Page 47 of The Violet Raven

“He’s not right,” he breathes into my ear.

I nod, breathless, trembling.

“Let me handle it.”

Finn’s presence changes—solid, commanding. He steps into the stall as if he’s done it a thousand times.

Shadow rears, hooves flashing. Finn doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Settle,” Finn says low, stepping closer with terrifying calm. “Ye ken me, Scáthfhóilt. Stand down.”

The Gaelic name hits the air heavy—old, familiar, binding.

Shadow bares his teeth, kicking hard against the ground—but Finn doesn’t waver. His hands move until they are iron clamps around the reins. His voice isn’t loud when he speaks, but it feels omnipresent all the same.

“I said settle.”

And somehow—he does.

The transformation isn’t instant, but it’s unmistakable. Shadow shudders. His ears twitch, nostrils flare. But slowly, the tension bleeds out of his body.

I stare, heart caught in my throat.

Finn doesn’t tame him with strength. He doesn’t wrestle him into calm. He calls it into being.

It humbles me, watching it. Watching him.

Finn murmurs something under his breath and gently coaxes Shadow forward, out of the stall and into the clearing. The big stallion follows, quivering but no longer fighting. There’s trust in the movement. Hard-earned. Absolute.

And I can’t tear my eyes away.

Finn moves alongside him, keeping one hand on the reins while the other glides slowly over Shadow’s flank, feeling for heat, for swelling—anything out of place. His palm presses lightly over the stallion’s sides, down his legs, across his chest. A quiet, thorough search.

Then he shifts to the saddle.

His attention sharpens, and then he freezes.

“Finn?” I whisper, barely able to speak.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches beneath the saddle straps and pulls something free. The moment it clears the leather, a sudden biting cold hits my face, sharp enough to sting. It’s a branch—twisted, gnarled, black as coal. Thorns that are like jagged fangs.

“Blackthorn…” Finn mutters, holding it up for me to see its twisted branches and sharp thorns catching the light.

Revulsion twists in my gut. My skin crawls. Blackthorn isn’t just wood—it’s weaponised malice.

“Why would this be here?” I whisper, fingers curling around the necklace he gave me earlier, seeking anything to ground me.

Heavy footsteps thunder across the gravel. Callan barrels into the clearing, shirt half-buttoned, eyes wide. “What the hell happened?! I heard screamin’—”

Casey and Eamon’s entry cut Callan off. Both of them barge in with hair wild, blades drawn.

“What happened?!” Casey practically screeches out.

Finn holds up the branch.

Callan recoils instinctively. “Is that—?”

“Aye, blackthorn,” Finn growls. “Wedged up under his saddle. Just waitin’.”