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Casey smirks. “Gladly. I’ll make it quick… right after the lullaby.”

Levity lingers for only a breath before the quiet swallows it whole. Minutes stretch as heavy exhaustion creeps back in. The faint rustle of the wind and the distant hoot of an owl are the only sounds breaking the silence.

Finally, the loud creak of the tavern door echos down the path, faint but unmistakable in the stillness. Moments later, Bran emerges from the shadows, his hand raised in an exaggerated gesture of triumph as he jogs toward us, his grin wide enough to rival the moonlight.

“There’s a room,” he calls out, a grin spreading across his face. “A small one, mind you, but it’s got a proper bed and a roof that won’t leak.”

My shoulders relax, though my face remains guarded. “Any trouble?”

“Quite the opposite. There’s a barmaid in there, Lori, jugs the size of a—”

“Focus, Bran.” I say flatly.

“Right, the point. She won’t be asking questions. Told her we needed to take the room for the night, and she happily obliged.”

I shoot him a look. “And did you pay her favour for that, or did yer charm take longer to turn on than normal? You had us waitin’ out here for a bit.”

Bran rolls his eyes. “Neither. I got stopped at the door by a rather interesting woman. She asked if ‘her eyes met the light of this day, or any since the last.’” He shrugs. “It seemed as if she might have thrown a few too many back. I even entertained her and asked if she would clarify, and she just shook her head in disappointment and said ‘I’ll wait where time holds its breath—when the one meant to lead us stirs, I’ll reveal the hand.’”

I frown, unease pricking my skin. “What the hell does that mean?”

Bran shrugs, still grinning despite the oddity of his encounter. “No idea. She seemed harmless enough, touched in the head, but harmless. I figured it was best to humour her.”

Callan shifts uneasily as he glances at Triona. “Drunk ramblings or no, I dinnae like the sound of it.”

“Nor do I,” I mutter, my gaze fixed on the dimly lit tavern ahead. I shake my head, pushing the unease to the back of my mind. “But we need to get her inside before we freeze to death out here. Just keep your guards up.”

Bran nods, motioning toward the tavern. “Room’s just off the main hall. Cosy, if you’re into tight spaces.”

Casey smirks. “Sounds like yer kind of setup. Ye’ve always been good in tight spots, eh, Bran?”

Bran halts mid-step, turning to throw an exaggerated hand over his chest in mock offence—dramatic, but with a glint of challenge in his eyes. “I know not of what you speak.”

Casey just grins. “Ye’re a heartbreaker, Bran. Ye’re likely to leave a trail of broken vows and weepin’ barmaids from here to bloody Port Oban.”

“I leave them all better than I found them,” Bran says with a shrug. “Confident. Glowing. Sometimes singing, depending on the time I’m spared.”

“Singin’?” Casey scoffs. “More like sobbin’. Probably writin’ poetry about their stolen virtue and mysteriously missin’ underthings.”

Bran lifts his chin, unbothered. “Well, art inspires art, mate. I consider it a cultural service.”

Callan groans under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“A cultural service?” Casey chokes on a laugh.

“I give them memories,” Bran says, smug as sin. “And sometimes a mild limp. Depends on the evening.”

I let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a warning.

Casey clutches his chest. “Saints preserve us. Ye’re not a man, but a walking cautionary tale.”

Bran winks. “Only to the lonely and the curious.”

“And the easily impressed,” Casey mutters. “Come on then, ye wee magpie. Let’s see if that silver tongue of yours can charm us two rooms for the night.”

“Aye, just watch,” Bran replies, his grin widening. “They’ll be begging me to stay forever.”

“I reckon this goes without sayin’,” Callan cuts in, dry as smoke, “but Triona gets the room. Finn, ye’ll stay with her.”