Flynn nodded. “I’ll ride with ye when ye go.”
“I expected ye would,” Ian replied. He began marking small notes along the map’s edge, his mind settling into strategy rather than memory.
Flynn glanced at him sideways. “Does she ken how fierce ye can look when ye’re thinkin’?”
Ian arched a brow. “Does Melissa ken how much ye chatter?”
Flynn grinned unrepentantly. “She kens and tolerates it.”
Ian’s expression softened slightly at that.
“She seemed pleased,” Flynn said more gently. “Yer wife.”
Ian’s fingers paused over the parchment. “Aye,” he admitted quietly. “She was.”
Flynn clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “Then ye’re nae soft, Ian. Ye’re simply a man who cares, and care is a dangerous thing.”
Ian met his friend’s gaze, his jaw clenched at the statement. His friend’s words echoed in his mind.
Caring is a dangerous thing.
Ian rolled up the map.
“So,” Flynn said casually, folding his arms, “did ye at least hold her hand under the stars, or were ye too noble for even that?”
Ian narrowed his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. “Mind yer own hands, Flynn.”
“Aye, I mind them well enough,” Flynn replied with a laugh. “Melissa would skin me alive if I didnae.”
Ian allowed himself the faintest smirk. “A wise fear and…”
The sharp crash of shattering glass cut him off mid-sentence.
Both men turned as shards scattered across the stone floor. Flynn leapt back as though struck, nearly stumbling over a chair.
“Sweet mercy!” he exclaimed. “That’s a cursed sign if ever I saw one.”
Ian did not flinch. “It’s a broken window, nae the end of days,” he said dryly.
Flynn stared at the jagged frame, eyes wide. “Nay, Ian, that’s how it begins. First glass, then blood.”
“Ye’ve been listening to old wives again,” Ian muttered, stepping carefully across the floor.
Flynn hovered behind him, peering around his shoulder. “Glass shatters before war, I’ve heard it said.”
Ian bent and picked up a smooth stone from amid the scattered shards. It was no larger than his palm, ordinary and unremarkable. “Aye,” he replied flatly, “and stones fly before boys lose control of their arms.”
He crossed to the window and looked down into the courtyard. A small cluster of village children darted behind a cart, their heads barely visible as they crouched in fear. One boy peeked up briefly, eyes wide with dread, before vanishing again.
Ian exhaled through his nose. “Foolish bairns,” he murmured.
Flynn craned his neck to see. “What is it?”
“An accident,” Ian said simply. “They were likely playin’ at some battle and misjudged their aim.”
Flynn blinked. “Ye’re nae goin’ to drag them up here and roar at them?”
Ian shook his head. “For what? To have them tremble at shadows?”
