Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The gates loomed like a jagged jaw against the sky, blacker than the night itself. As the keep’s walls rose to swallow her, Enya felt a phantom pressure against her ribs, as if the stones were already leaning in to crush the breath from her lungs.
Every step was an effort. Her legs felt hollow, her feet heavy. She was walking back into a lie that had grown too large to carry.
Amelia joined her near the walls and stayed just behind her, a shadow tethered to a ghost. Enya could hear the quick, shallow cadence of her breathing—a frantic, bird-like rhythm.
She could feel the tremor in the air between them each time Amelia opened her mouth to speak and choked the words back down.
“Ye’re shaking,” Amelia whispered at last. The words were thin, brittle with a panic she was trying to fold into the shape of obedience.
“Amelia, please dinnae.” Enya’s voice was an echo of itself.
She softened the edge at the last second, reaching back to touch the girl’s hand.
Amelia had followed her into this madness, had offered up her life for a secret that was currently turning to ash in Enya's mouth.
She did not deserve the bite of Enya's tongue. “We’re nearly there. Just... a few more steps.”
They reached the side door, a narrow mouth of wood and iron sheltered from the watch lines. When Amelia reached for the latch, her fingers were useless, trembling so violently the metal clicked twice—a sharp, silver sound that felt like a scream in the silence.
Enya froze. She stood perfectly still, her heart thudding a slow, painful beat against her breastbone. She waited for the shout, the flash of a torch, the cold steel at her neck.
But no alarm came. Only the wind, whistling through the battlements.
They slipped inside. They shut the door with a care that felt like superstition, as if by moving slowly enough, they could undo the last hour. The corridor beyond was a tunnel of shifting amber, lit by guttering torches that leaned and swayed in a draft Enya couldn't place.
The air inside was warm, smelling of peat smoke and roasted meat—the scents of the home she was betraying. It made her stomach turn.
Amelia leaned in, her breath hot against Enya’s ear. “We should go straight tae yer room. If we can just get the door shut, we can say ye were sleeping. We can say the noise woke ye.”
Enya didn't answer. She was picturing Finley’s face—the way his eyes had gone flat and dead, the way he had looked at her as a failing asset. She felt a profound, echoing emptiness. The brother who had been her anchor was gone, replaced by a stranger wearing his skin.
“Aye,” she whispered, but her feet stayed rooted to the stone.
Amelia’s eyes flashed, wide and frantic in the torchlight. “Enya, if he finds out ye left taenight... after the ship... after everything...”
Enya bit her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood.
She hadn't let herself truly picture it until that moment.
Harald, leaving the map room with a heavy heart, seeking her out for comfort or for counsel.
Harald, finding her bed cold. Harald, watching the map of his world fall apart, realizing the woman he wanted to protect was the very shadow he was hunting.
And then, the sound came.
Footsteps.
A measured, heavy pace that had been sharpened by purpose, echoing off the stone. It was coming fast from the direction of the great stairs. It wasn't the stroll of a guard; it was the stride of a man who owned the floor he walked upon.
Amelia’s hand flew to Enya’s sleeve, her grip a desperate claw, trying to pull her into the shallow dip of a doorway.
But Enya didn't move.
There was nowhere to disappear there that wouldn't look like a confession, and she was suddenly, bone-deep, exhausted of hiding. She was tired of the shadows.
She lifted her chin, forced her shoulders back, and watched the corner.
Harald rounded it.
He was not wearing his cloak now. His tunic was pulled taut across his shoulders, his hair loose and pale in the flickering torchlight, and his face was set in an ominous, jagged mask.
There was a contained violence sitting under his skin—a predatory edge that suggested he was ready to tear the keep apart stone by stone.
Then his gaze found her.
It was like watching the sea break against the cliffs in a single breath.
The lethal tension in his mouth fractured.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, ragged exhale.
Relief moved through him so plainly, so violently, that it made Enya’s stomach turn.
She had never been the reason for anyone’s relief before; she had only ever been a burden or a weapon.
To see him look at her as if she was a miracle found in the dark made the weight of betrayal in her chest swell until it felt like it would crack her ribs.
He crossed the remaining space in three quick strides, his hands reaching out as if to grab her, then curling into fists at his sides to keep from touching her.
