Page 90 of The Violet Raven

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.

Part 4 – It Caused Dismay

17

The Road of Silent Footfalls

Finn

Hours after the Attack

We travel in silence with the cloud of death hanging over us. The steady clop of hooves on the dirt road and Casey’s muffled cries are the only sound in the cold, empty night. The weight of grief hangs heavy in the air.

Callan rides ahead, his jaw tight and his hand gripping the reins as though they are the only thing keeping him anchored.

Bran is the first to break the silence, his voice unusually subdued. “This doesn’t feel real,” he mutters. “None of it does.”