Page 91 of The Violet Raven

Casey, riding with him, keeps his gaze down. His voice trembles as he speaks. “I think…” He hesitates, then swallows hard. “I think they saw their end comin’.”

I snap my head toward him, brows knitting together. “What are you talkin’ about, Casey?”

“What Ma said,” Casey states, his voice firmer now. “‘Nineteen moons shall orbit bright, ‘round the sun’s commanding light. Death will come within a day, the sacrifice will cause dismay.’ Triona turned nineteen yesterday… and now…”

A bitter taste rises in the back of my throat.

“Ma… the way she hugged me before we left. The things Da said. As if they were sayin’ goodbye, and they’d made peace with it.” Casey says.

“They knew, and they didnae say a bloody word. Why?” I ask.

Callan pulls his horse to a halt and turns to glare at us, his eyes cold and fierce, as if he can will us all into silence. “Enough.” His voice is sharp, a blade slicing through the tension. “They kent, aye. So what? Does it change what’s done?”

“It changes everything,” Casey snaps back. His reins shake in his hands. “Why not warn us? Why not tell us what was comin’?”

“They have to have had good reason,” Bran says quietly, his voice carrying a weight I’m not used to hearing from him. “They didn’t want you going into this carrying their burden. They carried it alone.”

Casey scoffs, wiping angrily at his face. “And now they’re dead, and we’re homeless, clueless, and just aimlessly followin’ the vague directions given in the heat of the moment. On a road we can barely see with orders so rushed they might as well have been spoken by the wind. Fat lot of good that did in the end. How does not havin’ a clue what to do help honour their memory? How can their deaths mean something?”

I tighten my grip on the reins, the leather biting into my palms. He isn’t wrong. We are lost in every sense of the word, floundering in the dark with nothing but fragments of warnings and riddles to guide us.

“They trusted us,” I say, my voice low, steady. I meet Casey’s glare, refusing to look away. “Whatever reason they had, whatever they knew, they trusted us to figure it out. To protect her. To stop this madness.”

“And we will,” Brans says, his voice rough, the fire in his tone as sharp as steel. “But this,”—he gestures to the lot of us—“this blaming and doubt… it ends here. So much has been lost already. We have a purpose, and we see that through with the information we do have.”

Casey sobers a bit, his shoulders sagging as he exhales slowly. He gives a small, wary nod, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Bran shifts in the saddle they share, leaning closer to Casey. He places a steady hand on Casey’s shoulder, giving it a compassionate squeeze. “I know I’ve not known your family long like I have Finn, but I’ve got you. We’ve got each other,” he says smoothly, his usual smirk replaced by a rare earnestness. “No one is alone in this.”

The road stretches out ahead of us, dark and uncertain, but there is no turning back, and it’s best we all face that.

“We keep ridin’,” I say. “And maybe now, we can truly empathise and feel the despair James and Ellen did when they were told a child of theirs would one day have to face such hardship. We’ll do what they did, and bear it… and choose to fight for her, anyway.”

Triona

Saturday, 3 May 1823

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands

The first thing I notice is the warmth. Soft sunlight filters through the canvas above me, casting golden streaks across the pale fabric. The air smells of fresh grass and earth, mingled with something faintly medicinal. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but I force them open, squinting against the dappled light.

A tent. I’m in a tent.

Confusion swirls in my chest as my eyes adjust. The sunlight glints off something metallic nearby—a basin, perhaps. Slowly, I turn my head, wincing as pain lances through my skull, spreading like ripples in water. My body feels heavy, pinned down by an invisible weight. I groan, the sound faint and unrecognisable in my own ears.

“Triona?”

A voice cuts through the haze. Familiar. Grounding. It tugs at me, pulling me back from the abyss. I blink against the light, my lashes damp with tears I don’t remember crying. Slowly, the blurry edges of a face comes into focus.

“Casey?” My voice cracks, dry and raw. I blink again, harder this time, forcing the world to sharpen. His face hovers above mine, his usually mischievous features drawn tight with worry. His lips press into a thin line, and his eyes—hazel like our mother’s—are red-rimmed and glistening.

“Thank the gods,” he breathes, his hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurts. “I thought—” He stops, shaking his head, his throat bobbing as he swallows whatever words he can’t say.

My head throbs, memories swimming just out of reach. “What... happened?” My voice feels foreign, weak. “Where... where are we?”

I try to push myself up, but the sudden rush of dizziness and a searing pain in my back knocks me down. I let out a string of pained moans and curses.

Casey’s hand flies to my shoulder, steadying me.