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The path to the tavern is barely visible, overgrown with brambles and heather, and the looming Highlands offers no comfort from the biting wind that howls around us. Bran leads the way, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his dagger, his sharp eyes scanning the dim surroundings.

Behind him, Casey is humming under his breath, his usual swagger muted but not absent, while Callan brings up the rear, his broad shoulders tense with unease.

Triona is nestled in the cart in the rear, bundled beneath layers of blankets as the pain medication continues to keep her in a deep slumber.

“This is madness,” Callan mutters, his voice gruff. “We’re wanderin’ the Highlands with no plan, no home, and we’re barely holdin’ on.”

“We have a plan,” Bran snaps without turning. “Find shelter. Regroup. And make sure she’s safe.”

“Aye,” Casey chimes in, his tone lighter, though there is an unmistakable tension beneath it. “Because nothin’ screams ‘safe’ like a mystery tavern in the arse-end of nowhere. What next? Gonna tell me it’s run by kindly Highland monks with a flair for hospitality?”

“Stay out here then,” I growl, shooting Casey and Callan both glares. “But if you keep blubberin’, I’ll throw you to the wolves myself.”

“Easy now,” Casey says with a grin. “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood, aye?”

Callan huffs. “Wouldnae need to lighten it if we’d stayed put on a pathway.”

I stop abruptly, turning to face Callan, my expression dark. “Stayed put on what pathway exactly, Cal? Tryin’ to come upon people lookin’ for us? Would you rather be back there lettin’ Colina finish what she started?” My voice is low, sharp, and deadly quiet, careful not to wake Triona. The air between us thickens, the tension coiled like a watch spring.

Callan tenses, his jaw tightening. “How could ye even suggest—”

“Ye’re sayin’ nothin’ that wasna already considered,” I clip, my voice barely above a whisper but brimming with restrained anger. “And ye’re lucky Triona’s dead asleep right now. If I didn’t have her to think of, I’d remind ye—”

“Dinnae test me, Finnis, lest ye’ve the spine to finish that thought and follow it wi’ swift action.” Callan interrupts, his tone low and lethal, matching the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Bran intervenes with his usual effortless charm.

“All right, break it up,” he asserts with a cool and even tone, though his voice carries an edge. “We’re on the same side, remember? We shouldn’t be at odds with each other. Let’s save the sparring for when we’re not starving, dead on our feet, dragging horses that look ready to drop, and in need of a dram.”

Callan glares at me, his eyes simmering with unvoiced accusations, but he says nothing. I force myself to unclench my fists, jaw tightening as I turn back toward the path.

We rarely fought—being so alike often kept us in step—but the past few days have been a nightmare, wearing on both our patience. And neither of us has said a word about our last row, the one where Callan had accused me of hiding things from him. It’s something he’s not got over yet—and he’s being too much of a blethering gowk to apologise and move on.

The glow of the tavern’s window flickers just ahead, its promise of warmth and shelter tugging at my focus.

Bran glances between the three of us, his usual grin fading as he takes in the tension still ripe in the air. Without a word, he adjusts his jacket, and takes a step forward, his usual cocky energy suddenly sharpened with purpose.

“I’ll go ahead,” he says, his tone lighter but lacking its usual teasing edge. “See if this fine establishment’s got room for a few wanderers.”

I narrow my eyes at Bran. “Dinnae cause a scene, Mums.”

“Me?” Bran shoots back, feigning offense. “I’m charm itself, Finn. You worry too much.”

Before anyone can argue, Bran sets off at a brisk pace toward the tavern. His silhouette grows smaller with every step until he’s swallowed whole by the shadows.

Callan lets out a frustrated breath, adjusting his grip on his reins. “He’s too eager to run headlong into trouble.”

“Aye,” I mutter, eyes still fixed on the path ahead, “but if trouble’s waitin’, better it finds Bran first.”

Callan lets out a grudging huff of agreement, his lips twitching as if fighting a smirk. Then, to my surprise, a low, gravelly chuckle escapes him. It’s quiet, almost like he didn’t mean for anyone to hear, but it was there.

Casey glances sideways at him. “Did you just laugh, Callan? Thought ye’d forgotten how.”

“Dinnae get used to it,” he mutters, though there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Just a momentary lapse in sanity brought on by exhaustion, and too much of yer voice.”

“Aye, the delirium’s settin’ in proper,” Casey shoots back with a wicked grin. “Give it another hour and ye’ll be singin’ lullabies and askin’ Finn for a cuddle.”

“If I do,” Callan says dryly, “assume I’ve been possessed, and do the merciful thing.”