23. The Unexpected
The Unexpected
T he ship sways beneath us as the harbour comes into view, the scent of salt and citrus filling the air.
Portugal is a feast for the senses even before we set foot on its soil.
The city sprawls out before us, whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs gleaming under the afternoon sun.
The gentle hum of life reaches us on the breeze—distant voices, the cries of seagulls, and the faint strum of a lute carried from somewhere unseen.
I grip the railing tighter, the warmth of the metal surprising after the chill of the voyage.
The waves lap at the sides of the ship, their rhythm almost hypnotic.
Triona stands a few feet away, the wind catching strands of her hair and tossing them around her face.
She’s dressed simply—travel-worn but radiant in a way that seems unfair to the rest of us.
I can’t look at her without feeling a pull in my chest, like the tides bending to the moon .
Her smile breaks through the haze of my thoughts when she glances back at me. “Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to help unload?” she teases, her accent thick with home, yet her voice feels at odds with the foreign shores.
Casey appears beside her, slinging an arm over her shoulder and ruffling her hair like a pup. She swats him off with a mock scowl, but her laughter bubbles up anyway, light and carefree.
“Ready to face what lies ahead, piuthar ?”
The gangplank is lowered, and a cacophony of sounds greets us as the dockworkers shout instructions in rapid Portuguese.
The language is a melody I don’t know the words to yet, but its rhythm is intoxicating.
I follow the others off the ship, my boots landing on solid ground with a thud that reverberates up my legs.
The sun feels different here, warmer, softer—like it kisses rather than scorches.
I look back, watching Triona as she takes it all in. Her lips part slightly, her expression one of awe. She’s always like this—open to every new experience, drinking in the world as if it might vanish tomorrow. She catches me staring, and I don’t look away this time.
“What?” she asks, tilting her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, though my chest feels full, like I’ve swallowed too much air. “Just… it suits you.”
She blinks, confused, then laughs softly. “Portugal?”
“No,” I reply, my voice lower, barely audible over the surrounding bustle. “The sun.”
Her smile falters for a moment, something flickering in her gaze, but she doesn’t press me. Instead, she reaches up and squeezes my arms before calling for Casey to help her with their bags. I watch her go, the space she leaves behind heavier than it should be.
The city waits for us, alive with possibilities. I pull my pack higher on my shoulder and follow.
As we wait for our herd to unload from the ship, I glance toward the others. Callan is busy haggling with a merchant, but Bran? He lingers at the edge of the group, arms crossed, staring at the water.
He’s been slipping away since last night. Distant. Tense.
Normally, he’d be right at Casey’s side, trading jokes or making some sarcastic remark, but now? He’s barely acknowledging anyone.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab Bran by the arm and pull him to the side. He yelps in protest, nearly dropping the pack slung over his shoulder .
“Mac, what’s your problem?” His voice is sharp, but the moment he sees my face, his expression shifts—something uneasy flickers behind his eyes.
“I need a word,” I say low enough that the others won’t hear. I glance over my shoulder, just to be sure. The last thing I want is for this conversation to turn into a spectacle.
Bran frowns, his usual smirk absent. “A word about what?”
I cross my arms, leaning closer. “Are we goin’ to talk about what happened last night?”
“We are not having this conversation,” he says, his voice clipped, “and we will never speak about it again.”
I exhale slowly, forcing my voice to remain level. “Bran, I’m not here to judge,” I say, keeping my stance firm while my tone softens. “I just need to know ye’re all right.”
His jaw tightens, and he glares at me, but it’s not the sharp, cutting Bran I know. There’s fear there, buried beneath the irritation, and it makes my chest ache. “Finn, I am not discussing this with you.”
The heat of his anger catches me off guard, but I refuse to back down. “So you can talk about my life, but the moment I bring up yers, I’m supposed to shut my mouth?”
Bran’s jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow. “Your choices won’t get you killed,” he snaps, his voice biting. “So fucking drop it, Finn.”
