Chapter 29 #2
Finn’s footsteps surged back into the keep, just ahead of him, the rat-bastard was fast despite his cowardice.
Rhys followed the trail — spatters of mud, a half-kicked tapestry, the smear of a hand against a pillar.
He was heading toward the east tower, the old war wing that had once belonged to Rhys’s grandfather.
Fitting. The traitor would flee to the ghosts of old power.
Rhys burst through a side hall, catching the flick of Finn’s cloak just as the bastard shoved through a heavy door.
He followed without hesitation.
The room beyond was cold and stone-hewn, a long-abandoned solar half-crumbled from neglect. Dust hung thick in the air. Only one window slit let the dying afternoon light cast bars across the floor.
Finn stood in the center, chest heaving, sword now drawn.
“Ye made it,” he said, lips curling.
Rhys slowed to a stop. “Ye ran.”
“I led,” Finn corrected, lifting his chin. “Ye just never saw it.”
“Ye murdered me father.”
Finn didn’t flinch. “Because he stood in me way.”
Rhys stalked a step closer, blade still lowered. “He loved ye like a son. He trained ye. He trusted ye.”
“That was his first mistake,” Finn snapped. “He should’ve feared me.”
“Then this is where it ends.”
“Aye,” Finn said. “It is.”
He struck first.
Rhys parried, barely, the impact rattling up his arm. Finn pressed hard, using his speed over strength, aiming for the gaps in Rhys’s armor. The clang of steel rang sharp off the walls. They circled each other like wolves, blades flashing, boots scraping across old stone.
“Ye’ll never be laird,” Rhys spat, slashing. “Ye’ll die in the shadow of what ye tried to take.”
“I’ll die a man who fought for what he deserved!”
Another clash. Another twist. Finn feinted right, struck left, but Rhys saw it coming.
He caught the blade on his bracer and landed a brutal elbow into Finn’s ribs.
The man staggered back, coughing, but he recovered fast. Too fast.
“Ye should’ve stayed down,” Rhys growled.
“And ye should’ve died the night of the truce,” Finn snarled.
“Ye’ll never have me title. Never have this keep.” Rhys lunged. His blade carved across Finn’s thigh, and the man cried out, buckling. But instead of retreating, he laughed. Blood staining his teeth.
“What’s so god-damned funny?” Rhys demanded, blade pointed squarely at his cousin’s throat.
“Ye think this is about a keep?” Finn rasped. “About titles?”
Rhys narrowed his eyes. “What then?”
“It’s about legacy,” he said, panting. “About being remembered. And I’ll be remembered as the man who broke Rhys Adams and took the O’Donnell.”
“Ye’ll be remembered as a stain. Nothin’ more.”
Finn spit blood and lunged again.
They collided like iron and fury. Rhys batted his sword away and tackled him to the ground, slamming him against the cracked stone. His blade clattered free, but Rhys didn’t need it.
His fists took over.
One.
Two.
Three.
He hit Finn until his knuckles bled. Until the man’s laughter turned to groans, and then to silence. But even then, it wasn’t enough.
Rhys rose and staggered toward his sword, grabbing it with shaking hands. He turned back to Finn, who was half-conscious, chest rising and falling in weak jolts.
He raised the blade.
“I should kill ye slow,” Rhys whispered. “For me faither. For every man who’s bled for this clan.”
Finn looked up through one swollen eye and smiled again. “Then do it.”
Rhys’s blade hovered over Finn’s chest.
The man beneath him wheezed a shaky breath, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. One eye was swollen shut. The other still glinted unrepentantly.
Rhys tightened his grip on the sword hilt, knuckles white.
“Ye always looked down on me,” Finn slurred, lips curling back. “All of ye. William. Myles. Even yer father. But I’m the one who acted. I’m the one who dared to take what he deserved.”
“Ye murdered good men,” Rhys said, his voice barely human.
Finn smiled through broken teeth. “And ye’ll never be free of it. Because unlike ye, ye brute animal, I’ll nae be killin’ ye. I’ll keep ye alive to watch me rule this clan how it’s supposed to have been.”
Rhys’s breath came hard and fast. His arms trembled, but it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was restraint.
Then he struck.
The sword plunged down. Not into Finn’s heart, but just beside it, carving a line of agony across his ribs. Finn screamed, a sound that echoed off the ancient stones.
Another blow.
And another.
Not killing blows.
Not yet.
Rhys stood over him, panting like a beast, his eyes wild.
“Ye had access to all of it,” Rhys spat. “Ye were me family.”
Finn coughed, laughing through the blood. “That’s exactly why.”
Rhys raised the sword one final time, and drove it straight through Finn’s chest.
This time, the scream was shorter. Sharper. Then nothing.
Finn’s body spasmed once before going still. The smugness wiped clean from his face.
Silence fell like a grave shroud over the room.
Rhys stood there, chest heaving, blade buried deep in the traitor who had once been his brother in all but blood.
Then, finally, he pulled it free, breath rattling in his lungs.
He would remember this moment forever. The one where justice was served not with honor, but with fury.
And still, it didn’t feel like enough.
William and Myles had arrived at some point, and caught him as he swayed, each one grasping an arm.
Rhys let the sword fall to the stone floor with a metallic clang that rang through the ruined keep.
And then, through ragged breath, Billy said, “Come on. She needs ye.”