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James continues. “But dinnae think for a second we’ve done nothin’. There’s reason she was trained as a warrior when others were raised as daughters of the hearth, learnin’ to mend and weave. It wasna just for survival, but because we kent—one day—she’d have to fight. Not jus for herself, but for all of us. And her strength is growin’. Callan felt it himself.”

I shake my head, disbelief surging through me. “But why not tell us? Why wait until now?”

James’s face hardens. “Because no parent wants to burden their child with something like this. But the signs are here now, and we cannae shield her anymore. Evil moves, and it’s searchin’ for her.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. A sharp, deliberate sound. I move swiftly to pull it open, primed to pummel whoever stands on the other side.

Marcus appears in the doorway—disheveled, breathless, wild-eyed. He staggers forward, barely catching himself against the doorframe.

“I came as quickly as I could,” Marcus says, his voice strained, though his gaze remains sharp. “I heard a few men speaking of clearances at the Prentiss Street Club... when I heard your family name, I headed straight here. They are not far now. Well, they will be here by nightfall. At the latest.”

James straightens, his face hardening. “So, they plan to take our home under the guise of a ‘clearance’?”

Marcus steps forward. His gaze locks with James’s, his resolve unshakable. “I shall remain here to reason with them. I can aid in your defense.”

“Why do that?” James asks, his voice edged with incredulity. “This isnae yer fight, lad.”

“Despite what some of you may suppose,” Marcus counters, looking Callan’s way, his voice steady and low. “I hold your daughter in the highest regard. I care deeply for her. They are not here to forge alliances or negotiate a truce—they come with nothing less than murderous intent. They are out for blood. I beg you, allow Triona the chance to escape, and permit me to offer aid.”

Callan speaks up. “What? Ye think because ye’re a filthy Englishman, they’ll look the other way?” No one corrects him. No one speaks up to defend Marcus, because we’re all feeling the same thing.

Distrust. Agony. Betrayal.

Marcus remains impassive in the wake of Callan’s jab. In a measured tone, he replies, “I believe, given my… cultural background, that I can help. I can pull what strings I have and assist.” He then turns his earnest gaze to James. “I will do whatever I can to keep her safe. To keep those she loves most safe. Let me try. Please.”

James hesitates, his jaw working as he considers Marcus’s words, and the intention. Finally, he exhales, his voice heavy with resignation, and he nods.

Marcus fixes his gaze on each of us. “You all have to leave… now.”

“Aye”, James says. “Ye’ll take the wagon with what’s left of the scotch, and ye’ll be tradin’ it for safe passage.”

Across the room, Bran speaks up, brow furrowed. “Safe passage to where, exactly?”

Alex turns to him, his expression unreadable but resolute. “We’re going to Portugal.”

Casey’s voice cuts through the quiet. “That’s no fair trade, Da.”

“Yer lives are worth more than what’s in those barrels,” James replies, his tone firm but thick with feeling.

A long silence stretches between us—grief, resistance, and reluctant understanding hanging in the air.

Then Ellen speaks, her voice soft but certain. “Triona would fight us if she could.” Her hand trembles as it brushes over her cheek. “But this is the way it must be.”

James nods slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “This way… she willnae have the chance to argue.”

I break my silence, my voice raw with desperation. “There’s got to be another way. You shouldna bear this alone. Let me stay—”

James cuts me off with a firm shake of his head. “Yer job is to protect her now. Keep her safe, lad. That’s what we’re askin’. You owe us that much.”

I glance to Callan, desperate. “Cal, tell them. We could help—”

“And what, Finn?” Callan snaps, his jaw tight. “We dinnae ken who or what’s comin’. And as of now… every single one of us is a marked enemy. She spared no one in her attempt to harm Triona.”

Alex steps forward, his expression grim. “I’d wager my tavern’s already their first stop.”

Ellen leans down, pressing a kiss to Triona’s forehead. “Be strong, mo nighean bheag. Stronger than I ken ye can be.”

James hesitates, his fingers briefly threading through Triona’s hair—a fleeting touch, soft and reverent—before he straightens, his expression hardening like forged steel. His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.