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But for now, this—this ease, this warmth—is enough.

Part 3 – Nineteen Moons Shall Orbit Bright

12

A Thorn among the Flowers

Triona

Sunday, 27 April 1823

The first light of dawn spills through the curtains, soft as breath, casting a warm glow across my room.

Lately, sleep has offered no rest. My dreams—sharp, vivid things—are filled with lengthening shadows, with whispers I can’t quite hear, with the feeling of running and never reaching safety. I wake with the weight of them, always a moment too late to grasp meaning.

But today, something anchors me. A familiar scent.

Turning my head, I find a small bundle of primrose resting on my bedside table, tied with twine, delicate as memory. Their soft purple petals catch the morning light, and for a moment, I forget the dreams. I trace the edge of one bloom with my finger, and it feels like being touched by a version of myself I’d long put away.

It’s been years since I’ve last seen them placed here. Their absence has nearly faded from my memory.

As I lift the flowers gently, the scent of earth and morning dew rises, carrying me back to childhood mornings when I would wake to find them waiting for me. Primrose has always been resilient, growing wild in the Highlands despite the rough soil and harsh winds. Seeing them in bloom serves as a reminder that I, too, can endure much.

My mother used to leave them when she thought I needed quiet reassurance—a way to let me know I was loved and protected. We’ve never spoken about it, and maybe that’s why it means so much. A silent language, written in petals and placed gently in the dark.

I haven’t spoken to her since our fight, and maybe this is her way of reaching across the silence—offering a hand I’m not quite ready to take.

I ready myself and make my way down toward the stables. I’ve seen very little of Finn since he arrived two days ago, and there is a strange urgency in me to find him, to see him away from the hustle and bustle of everyone else.

As I near the stables, muffled voices and bursts of barely stifled giggles filter through. Curious, I pick up my pace, stopping just at the edge of the fenced perimeter where I can see Dealla and Saoirse standing with their backs to me, shoulders pressed together as they stare out at where we let the troop roam freely.

“Will you look at him?” Dealla whispers. The awe in her tone is unmistakable. “I swear, the man looks like he stepped out of a dream.”

Saoirse nods, cheeks flushing as she mutters, “A dream I wouldn’t mind stayin’ in longer.”

Curious, I creep closer, my amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. I stop when I see what has them both in a trance.

Finn.

He’s shirtless, the early light gilding over his skin in gold. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he brushes down his mare Aisling, every movement slow, deliberate. His back is a sculpture in motion, muscles flexing under skin slick with the sheen of morning effort. But it’s not just the strength that draws the eye—it’s the ease. The quiet rhythm of the moment. The way Aisling leans into his touch, trusting, content.

But what catches my attention more than anything are the markings between his shoulders. Black ink swirls into an image, bold and striking, something almost primal in its beauty.

My eyes trace the curve of ink, following the shape of his spine, and the way his muscles shift and stretch under the design. I catch myself staring, caught not just by the ink, but by the man beneath it. For a moment too long, I forget myself entirely. It takes effort to pull out of my daze to speak.

“Shameless, ladies.” Dealla and Saoirse startle, then dissolve into giggles.

Dealla barely spares me a glance before sighing again, utterly unrepentant. “You can’t blame us, Triona… I mean, by the gods, look at him.” She practically purrs the words.

I hadn’t even realised I was staring again until Finn looks up, his gaze locking onto mine. A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. He raises his voice to bridge the distance between us. “Didnae expect to see you up so early, Little Doe!”

“Aye, well, I came out to stretch my legs,” I reply smoothly. “And Shadow’s.”

Finn raises an eyebrow, that warming smile still tugging at his lips. “Ah, so ye’ve bullied poor Eamon into saddlin’ up Shadow for you, have you?”

I scoff. “Of course not. I kindly persuaded him. There’s a difference.”

He chuckles and returns to his task. Behind me, Dealla sighs audibly. “He’s going to ruin us all. Just look at him.”