Page 26

Eyeing him skeptically, I say, “What are you really out here for?”

He grunts, his eyes narrowing with a hint of a smile. “Aye, well. Got something for ye.” He nods toward the back of our home. “Come on, follow along.”

I hurry after him, struggling to match his long, purposeful strides. James Sinclair moves with a determination that makes everyone else appear sluggish. His legs eat up the ground with ease, each step covering what takes me two. I nearly jog to keep pace beside him.

“Slow down, Da. What’s the hurry?” I call breathless, though I know better than to expect him to. When he sets his mind to something, nothing—least of all his daughter’s slow strides—will stand in his way.

“We have much to do today,” he asserts, glancing back with a grin. “I’m excited for ye to see what I have for ye.”

The inside of the small stone room always smells heavily of worn leather and oil, not dis-pleasant, but not distinctly enjoyable. My father moves toward a bench where a large bundle, wrapped in cloth, rests. My heart gives a strange flutter as he picks it up and holds it out to me.

“Go on, lass,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Open it.”

I hesitate before reaching for the parcel. I peel back the carefully wrapped layers, and the moment I see what’s inside, something warm and wild unfurls in my chest.

It’s a set of deep red fighting leathers, so dark they might as well be black in the right light. They’re reinforced at the shoulders and waist.

Intricate stitching traces subtle patterns across the surface, not ostentatious, but deliberate. No unnecessary flourishes, just clean, careful craftsmanship. Made to protect. Built to move.

Every detail speaks of care and intention. Made with great purpose.

Made for me.

“Da…” The word barely makes it past my lips, thick with the emotion tightening my throat.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I appreciate this,” I say, my voice hardly above a whisper. “These are—”

I clear my throat, trying to think of something to say, but my mind comes up empty. Instead, I look up at him, lips parted, utterly lost for words.

“Well,” I finally manage, “you’ve gone and rendered me speechless. Mark the day.”

He lets out a gruff chuckle, the pride in his eyes unmistakable. “Nary a need for words, mo nighean bheag. Jus keep trainin’, keep gettin’ stronger. That’s all I’ll ever need. I need to ken ye’ll care for yerself when I’m no longer around to do it.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and something in the way he says it shifts the mood slightly.

“You’re not going anywhere, Da.” I lift my chin stubbornly. “I’ll have you forever.”

Before he can respond, Casey shows up, effectively ending the conversation.

“I’d like to get on with it, if that’s all right by you, piuthar.”

My father nods toward the door. “Well then,” he says, stepping back with a spark of mischief in his eyes, “get on. Let’s see if ye can defeat those trows and put yer auld man on his arse, aye?”

The training yard is awash in golden light from the early morning sun, casting long shadows over the worn ground beneath our feet. The space, bordered by weathered wooden posts, holds the marks of countless skirmishes, each one etched into the earth.

I step toward Callan, who stands tall in his familiar leathers, practice sword resting easily in his grip. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze sweeping over me with appraising amusement.

“Think the new gear will give ye an edge in trainin’, eh?” he taunts, his eyes gleaming with challenge.

“You’re unusually chipper today,” I counter, rolling my shoulders as I shake out my limbs.

Today carries a different weight. A thread of unease has wound itself through me since dawn. The remnants of my restless night still cling to my skin, and echoes of that dream I can’t quite shake whisper at the edges of my mind, but I refuse to let it weaken me.

Instead, I seize that unease, forging it into something sharp, something I can wield. If my body hums with restless energy, I’ll make it my strength. If my thoughts refuse to quiet, I’ll carve them into every strike, every movement.

Whatever haunts me will not own me.

My father and Casey take position at the edge of the training yard, eyes brimming with amusement.