Her mother didn’t scold. She merely looked up, one red brow arched with quiet amusement. “When ye’re the one in charge, will ye lift every barrel, too?”

Sorcha didn’t answer. Her gaze had drifted toward the open shutters. Beyond them, wind rippled through the heather on the hills. Somewhere beyond the wall, her brothers shouted over steel, training again, no doubt. She could hear the thud of boots, the crack of wooden training swords, the laughter that always followed when one of them landed in the dirt.

She shifted on the bench, slipping a hand beneath her skirts. Her fingers found the scrap of cloth, worn soft with handling. Inside lay a small blade, the hilt bearing the bite of rust, but it was hers.

She’d found it nearly a week past, dropped behind the stables and left forgotten. She’d cleaned it, wrapped it, and kept it. None knew, not even Tavish, her eldest brother.

Hidden or not, she felt braver when she held it. It was something that belonged only to her, not a duty or a lesson, but a blade.