16. Farewell and Fury #3
With her free hand, she reaches for Bran. Their fingers find each other without hesitation, locking in a quiet clasp.
His grip is firm, grounding. His gaze meets hers, and in it is an unspoken promise—strength, steadiness, and something that feels a little like hope.
“I’ll take these three and the whisky ahead,” Alex says, gesturing to Saorise, Eamon, and Dealla. “We need to remain separated so as not to draw attention.”
“The two of ye will have to share a horse,” Callan declares, addressing Casey and Bran. They exchange a look—a silent acknowledgment of the arrangement .
Bran speaks up, “I don’t mind riding with Casey; this one time.” His playful smirk, however, belies the turbulent feelings he hides beneath the facade.
Alex casts a steady glance at his son. “Bran, we meet in eight days’ time at Port Oban.”
Then he turns his gaze toward me. “I assume, given your training alongside Bran, you can tend to a wound?” I nod in acknowledgement.
“Good, that one will need constant care. Keep it clean. Keep it bound.”
Nearby, Casey and Dealla exchange a long embrace. He whispers something I can’t make out, then presses a quick kiss to her hair. Whatever words pass between them seem to bring her comfort, though her face is still sorrowful when they pull apart.
Then, each of them mounts atop a horse and disappears down a hidden back road. The rhythmic thud of hooves fade into the night. Silence follows, pressing down with the weight of all that has been lost—and all that is yet to come.
James and Ellen stand before us, their expressions grave. James’s hand rests on Ellen’s shoulder as she speaks. “Much will unfold on yer journey. Keep an open mind, all of ye. What lies ahead…face it together.”
She doesn’t need to ask for our promise. We already know. A shared look passes between us, unspoken yet absolute. There is no other way forward but together.
There’s a faint glow in the distance, flickering unnaturally, and James’s eyes narrow. Ellen’s voice grows urgent. “Go. Ye need to leave.”
Without another word, they turn and run back toward the house, their figures disappearing into the growing darkness.
We linger, hidden in the shadows, unwilling to part.
Not yet. Not when every instinct screams that this moment, this place—it’s a fleeting breath before the tide of fate sweeps us forward.
Our breaths are shallow, our hearts pounding, but it’s more than fear keeping us rooted—it’s the gnawing knowledge that this is the last time we will stand here as we are. Once we leave, there is no coming back.
“They’re here,” Casey says.
A low murmur ripples through the approaching group before a commanding voice cuts through the night.
“Search the property,” one barks, his tone slicing through the uneasy hush like a blade drawn from its sheath. “We bring in everyone the filthy bog rat mentioned.”
Another man snorts. “Are you still planning to pay her the twenty shillings agreed upon? ”
The first man laughs, a low, cruel sound that cuts through the tension. “Not in the slightest. Far as I’m concerned, she did exactly what’s expected of a dirty Scot. She just didn’t realise she’d sell out this family for nothing.”
The second man laughs sinisterly. “What exactly does Sirr want us to do?”
“He said to have them all out here waiting when he arrives.”
Minutes stretch into eternity as the men ransack the house.
The crack of breaking furniture punctuates the night, followed by the distant clang of metal and the sharp sound of something heavy striking the floor.
Shadows shift behind the broken glass of the windows.
We hear shouts and the faint sounds of a scuffle.
It’s torture watching from this position, unable to help, unable to do anything but listen as our world is torn apart piece by piece.
Then, they emerge—dragging James first. Blood drips from his face, his clothes torn and his gait unsteady. Yet his eyes are fierce, unbroken.
Behind him, Ellen stumbles, a fistful of her hair wrapped in the man’s hand pulling her forward. Lip split, blood trailing down her chin, but she holds her head high.
Casey shifts beside me, a quiet gasp escaping his throat. Before he can make another sound, Bran hisses in his ear. “Don’t, Casey. You’ll give us away.”
Callan’s sharp gaze locks on the figures emerging from the darkness. His knuckles whiten around the hilt of his blade, but he doesn’t move.
