Page 5

“In due time,” he whispered with an air of mystery, as though speaking of an old secret, “all will be revealed. But until then, it’s my solemn duty—nae, my sacred promise—to keep ye locked away from all the terrible groonies that lurk beneath veiled shadows.”

James sat, Triona safely cradled in the crook of his arm, wriggling delightfully with every peal of laughter. He stroked Triona’s head as she settled down, energy slowly starting to wane. He sat there with her for a long while, just relishing in the rarest of moments. Ellen hummed the sweetest of lullabies, and together they watched as Triona’s eyelids began to sag.

When her lashes fluttered close for the final time, James gently stood, and walked to lay the cherished bundle down on her bed, Ellen at his heels.

Turning, they exchanged a look brimming with silent understanding—an unspoken pact to nurture and protect the wonder that was their Triona. In James’s mind, the image of her smile mingled with fears of what lay ahead, a flicker of resolve hardening in his chest. Ellen’s gaze, shimmering with unshed tears, spoke of her own quiet promise: no matter the cost, they would stand united against whatever challenges might threaten their daughter’s light. This extraordinary girl they had been blessed with.

Gone was the playful smile that had just been plastered across his face, and an all too familiar gleam returned to Ellen’s eyes. James grabbed Ellen’s hand and pulled her in tight for an embrace, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence, though a chill ran through him. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, the simple gesture unravelling her last fragile restraint as silent tears slipped free.

When he spoke, his tone had an unsettlingly eerie chill to it. Much unlike the typical light-hearted tone familiar to their household.

“Called by powers, true and bold, she journeys forth to claim her hold. Upon the sacred ground, she’ll stand, with fate’s dark price in trembling hand.”

James’s voice lingered on the last word, his gaze fixed on the firelight as though seeking answers in its flicker. The prophecy was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, yet speaking it aloud made the weight of its truth settle heavily in the room. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts a tempest of pride and foreboding. “Ellen,” he murmured, “this lass of ours… she’s got a destiny grander than we’ll ever ken. We savour every moment, every blessed second.”

Ellen nodded solemnly, her tears falling in silence. She brushed a tender hand over Triona’s brow, her voice hushed, almost reverent. “Each moment she’s safe is a gift borrowed—one I’d trade anythin’ to keep.”

They stood there for a long while, watching over their daughter as she slept peacefully, her small form a flicker of light in a world so vast and shadowed by unseen dangers.

Though any road set before them remained uncertain, fraught with peril, they stood ready—knowing that even against the mightiest of foes, the love they bore for their daughter was a strength beyond reckoning. They knew that love alone could not shield her from the storms to come, but they would give everything, even the very marrow of their bones, to stand between her and the gathering darkness. Whatever the cost, their love would burn as a beacon, defying the shadows threatening to consume her light.

At All Costs.

2

Where All Great Journeys Begin

Triona

Present Day

Friday, 18 April 1823

Edinburgh, Scotland

Asharp, rapid pounding jerks me from sleep, each knock a demand rather than a request. The sound doesn’t linger—just a few decisive raps before heels strike the wooden floor in retreat, their clipped rhythm echoing down the corridor. Deidre Wallis never lingers. She announces, disrupts, and then vanishes before protest can form.

I groan, dragging the pillow over my head. The dim light slipping through the curtains tells me it’s not urgency that’s roused me—it’s fussiness. Deidre has been restless these past few days, no doubt because we’re preparing to part ways.

She is the reason I’ve been able to attend school so far from my family. My parents, trusting her beyond measure, have relied on her since I was twelve to oversee my education and well-being. Over the past six years, she’s been more than a governess. She’s a mentor, a maternal figure, and a maddening force of nature. Despite the friction between us, I can’t deny her dedication. She’s given me more than knowledge—she’s helped develop some of the best parts of myself.

Deidre embodies contrasts. Middle-aged grace shapes her, with fine lines that hint at wisdom earned. Her deep brown eyes hold untold secrets, her rich, dark skin mirroring her steadfast strength. Just as the roots of an ancient tree, she’s unyielding in her convictions. Everything she does, no matter how exasperating, is for others’ benefit.

She doesn’t need words to fill a room—her presence alone commands it. She carries herself with the certainty of a queen and the impatience of a soldier, her gaze a silent reprimand before she’s even spoken. She’s moulded me with that stare alone.

When she first broached the idea of my attending Mrs Lotraine’s School for Girls, I remember the weight of her words settling over the room. She argued that time away from our secluded home would teach me to navigate the world, to forge connections and alliances I might one day need. ‘Scotland has known its share of hardship,’ she’d said, her voice steady. ‘And there will be many more to come.’

Practicality was her shield—proximity to resources, access to books—but I suspect she saw the hunger in me, the restless yearning for something beyond our borders. Perhaps, in her wisdom, she knew I needed this more than I realised. After a heated debate, my parents agreed to her plan, albeit with strict conditions: relentless studying and almost daily sparring with my brothers, Callan and Casey, assigned as my reluctant guardians. Bound to the role out of duty rather than desire, fulfilling our parents’ expectations rather than their own wishes.

I accepted the terms without hesitation, diving headfirst into a gruelling routine of academic studies and rigorous training alongside my brothers. There was no room for excuses, no leniency for failure—this had been my father’s way since I was a child. It had shaped me, tempered me, just as steel in a forge. Not just tradition, but a way of survival. A foundation built stone by stone for a life filled with unknowns.

I learned the weight of a blade before the weight of expectation. I endured the sharp sting of bruises, and the sharper sting of failure, long before I understood how rare it was for a girl to fight for her own life, let alone receive the training to do so.

I may not be the strongest among my siblings, but I am certainly the fastest. My agility, both physical and mental, gives me an edge in contests of strategy and wit, much to my brothers’ frustration.

Callan, my eldest brother, takes his role as guardian with a deep sense of duty. He sees himself as an extension of our parents, embodying their authority and values at every turn. His domineering nature leaves little room for sibling camaraderie, so weeks spent by his side drag on as if time itself has slowed to torment me. To him, being my brother is secondary to being my overseer, and I suspect he wouldn’t have it any other way.

To top it off, he has a maddening habit of scaring off anyone I might show the slightest interest in. His hypocrisy only adds to my frustration. He scrutinises my every move, judging my virtue as if he is some moral authority, all while indulging himself in ways he thinks I take no notice of. How dare he preach restraint on me while ignoring his own? It is enough to make me want to lob the nearest heavy object at his impossibly thick skull.