Page 29

As I bound into the kitchen, my mother stands at the worn wooden counter, crooning softly to herself. Her hands move rhythmically as she kneads dough with practiced ease.

The kitchen hums with the warmth of home—fire crackling in the hearth, the mingling scents of fresh bread and wildflowers, no doubt my father’s contribution, creating a gentle, familiar symphony of comfort.

“I come bearing great news!” I exclaim, my voice tumbling over itself in excitement. “I bested Callan! Finally knocked that smug look clean off his face.”

My mother lets out a low chuckle, the kind that starts deep in her chest and rolls out slowly as she keeps kneading the dough. “Aye, aye. Ye’re always full of grand stories.”

I cross my arms. “No, Ma. I’m serious.”

She hums, still smiling faintly, not looking up.

I lean in, voice firmer now. “Ask Da when he comes in.”

That gets her attention. She freezes, the rhythm of her work faltering. Slowly, she meets my gaze and studies me. After a long pause, she tilts her head. “How?”

I beam, rocking on my heels. “Wild, right?”

She wipes her hands on her apron, still staring at me like I’ve just told her the sky turned green. “How did ye manage that?”

I cross my arms, near fit to burst with satisfaction. “I used my brains. And speed. He got cocky, and I found the perfect opening to catch him in the flank. Sent him toppling.” I spread my hands dramatically. “The great Callan Sinclair, flat on his—.”

“Language, Triona.”

I huff.

Her mouth parts, then closes without a word. For a long moment, she simply looks at me, a quiet storm flickering behind her eyes—pride, astonishment, and the faintest shadow of concern.

Then, with an exhale, she shakes her head, a slow, wry smile creeping onto her lips. “Yer brother willnae let that lie,” she says, her voice laced with amusement. “He’ll go until he’s clawed back every bit of that lost pride.”

“He can try, but I’m the strongest Sinclair now,” I declare, throwing my arms out dramatically. “Da’s not what he once was, Callan’s too soft, and Casey…well, we both know he’s better with a bow than he’ll ever be with a sword.”

Her gaze softens as she rakes over my form, tracing the lines of my new leathers.

“Yer Da wouldnae let me look at those,” she claims, her voice catching in her throat.

I fidget under her gaze, my fingers brushing absentmindedly over the reinforced seams. “It made me cry, seeing them,” I admit, my voice quieter. “It just felt like…” My words trail off as I search for the right ones. “It felt like he might have been more excited to give them than even I was to receive them. And I adore them.”

A small silence settles between us, warm and weighted. Then I clear my throat, trying to shake the emotion from my voice.

“Still,” I say, forcing a smile, “Part of me still can’t believe I outmanoeuvred Callan. Especially after the sleep I lost last night. Woke up in a panic—ended up flat on the floor.”

“Ah, found her on her arse, I did,” Saoirse chimes in, her voice ringing out from the doorway like a welcomed breeze. She leans casually against the frame, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Not her finest moment!” Her laughter bubbles up, light and infectious, effortlessly brightening the room.

“Mind yer tongue, Saoirse.” Though her tone is sharp, there’s a a lively glint in my mother’s eye.

“Sorry, Mum.” Saoirse steps forward, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, the gesture so full of affection that it softens even the faintest trace of irritation. My mother’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile as she turns back to her work.

Saoirse and Eamon had taken to calling her ‘Mum’ not long after my father brought them into our lives. Though we never speak of the hardships they endured before, I can see the shadows of their past in fleeting moments—in the way Eamon’s shoulders tense at loud noises, or how Saoirse sometimes glances at the door, as if expecting it to slam shut without warning.

Hearing them call her ‘Mum’ stirs something deep in me. It’s just another symbol of the love that binds our patchwork family together.

Saoirse’s playful demeanour shifts. Her brow furrows as she steps closer, her gaze searching my face. “What’s wrong then? Ya look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

I swallow, the vivid images of the dream flashing behind my eyes. “Ma used to tell us a story about a glen untouched by turmoil, but last night, my dream twisted it. At first, the glen was a paradise. The air was sweet, and the river glistened with purity. But then something dark crept in, like an ink stain spreading across a page. Everything that had been vibrant and alive became poisoned, consumed by darkness. Then this headless… being appeared. It stopped right in front of me and called me Ériu, as if speaking to someone else through me.”

The steady rhythm of my mother’s hands kneading the dough falters. The warmth of the kitchen seems to drain away, replaced by a cold, creeping tension.

“What d’ye say?” She turns toward me, worry etched into every line of her face.