Two figures haul Marcus into view, his battered face streaked with blood and his body sagging lifelessly. They toss him to the ground in front of James and Ellen without a shred of care.
“So much for his damned help,” Callan growls, his voice like gravel, thick with barely restrained fury. “He stayed behind, swore he’d buy us time, make a difference. And yet here he is—bloodied, beaten, and thrown at their feet like a useless scrap.”
Hooves thunder in the distance, and a new group of riders arrives.
At their head is a man whose presence seems to draw the warmth from the wind itself.
He dismounts in one fluid motion. His boots, polished black leather, are sturdy but finely crafted.
They’re not the scuffed footwear of a common soldier—they speak of wealth and power, a reminder that he is not like the men he commands.
His long coat billows slightly in the wind, a dark woolen garment with reinforced shoulders. The fabric is well-fitted but functional, its deep black colour blending into the night. The high collar, turned up against the night, frames a face carved in sharp, angular lines.
His hat—a broad-brimmed, dark felt affair—sits low over his brow, casting his face in shadow.
He lifts it, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that glint like steel in the torchlight.
His presence radiates control and menace, a man who orchestrates violence not for the thrill, but for the cold efficiency of achieving his goals.
The man stops in front of James, his tone coiled in mock curiosity.
“Where is she?” he asks, his tone cold and sharp.
“Henry Charles Sirr,” James says. “Fancy seein’ ye after all these years.” He meets Sirr’s gaze without flinching. “I dinnae ken who ye mean.”
A ripple of shock grips me, and my gaze snaps to Callan and Casey.
Their eyes mirror my disbelief, their subtle shakes of the head confirming what I already suspect—they know nothing of this.
Nothing of James’s past with this man. And yet, here it is, unfolding before us like the turning of a hidden page in a story we were never meant to read.
Two men emerge from the house, shaking their heads. “The place is empty. Whoever was here didn’t leave long ago. The house is in disarray, and it’s still got a bit of warmth to it,” one says.
Sirr’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to James. “So, you were warned, I presume?”
James says nothing, his silence a wall Sirr cannot breach.
Sirr’s gaze shifts to Marcus, lying in a crumpled heap.
A cruel smirk plays on his lips. “The poor fool was so desperate to fuck the girl that he threw away his future without a second thought. How tragically predictable.” He clicks his tongue, almost amused.
“His father will be thrilled to hear about it—when he arrives to collect what’s left of his disgrace of a son. ”
“How the hell did they know about Triona?” Bran questions rhetorically. We all exchange glances, unsure what the hell is happening.
James’s head tilts slightly toward where we hide, his gaze sweeping the darkness—too precise, too knowing. It shouldn’t be possible for him to see us, but the way his eyes pause, the way they seem to linger just a moment too long, sends a shiver down my spine.
Is it instinct? A final, desperate hope we aren’t there?
My body feels paralyzed, my feet rooted to the ground, refusing to obey the silent command in his stare .
Sirr slowly unsheathes his blade. The metal catches the flickering torchlight, its edge glinting with deadly purpose. Time feels as though it slows, each breath drawn shallow and quiet.
“What a pretty pity,” he murmurs, voice like silk drawn over steel. “All that fire, wasted on what’s already mine to take.”
Then, in a flash, the tension shatters. Sirr moves with brutal precision, his blade cutting through the air.
James doesn’t flinch, doesn’t struggle—he meets his fate with a quiet, unwavering defiance, his eyes burning with the last embers of resistance—a last act of rebellion that sears itself into my memory like a brand.
A spray of crimson, stark and vivid, is followed by the sickening sound of air escaping from James’ severed throat.
He falls forward, his hand instinctively reaching for his neck, but it’s futile. Blood pours from the wound, pooling beneath him as he falls forward, his body crumpling in a lifeless heap.
Stop !
The word claws at the back of my throat, desperate to escape, but I bite it down, my fists clenched so tightly they tremble. Callan grips his blade, his whole body taut like a coiled spring, ready to explode.
