Page 48 of The Violet Raven

Eamon blinks hard, shaking his head. “I saddled him not half an hour ago…”

Casey takes a step closer, inspecting the branch with narrowed eyes. “That’s placed. You dinnae just pick that up in a brush.”

Shadow snorts, still rattled, still watching the thing like it might leap from Finn’s hand.

Eamon’s voice is quiet, almost too small. “That kind of wood… it’s used in binding spells. Dark ones. And curses. Sometimes… sacrifices.”

“It could mean nothin’,” Finn says, his tone soothing but his eyes shadowed with worry. “Could be it was tangled in the saddle?”

A shudder rolls through me.

“Not a chance. Someone did that,” Eamon urges. “I swear to the gods it wasn’t there, Finn. I’m certain.”

“Burn it,” Callan demands. “Now.”

Dealla and Saoirse approach with apparent hesitation.

“What’s this then?” Dealla asks, voice tight.

Saoirse takes one look at the Finn’s hand and her face drains of colour. “That’s cursed wood.”

Without ceremony, she takes it from Finn’s hand. Her fingers barely brush the bark before she grimaces.

“I’m burnin’ it. Right now.”

She moves to the firepit with a strange urgency—swift but silent, her skirts barely whispering over the ground. As she lowers herself to her knees, she does so with a practiced steadiness, like someone performing a rite.

Beside me, Finn pulls his shirt back on, fingers moving quickly, jaw tight. Then, without a word, he wraps an arm around me—grounding me.

But the cold lingers. My skin prickles. My pulse won’t settle.

Shadow isn’t thrashing anymore. But he isn’t calm, either. He watches the fire, ears pinned back, a deep unease radiating from his enormous frame.

“Dinnae fash, Little Doe,” Finn murmurs, voice low enough for only me to hear.

We all feel it—that heaviness, the shift in the air. As if something’s been disturbed. Awoken.

A gust of wind rushes in, stirring ash and loose straw across the ground. Somewhere nearby, a raven caws once—sharp and out of place.

A chill skitters down my spine. My gaze shifts to the far end of the stables, drawn by movement in the gloom.

A figure looms, half-shrouded in shadow.

Colina.

She’s staring, arms at her sides, the sunlight barely brushing her face. Her eyes aren’t on the fire Saoirse is trying to coax into life, or the blackthorn still smouldering in the pit. They’re not even on Shadow, still tense as he seems to pace around us.

Her gaze rests on Finn’s arm across my body, on the way I’m leaning into him. Her brow tightens, almost imperceptibly. A small flicker of something passes over her face. There, then gone.

Focused in such a way that she doesn’t notice that I’m looking at her.

But then, as if some current between us jolts to life, our eyes meet.

Colina straightens.

And without a word, she turns and walks away, disappearing behind the stable with quick, purposeful steps.

I blink, uncertain.