Leah trailed her gaze up from the base of the dark, formidable stone keep up to the roofline. The dying light of the day cast imposing, cold shadows across the structure’s surface. Increasing numbers of eyes weighed upon her. Her stomach churned. Oh God, what had she gotten herself into? With a gentle tug, Rathe pulled Bran’s reins out of her grasp and handed them to a young man off to the side. He pulled her hand up to his lips and pressed a light kiss into the backs of her fingers. One word fell in a whisper from his lips. “Finally.” The air left her lungs in a rush, her head spiraling with strange, barely connected thoughts. Swords. Blood. Faceless children. Hot tea. She was supposed to spend her life here? “Dadaidh!” came a small voice from somewhere in the crowd. And all at once the thoughts stilled, her vision focusing on a small girl of about five years of age in a blue shift dress running toward them as fast as her little legs would carry her. Her black curls bounced in wild abandon around her cherubic face.
