Page 97 of The Violet Raven

“Why me?” I ask, confusion lacing my voice, though my tone feigns annoyance.

“Aye, why him?” Casey echoes, crossing his arms with a raised brow.

Callan doesn’t blink. “Because he’s not slept well in three days. Been tendin’ to Triona nonstop. We both ken he needs it more than anyone else, and she cannae be alone.”

I hesitate, guilt and weariness tangling in my chest. “Are you certain?”

Callan’s eyes meet mine, steady and firm. “Aye. Get some sleep, Finn. Ye really need it. I’ll stay in the common room with Bran. Someone will need to watch him before he gets us kicked out by flirtin’ with the barmaid and her... jugs.”

Bran snorts, clearly pleased. “Now, that’s the spirit, Cal! I could use a minder. Lori’s got a smile that could turn a saint unholy, and what’s one drinking companion when you can have two?”

“Go tend to the horses, will ye, Casey?” Callan says, his voice losing its usual edge. There’s a rare softness to it—something quieter, almost weary.

Casey nods, eyes flicking between us before trailing after Bran with a muttered, “Try not to bloody each other up too badly.”

Their figures fade into the night, leaving me and Callan alone. The tension from earlier still simmers beneath the surface, but it’s heavier now—shaped by grief, shaded with guilt, and filled with the silence of things neither of us knows how to say.

I glance at Triona; her face is still pale but peaceful. “She willnae need another tea,” I murmur, more to myself than Callan. “She’s practically healed. But when she wakes up again…” My words falter. The physical wounds might be fading, but the pain she’ll carry when she’s fully conscious again will be far deeper, far crueller.

“Aye.” Callan’s eyes drift toward the faint tavern glow, his shoulders stiff. After a beat, he adds, voice low and gruff, “I never really gave my thanks. For what ye did. For whatever sent ye racin’ back home. And… for what it’s worth, I believe ye dinnae ken how it is we’re bound for Portugal. Ye’re an honourable man, Finn. And I’m sorry… for what I said yesterday.”

His words hit harder than I expect.

“Aye, prove it then, Cal,” I say, nudging him lightly, trying to ease the tension.

He huffs a laugh. “Guess I’ll prove it with a pint or two.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Then his eyes meet mine—still tired, still shadowed.

“I wish things were different,” I murmur.

“We all do,” he says. “But I’m glad ye’re at my side. Even when it seems like I want to wring yer neck—and ye want to wring mine.”

A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That’s more often than you think.”

“Aye, probably,” he concedes, a faint chuckle escaping, though it’s coloured with sorrow. His gaze drifts back to Triona as she stirs faintly, her brow twitching as if she feels the weight of our grief. “But what ye did… Finn, ye saved us.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in my chest. “I didnae save them all.”

“That’s not on ye to bear,” Callan says sharply.

“And it’s not on you either,” I shoot back.

We stare at each other for a long moment, until he nods—just once, but it’s enough.

He claps my shoulder, solid and grounding. “I’ll see if someone can gather what’s needed to make her comfortable. Can ye carry her in?”

I nod my agreement.

Callan steps up to Shadow, eyeing the horse like he half expects trouble. With a sigh, he takes the reins.

“Right then, beast,” he mutters, giving the reins a tug. “Do us all a favour and behave yerself. Finn’s got his hands full, and I’ve no interest in bein’ dragged through horse shite tonight.”

Shadow snorts, but follows willingly.

Callan shakes his head. “Aye, that’s what I thought. Pretend ye’ve manners for once.”