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“Sit,” she orders. “Before you fall over and make this worse by makin’ a mess of the floors.”

Alex winces again as he lowers himself, then flashes her a crooked grin. “Gods… you’ve such a way with words,” he says. “A mouth made for sin and salvation both.”

She pauses, hands still on his shoulders, and levels him with a look. “Did you hit yer head out there,” she asks coolly, “or have ya gone foolish from blood loss?”

His smile widens, undeterred. “Could be both,” he says. “Hard to say without a second opinion.” His gaze flicks pointedly at her hands. “Care to be my doctor and examine me? I’m sure you’ll want to check everything… thoroughly.”

Róisín titters and gives his shoulder a firm shove. “Ye’re such a menace.”

“A devoted one,” he adds, voice turning softer for a beat. “I nearly die and the first thing I get is you barking orders at me. It’s feeling like we’re married already.”

“Bleedin’ at my feet like an eejit,” she snaps, grip firm as she tears around the fabric covering the wound. “Now, be a good little pup and sit still.”

Alex opens his mouth again.

Taskill clears his throat. “Lad,” he says evenly, “give it a rest, aye?”

Alex snaps his mouth shut, grin unrepentant but wisely contained.

Maeve exhales, slow and controlled, and looks between all of us. “I can’t fathom how any of you are jestin’ at a time like this.”

James rubs at the back of his neck. “Alex has a particularly warped sense of humour. It shines through when he’s nervous. Or scared. Or anytime he’s breathin’, really.”

“The devil’s own humour, if ever I’ve heard it,” I add dryly. “Regrettably contagious.”

Maeve huffs once, something like reluctant understanding passing over her face, then turns back to me.

She steps closer, candle lifting as her eyes trace the tear in my sleeve, the darkened fabric beneath it. Her voice softens—not with pity, but with a concern that cuts far deeper.

“Love,” she says quietly, “what did this to you?”

Something in her voice tells me she already knows I have the correct answer.

I draw a breath. Then another. Neither of them feels like enough.

Taskill’s brow knit. “Jus say it plain, lad.”

“That’s the problem,” I reply. “I can’t say it without sounding mad.”

Maeve’s gaze sharpens, something old and watchful flickering there. “Try.”

I close my eyes, summoning the image as clearly as I can.

“It appeared like a hound,” I begin, choosing the word carefully, tasting it first. “But far too large to be called one. Bigger than any dog has a right to be. Near the size of a pony, though longer somehow, as if stretched wrong for the space it occupied.”

Róisín’s hands pause where she stands close at Alex’s side, cloth pressed to his skin. The wrap hangs loose between her fingers as if she’s forgotten what she’s doing. Her head doesn’t lift, but I can feel the whole of her attention lock in.

“Its coat was dark,” I go on. “Black, I think. Or so deep a green it might as well have been. Shaggy like it had grown out of moss and shadow rather than fur. Like it belonged to the ground more than the world above.”

“The eyes,” I continue. “Bright. Not glowing exactly, but burning, like embers banked under ash.” I swallow. “And its paws were the size of a man’s head.”

Róisín lets out a short, uneasy breath. “Robert,” she says, not unkindly, “you do hear yourself, aye? You sound⁠—”

“Mad,” I finish for her. “Aye. I know.”

Alex nods once, jaw clenched against the pain he refuses to show. “Mad, but not misleading.” He closes his hand over Róisín’s where she’s gripping the dressing, and she goes still, breath catching as if she hadn’t realised how hard she was holding on.

“Go on, love. We’re listening.” Maeve’s command is soft, but it stills the room all the same.