Chapter 16 #2
The night air struck Enya’s face like a slap.
It was biting and sharp, clearing the fog of the keep but making her heart hammer against her ribs with a frantic, irregular rhythm.
Enya felt the rough texture of the stone walls against her shoulder as they hugged the shadows.
They reached the postern gate—the small, iron-bound door that bled out toward the forest.
Amelia stopped there, her hand gripping Enya’s sleeve so hard her fingers shook.
“Say it,” Amelia whispered, voice cracking. “Say ye’ll come back.”
Enya turned. In the moonlight, Amelia’s face was a mask of terror. Her mouth trembled, and her eyes were wide, searching Enya’s face for a promise that felt impossible to keep.
The shame Enya had felt earlier flared again, hot and stinging. She was leaving this girl to face whatever storm followed her disappearance.
“I’ll come back,” Enya said. She forced her voice to be level, a solid thing for Amelia to hold onto. “I’ll come back, Amelia. I promise.”
Amelia swallowed, nodding sharply as if trying to beat back her own panic. “I’ll wait. If ye’re nae back by—”
“Dinnae,” Enya murmured. She reached out, her fingers catching Amelia’s chin. “Dinnae start countin’ minutes. Ye’ll drive yerself mad.”
Amelia let out a choked sound, a ghost of a laugh that died before it reached her lips. “As if I’m nae already.”
Enya squeezed her hand one last time—a brief, desperate contact—then slipped away into the dark.
The woods were a wall of cold, shifting black. Every snap of a twig sounded like a bone breaking; every rustle of the wind felt like a hand reaching for her cloak.
She kept her steps light, her heart a drum in her ears. Her hand stayed tucked beneath her cloak, her fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of a small knife. The cold steel was the only thing that felt real.
She stepped into the center of the clearing and waited, her breath hitching as the shadows began to move.
Finley arrived without subtlety, his boots thudding against the wet earth. His cloak was damp and heavy, dragging behind him. His eyes were bright with a feverish, restless light that made Enya’s skin crawl.
“There ye are,” he said. He sounded irritated, as if she were a servant who had kept him waiting in the rain. “I thought ye’d decided tae refuse me. I thought ye’d forgotten yer blood.”
The air in Enya’s chest turned to fire at the sound of his voice. Her anger surged so fast it blurred her vision, a hot, white-hot prickle behind her eyes.
“Ye sent a child,” she said. Her voice was low, vibrating with a raw, shaking fury that she couldn't suppress “How could ye, Finley? How could ye put that child in danger just tae deliver a message?”
Finley scoffed, as if she’d accused him of something ridiculous. “Danger,” he repeated, his mouth twisting. “He walked intae a castle wi’ a note. He didnae fight a war.”
She looked at him, the brother who used to shield her from the wind, but his face was different now. It was harder. Sharper. He looked like a man who had traded his heart for a cause, and it terrified her.
“He could have been stopped,” Enya snapped. She stepped closer towards him, her restraint finally snapping. “He could have been questioned. Punished. Killed fer carryin’ yer mark.”
Enya stared at him, her breath hitching. She waited for a flicker of regret, a shadow of the boy who used to share his bread with her. It never came.
“Sacrifices must be made,” Finley said briskly, as if he were discussing grain and cattle. “If ye dinnae understand that, then ye dinnae understand what we’re facin’.”
He is hollow. He thinks morality is a lamp he can simply blow out.
“We have tae stop,” Enya said. She forced the words out, making them precise. Making them final. “We have tae stop this, Finley.”
His eyes narrowed, the light in them turning sharp and dangerous. “Stop?”
“I went into his study. I read his ledgers. I saw the maps.” Enya watched his face sharpen, looking for a trace of the reason she knew he still had. “Harald is nae preparing for war. He is only protecting what is his. Lewis is nay a threat tae the Highlands.”
Finley stared at her for a long, agonizing beat. The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of everything they had survived together—and everything he was now throwing away.
