Aoife screamed and skidded to a halt so violently that she fell to her knees. Heat rolled over her face. The air stank of burning peat. A smoking gouge carved across the path where she’d meant to run.
Not the weather. A warning.
Her heart lurched painfully. Her legs trembled.
The Sheedar were watching.
And their message was clear: Do not break your oath.
She tried to rise. Her body refused. Fear pinned her in place, cold and absolute, sinking into her bones like ice.
If she kept going, the next bolt might not aim for the ground.
“Fine!” she shouted, voice ragged, swallowed by rain. “Fine! I’m going back! Is that what you want? Are you satisfied now?”
The storm answered immediately; the rain softening unnaturally, falling in a soft mist. The world went eerily still, except for the hiss of smoking earth.
Aoife let out a harsh, frustrated sound. “I hear you,” she shouted into the rain. “I hear you.”
Belief, which had faltered moments ago, now surged back, sharp as a blade.
The Sheedar were real.
They were watching.
And they would make her keep her word, whether she wanted to or not.
She rose to her feet on unsteady legs. The path ahead still steamed, blackened and ruined.
She turned toward the house, soaked and shaking, each step heavier than the last.
The Sheedar didn’t need walls to keep her here. They had storms and fog, illusions and endless tricks.
They had fear.
And tonight, they’d reminded her exactly what that meant.
She imagined them laughing as she trudged toward the house, water streaming from her hair and sleeves, her boots squelching in the mud.
She approached the house, light spilling out through the open doors. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. Halverton stared out, assessing the storm. As she watched, he walked into the house and closed the door. A smile spread over her face, happiness at the misfortune of another. At least he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of his ride tonight.
Unwilling to let Halverton know she’d tried to leave, she slipped through the archway in the wall that led to the servants’ entrance and into the house.
The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a single wall lamp left burning for the staff who would still be at work long after she was asleep. Aoife closed the door softly behind her, wincing as the latch slid into place with a thud.
“It’s a bit wet for an evening stroll, miss.”
Aoife jerked violently, spinning. Mrs Harrow stood at the foot of the narrow stair, a folded apron in her hands. Her expression was unreadable, neither shocked nor reproachful, simply… knowing.
“I—” Aoife swallowed. Her hair dripped onto the flagstones. “I wasn’t—”
Mrs Harrow lifted one hand, stopping her. “No explanation is needed.” Her voice was gentle, but not soft. “There are nights in this house when anyone with sense considers running.” She paused, eyes narrowing as they swept over Aoife’s soaked gown, the mud on her hem.
Aoife’s heart thudded hard.
Mrs Harrow tucked the apron under her arm. “I’ve no interest in telling Lord Halverton where you have or haven’t been. My job is to keep the house in order, not report every soul who wanders.” A faint, dry smile flickered. “And between us… if I’d thought there was any real road out, I might’ve taken it myself.”
It was said lightly, almost like a joke, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable.