The breath punches out of me. My fists curl at my sides, but I force myself to stay calm. “Ye think I’d ever do anything to risk yer safety?”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You don’t get it, Finn. You can’t just… waltz in like some storybook hero and set everything right. I don’t need you to protect me, and I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity ,” I say firmly. “It’s me lookin’ out for someone I’d do a whole hell of a lot for. That’s what this is.”
For a moment, the bravado slips. His gaze flickers away, his jaw working like he’s chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. Then he shoves past me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Drop it, Mac. Whatever you think you saw—whatever you think you know—you’re wrong.”
Finally, I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “Fine. Keep your secrets, if that’s how you want it.”
Bran doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at me, his expression unreadable, before stepping back and adjusting his pack. “You’ve got enough to deal with, mate. Focus on that. ”
Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with too many gods damned questions and a knot of frustration tightening in my chest.
Triona
The weight of my pack presses down on me, each step toward the harbour’s end burdened by the growing anxiety inside. Callan leads the way. A slip of paper with an address is clutched firmly in his hand, his brows drawn in an unwavering, determined focus.
The rest of us follow in silence, and despite Casey attempting to lighten the mood, it seems to fall short. Something about that feels odd.
Bran’s quiet isn’t the comfortable kind; it’s the heavy, brooding kind.
He’s been off since Finn pulled him aside this morning.
The usual spark in his eyes is missing, replaced by a tightness in his jaw and a brooding air that clings to him like a storm cloud.
He lingers a step behind us, his gaze flicking toward Finn now and then, only to snap back to the street ahead.
Casey keeps looking at Bran like he’s holding back from saying something.
A look that promises an argument if Bran so much as breathes the wrong way.
It’s strange. They usually get along like a house on fire—teasing, joking, backing each other up.
Now, the air between them feels thick, like a storm about to break.
And then there’s Finn. He’s striding ahead of us, his shoulders tense and his mouth set in a hard line.
He hasn’t said a word in what feels like hours, and the scowl etched into his face makes him look older, harsher somehow.
He glares at Bran every so often, though he says nothing, which is almost worse than the alternative.
Finn isn’t one to simmer in silence unless something’s really eating at him .
Bran glances my way, and for a moment, I catch something raw in his expression—something almost vulnerable—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a familiar smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You’re quiet,” I say, keeping my tone light, hoping he’ll take the bait.
He shrugs, his usual swagger muted. “Long trip, Sinclair. Even I get tired.”
“Since when?” Callan asks, his tone sharp enough to make Bran’s smirk falter.
Bran’s shoulders stiffen, his smirk vanishing. “Don’t start, Callan,” he mutters, his voice dangerously flat.
“Start? I huv’nae said anythin’,” Callan replies, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Jus seems odd, is all. Usually, ye can’t stop running that mouth o’ yours.”
Bran stops walking abruptly, turning to face Callan. “Maybe I just don’t have the energy to be chatty today.”
“Or maybe,” Callan says, taking a step closer, his voice dropping lower, “there’s something else eating at you.”
Finn glances back at the exchange, his jaw tightening as he mutters something under his breath. He doesn’t intervene, though, his focus staying fixed on the road ahead, his shoulders tense and his steps heavy.
“Leave it, Callan,” I say sharply, stepping between them before it can escalate further. “We’ve all been through enough the past few days without adding to it.”
If the four of them don’t work it out soon, I might be the one losing my patience—and none of them will want to see that.
The harbourmaster’s office comes into view, its sun-bleached walls standing out against the blue sky. But before we reach it, everything stops. Every sound, every step, every thought halts as if the world itself has drawn a sharp breath.
I freeze mid-step, my heart skipping as my eyes lock on the figure ahead. A woman stands there, arms crossed, her dark hair catching the sunlight. Her familiar grin is wide, filled with mischief and warmth, the expression that could light even the gloomiest of days.
“Deidre?” I whisper, my voice barely audible above the din of the street.
She lifts a hand in a casual wave, as if she hasn’t been missing from my life for what feels like an eternity .
“Deidre!” The cry rips from my throat before I can think. My pack slips from my shoulders, clattering to the ground as I take off at a sprint. My legs move faster than they have all day, carrying me toward her, toward home.