wait a beat before speaking again.

“Where is this comin’ from, Triona?”