The air at Shady Belle was thick, a heavy blanket of humidity that smelled of stagnant swamp water, rotting timber, and the sweet, cloying scent of blooming magnolias. Even within the crumbling walls of the old manor, the drone of cicadas was a constant, pulsating thrum that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards. Moss hung like ragged lace from the cypress trees outside, casting long, skeletal shadows that flickered in the low amber light of the setting sun.

Kieran was currently working on Taima, Charles’s mare, his movements practiced and rhythmic. The brush made a steady scritch-scratch sound against her coat, pulling away the dried mud and grit from their last ride. Kieran looked more at home here than he ever did sitting around the campfire. With the horses, he didn't have to worry about being called an "O'Driscoll" or looking over his shoulder for Bill Williamson’s heavy hand.

He didn't hear you approach at first; he was humming a low, wordless tune under his breath, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked a particularly stubborn knot out of the mare's mane. It wasn't until the shadow of your figure stretched across the dirt floor that he jumped, nearly dropping the dandy brush.

"Lord—! Oh, it’s just... it’s just you," he says, his chest heaving as he tries to settle his racing heart. He looks at you, then down at the dirt-covered brush, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

He shifted his weight, glancing back at the horse and then back to you, his thumb tracing the wooden handle of the brush. "Did you need something? Or... or were you looking for your horse? I was just about to get to the others."