“Where were ye?” The question was low, a rough, broken rasp.
It hit her harder than a shout would have.
His eyes were frantic, scanning her with a terrifying intensity—searching for a tear in her dress, a bruise on her wrist, a drop of blood that would give him a target for his rage.
“I looked... I went tae yer room and it was empty. I thought—” He stopped, his voice catching. He didn't say he thought she’d been taken, but he didn't have to.
Enya’s chest seized. She had expected him to tower over her with the cold suspicion of a Laird. She was not prepared for this raw, reckless terror. It made her feel like a monster.
“I needed air,” she said. The lie tasted like dirt. It was thin and pathetic against the backdrop of his fear.
Harald’s gaze flicked to Amelia. The girl had gone the color of salt, her mouth a tight, panicked line. She looked guilty enough to hang, her eyes darting toward the floor.
“Air,” Harald repeated. The word was hollow.
He looked back at Enya, and the first spark of suspicion began to flicker in the wreckage of his relief. He wasn't a fool; he could smell the woods on her, could see the way her heart was trying to kick its way out of her chest.
Enya felt the corridor tilt. The walls felt like they were leaning in, eavesdropping. If she stayed there, the stone would soak up her shame; the guards would see her break. She could feel the truth clawing at the back of her throat, a scream she was fighting to keep silent.
“Take me somewhere private,” she said, her voice coming out in a desperate, breathless rush.
Harald stilled. His entire body went rigid. “What?”
“Please,” Enya whispered, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her cloak. “I’d like us tae talk. Alone.”
Amelia’s fingers dug into Enya’s sleeve, a silent, frantic warning. Enya did not look at her. If she met Amelia’s eyes, she would crumble into pieces right there on the cold floor.
She kept her gaze locked on Harald’s, pleading with him to take her away from the prying eyes of the keep.
Harald’s gaze held hers for a long, agonizing beat. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw remained like a coiled spring.
He gave a single, sharp nod. “This way.”
He turned, and the way he walked close to her felt less like a companion and more like a silent shield protecting her even as he prepared to interrogate her.
Amelia stayed rooted to the spot, hands clenched in her skirts, watching them with the gut-wrenching helplessness of someone who had carried a friend to the edge of a cliff and had to watch her jump.
Harald took the stairs fast, his boots heavy on the stone, as if speed could outrun the dread pooling in her gut. He led her down a narrower, shadowed corridor and into his chamber.
The room was clean, warm, and painfully intimate.
A heavy bed sat against the far wall; a table, cluttered with maps and a half-burnt candle; his cloak was draped over a chair, and his boots were set neatly beneath it.
The fire in the hearth was a dying heap of coals, glowing a bruised, angry red under the ash.
He stepped inside and waited for her to follow. When she did, he shut the door.
The click of the latch felt like the loudest sound Enya had ever heard. It felt like the locking of a cage.
Enya stood just inside the door, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles felt like they might burst through the skin.
Her whole body was screamingly aware of him—of the heat radiating from his frame, the air he displaced, the way the room seemed to shrink until there was only his heartbeat and her fear.
Harald did not move closer. He stood like a monolith of shadow, watching her with a terrifying focus, as if he were checking for hidden wounds or hidden daggers.
“Tell me,” he said at last. The command was soft, but carried weight . “What is it?”
Enya’s mouth went dry. The truth was a jagged thing in her throat. “If I dae, ye’ll hate me.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll decide what I feel after ye speak. Nae before.”
The absolute, terrifying steadiness of him nearly broke her. He was offering her a fairness she didn’t deserve, a chance to speak before he judged. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given her, and it made what she had to say ten times more painful.
Enya let out a high-pitched laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Aye. That sounds like ye. Always so damn measured.”
Harald’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips for a fleeting second, but it never reached his eyes. “Enya. Speak.”
Her name in his voice did something violent to her composure. It was an invitation, not an order. Heat surged behind her eyes, and she blinked hard, fighting back tears the way she had refused them since childhood.
“I cannae keep pretending I’m fine,” she said, the words scraping out of her. “I cannae keep standing beside ye like this is only politics. Only duty. Only the king’s nonsense.”