Then his mouth curled in pure, unadulterated contempt. “And ye believe him?” he spat. “Ye think a few ink marks on parchment change what they are? They are wolves, Enya. They always have been.”
“I believe what I see with me own eyes!” Enya shot back. Her voice rose, thick with a conviction that terrified her. “There was nay ambition in those papers, Finley. Only care fer his people.”
Finley stepped into her space, his shadow swallowing her. He was so close she could smell the damp wool of his cloak and the bitter, sharp scent of his coldness. His voice dropped to a lethal, mocking hiss.
“Ye’ve gone soft, Enya. The Norseman has fed ye well and patted yer head like a hound.” He leaned in, his eyes like flint. “Now ye’ve fergotten the color o’ our faither's blood on the grass.”
Enya flinched. The mention of their father was a jagged blade, meant to twist in her gut and shame her back into obedience.
She waited for the old spark of shared grief to bind them, for the brother she knew to reappear.
But as she looked at his cold, unrecognizable face, the spark didn't come. There was no warmth left in him. The only thing she felt was a devastating, final loss.
“I havenae fergotten,” she whispered, her voice trembling but certain. “But I willnae let his memory be the reason I murder an innocent man.”
Finley’s face contorted, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. “Innocent? There is nay such thing as an innocent Norseman. I will nae bury another Cameron because ye’ve decided tae grow tender fer a Norseman.”
“Tender,” she repeated, her voice gone thin. “Is that what ye think this is?”
Finley’s gaze cut over her face with brutal precision. “I think ye’re wavering. I think ye’re fergettin’ who ye are. Ye are a Cameron, nae a pet fer a barbarian.”
Enya’s hands shook beneath her cloak. She curled them into fists, and her nails bit into her palms, drawing blood. She needed the pain to stay grounded, to keep from screaming.
“I ken exactly who I am,” she said, voice low and burning. “And I’m tellin’ ye the truth, Finley. Harald is nae our enemy.”
Finley’s mouth thinned into a bloodless line. “He will be.”
“Because ye want him tae be!” Enya snapped. “Because ye need a monster tae justify what ye’re daein’.”
Finley’s eyes went flat. “Ye’re sounding like a traitor.”
The word struck deep. It was the curse she had been carrying in her own mind, now spat at her by the person she loved. It felt like a door slamming shut forever.
Finley took another step, invading her space until the heat of his anger was a physical weight. His face was inches from hers, his eyes wide and unblinking, like a predator’s.
His tone sharpened into a cold, terrifying command that brooked no defiance. “Ye will continue,” he hissed. “Ye will find out what Harald plans. Ye will find where his ships go, and ye will send word. Dae ye hear me, Enya? This is fer our clan. This is fer Faither.”
Enya swallowed hard, the salt of her own fear stinging her throat. Her heart hammered so loudly she could feel the thud of it in her teeth.
She realized then, with a devastating, soul-crushing clarity, that Finley was the storm, not the shield. He was the very thing that would burn her world down if she kept feeding the fire. He ws not her savior.
“I cannae promise ye that,” Enya said. Her voice was quiet, barely a breath, but it held a weight that made the air between them go cold.
Finley went still. He looked at her as if she had suddenly started speaking in a tongue he didn't recognize. The air between them froze, the silence so heavy it felt like it might shatter.
“What?” he asked. The word was slow, hollow, and utterly disbelieving.
Enya didn't answer.
She stepped back, her boots crunching softly on the damp earth, already turning away. Her cloak shifted around her like a shroud, leaving him standing there in the thin, miserable light.
She had gone there looking for a reason to stay loyal, and all he had given her was a reason to mourn.
Enya stopped at the very edge of the trees. She didn't turn around fully; just turned her head enough for her voice to carry through the mist, her breath hitching.
“I’m nae certain I can continue,” she whispered. “I’m nae certain I even ken who ye are anymore.”
Enya walked into the trees. She let the darkness swallow her whole, her tears finally blurring the path. Behind her, Finley remained in the clearing, a silhouette of a man staring at the empty air where his sister’s love used to be, something jagged and final breaking in his wake.