Ellen’s scream cuts through the night, raw and anguished, a sound that doesn’t just echo—it scars. She lunges toward her husband’s fallen form, but the man holding her yanks her back by her hair, forcing her to her knees.
“Ellen Sinclair,” Sirr muses coldly, as if savouring the moment. He takes a step toward her, the blade dripping with James’ blood. “You’ve always had a firm voice. Let’s hear it now.”
Her sobs turn into a feral growl as she struggles against her captor. “Ye bastard,” she spits. “Ye’ll rot for this.”
Sirr smirks, tilting his head like a predator toying with its prey. “Perhaps. But not tonight.”
With a single, ruthless motion, he drives the blade through the side of her neck. The sound is sickening—a wet, gasping slice that cuts through the hush like a shriek. Blood spills in a violent arc, catching the firelight as it splashes across the ground and Sirr’s boots .
Ellen crumples beside James, her knees giving way as her outstretched hand just barely grazes his. Her lips part, as if to speak—to call out to him one last time—but no words come. Only a shallow, shuddering breath.
Her body trembles once… then goes still. Her lifeblood seeps out, mingling with his until it’s indistinguishable.
Two lives. One final act of defiance. One cruel silence.
The world feels as if it’s spinning. Casey makes a sound—a choked, animalistic cry—but Bran clamps a hand over his mouth, pulling him back into the shadows.
“Steady,” Bran hisses, his voice barely a whisper.
Tears streak Casey’s face, and for the first time, I see Bran’s resolve start to tremble as he holds him.
Tears burn in my eyes, but I force myself to look away… and my eyes find Callan, who looks absolutely distraught with grief.
Sirr wipes the blade against a cloth, the motion casual, as though slitting the throats of James and Ellen Sinclair meant nothing to him. Torchlight flickers against the blood pooling at his boots, staining the ground beneath him.
“Burn the castle down. They resisted our attempt to clear them from the home, leaving us no choice but to engage. That’s what started this, right, men?” They all laugh in unison, the sound sickening.
“Do what you will with their corpses… but no fucking the dead, gentlemen. I have to draw the line somewhere.” Disgust churns violently as they speak about two of the kindest humans, as if their lives meant nothing.
“This is it,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “We have to leave, Cal.” I steer Shadow quietly over to him, to shake him out of the daze he’s in. He’s trembling, grief barely contained. He looks over at me, sheer panic in his eyes.
Shadow shifts beneath me, sensing the urgency, but Callan remains rooted to the spot, his eyes shifting back to the lifeless forms of James and Ellen. The glow of the torches reflects in his eyes.
“Cal,” I urge, my voice barely audible. “We have to go. Now.” For a moment, I worry he won’t move, that he’ll charge out there and get himself killed, but then something shifts. He shuts his eyes tightly, his body trembling as he struggles to compose himself.
“We’re leaving ‘em like they mean nothin’,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice cracking.
“We have no other choice,” I say, my throat tight with grief as I gesture toward Triona. “For her—for all of us. ”
When he opens his eyes again, the fury and anguish is still there, but a flicker of willpower has returned. He nods, a single curt motion, and grips the reins of his horse.
“We ride,” I whisper, meeting Bran’s gaze, barely audible over the sound of my pounding heart.
Behind us, Sirr’s voice rings out, sharp and commanding.
“Leave nothing standing!” The faint echoes of Sirr’s men shouting carry through the night as we slip into the darkness, silent shadows swallowed by the wilderness.
The images of James and Ellen—broken, lifeless, and betrayed—are forever burned into my mind.
The reality of our situation sinks heavily into my chest, pressing against my heart with unrelenting force. We’re on the run—venturing forth into the unknown, armed with only our fragile resolve.
Flames rise as we slip into the darkness, our bodies moving but our souls left behind, watching the only world we knew turn to ash.
And when Triona wakes… we will have to relive this all over again.