Page 27

Callan shifts ahead, flexing his fingers around the hilt of his practice sword, the smirk tugging at his lips as infuriating as ever. “Ready, Triona?” His voice carries that familiar edge—low, taunting, meant to unnerve me.

“Aye,” I reply, gripping my practice sword tighter.

Our father raises his hand, signaling us to take our stances. The moment his hand falls, the air between us tightens—but neither of us moves.

Callan’s eyes gleam with confidence, the way they always do when he knows he has the upper hand. He doesn’t just expect to win—he expects to remind me how easily he can overpower me. He delays the opening strike, savouring my restlessness, just to show me how quickly he can end it all.

This is the calm before a storm on open waters. But today, I won’t brace for collision.

I will welcome it.

Callan lunges, as relentless as a mountain stream carving its path through stone. His weapon crashes against mine, the force rattling through my bones, but I refuse to falter. I meet him strike for strike, each movement fuelled by determination—parrying, ducking, and driving forward instead of giving ground.

My new leathers creak under the strain of movement; a constant reminder of my resolve to win. The air shifts as more onlookers gather, drawn by the clash of wood on wood, eager to see how long it takes before Callan bests me.

My heart pounds hard in my chest as I parry each blow, my movements growing sluggish under his relentless assault. But then, something shifts within me, a spark ignites and flares bright against the uncertainty within me. I draw a deep, steadying breath, as if drawing strength from the very ground beneath my boots.

Callan’s grin falters, his narrowed eyes sharpening with something new—assessing, calculating. He expected this to be over by now, expected me to buckle under his force. But I haven’t. And now, the tide shifts.

He moves in again, swift, ruthless—but this time, I let agility overcome strength.

I pivot, slipping just out of reach, using his own momentum against him. With a sudden burst of movement, I strike first. The flat of my sword connects solidly with his ribs, sending him stumbling. A sharp intake of breath ripples through the crowd, the silence breaking into murmurs of disbelief.

And then—the perfect opening.

Callan overextends his reach. His balance shifts, the slightest miscalculation. In a breath, I twist my body, instinct taking the reins. Defying every expectation—including my own—I channel all of my strength into a final decisive strike. My sword swings upward, connecting with Callan’s flank.

He crashes to the ground, dust kicking up around him, the wind knocked clean from his chest. For a beat, no one moves. The silence stretches, thick with disbelief—before it shatters.

Cheers erupt around us, jeers and whoops filling the air.

My breath comes hard and fast as I look down at my brother, his stunned expression a perfect mirror of the gathered onlookers. He blinks up at me, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His fingers press into the dirt, bracing himself as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

The impossible just happened.

Victory tastes as sweet as the fight itself.

Casey saunters to my side, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. “The sight of the formidable Callan Sinclair, vanquished by our dear sister,” he quips, barely holding back a grin. “Our wee Triona outmatchin’ you—a man twice her size!”

I roll my eyes, dusting off my leathers. “I wouldn’t say he’s that big.”

Casey chuckles, nudging Callan with the toe of his boot as our father extends a hand to pull him up. Callan grips it, his movements slower than usual, as if still reeling from what just happened. He dusts himself off, but when his gaze lifts to meet our father’s, something shifts in the space between them.

They don’t speak—don’t need to. A look passes between them, heavy with something unspoken. Callan’s brows furrow just slightly, his breath still coming hard, but there’s no frustration in his eyes—only a flicker of something close to awe. My father, for all his pride and bluster, meets him with an expression just as full, a silent acknowledgment of what this match means.

“My lassie jus proved ye needna be the strongest in the pack to defeat the biggest foe,” He declares, his booming laughter rolling through the yard. Before I can react, his massive hands scoop me clean off the ground, and the world tilts as he spins me.

“Da!” I shriek, half-laughing, half-protesting as I cling to his shoulders, but he only grins wider before setting me down. My feet barely touch the earth before he’s pulling me into a hug, his brawny arms wrapping around me with a warmth that makes my chest ache.

“I’ve never been prouder,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Ye fought with yer heart today, and that’s what truly makes a warrior.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and for a moment, everything else fades—Callan’s bruised pride, Casey’s teasing, the murmurs of the crowd.

For this moment, I am just Triona. Not a Sinclair, not a woman proving herself in a world built for men. Just a daughter, wrapped in the pride of her father, and it means everything.

As the noise swells around us, I find my gaze drawn back to Callan. He meets my eyes and gives me a small nod—a subtle gesture, but one that carries more weight than words ever could. His eyes, still narrowed with disbelief, soften with something else. Shock. Pride. Respect. A silent acknowledgment that speaks louder than the cheers.

A familiar voice breaks through the chatter. “Well done, Triona.”

I turn to find Eamon approaching. The morning sun catches in his red hair, setting it ablaze like embers in the wind. His lips quirk into a warm smile as he takes in the scene before him.