Castle Keppoch, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, December 1689

“I’m leavin’, and I’m askin’ fer yer blessin’ as laird, braither.”

The words fell into the great hall like stones into still water, rippling outward through the sudden silence. Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her sleeve, worrying the fabric between thumb and forefinger while four pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Her eldest brother, Laird Tòrr MacDonald, set down the missive he’d been reading. Across from him, Daemon’s hand stilled on his wine cup. Catherine, who was visiting after the return of her sister from her captivity, paused mid-step near the hearth, and Sofia, who’d been mending a torn hem by the window, looked up with startled blue-gray eyes.

“Leavin’?” Tòrr’s voice was carefully neutral, but Alyson caught the tightness around his mouth. “Where would ye go then, sister?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her heart hammered against her ribs. Say it. Tell them. They need tae understand.

“I need tae go tae Iona Abbey.” Her voice came out steadier than she’d expected. “I intend tae take vows.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to quiet, as if the castle itself held its breath.

“Nay.” Daemon’s word cracked like a whip. He surged to his feet, the intensity in his hazel eyes burning hot enough to scorch. “Absolutely nay.”

“Daemon—”

“We didnae pull ye from Campbell’s dungeon so ye could lock yerself away in another prison, sister!”

Alyson flinched at the vehemence in his tone, her fingers tightening on her sleeve.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“’Tis a sanctuary, Daemon.”

“’Tis runnin’.” Catherine moved closer, her auburn hair catching the firelight. Her voice was gentler than her brother’s, but no less firm. “And MacDonalds dinnae run from anythin’, Alyson. That’s nae who ye are.”

Campbell took that brave girl and left somethin’ else in her place.

“Please,” she said softly, looking at each of them in turn. “Just… hear me out, please. Dinnae ye owe me that much, at least?”

Tòrr gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Explain.”

She remained standing, needing the distance, needing to feel like she had some control in this moment. Her fingers continued their restless dance along her sleeve’s edge.

“I cannae stay here.” The words came slowly, each one pulled from somewhere deep and painful. “I wake screamin’ most nights. I cannae be in a room with more than two people without feelin’ like the walls are closin’ in. I flinch when men get too close, even men I’ve kent me whole life, me family.” Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I’m… broken, Tòrr.”

“Ye’re nae broken,” Sofia said fiercely, abandoning her mending to cross the room. She stopped just out of reach, respecting the distance Alyson needed. “Ye’re healin’. That takes time.”

“Four months, Sofia. ‘Tis been four months, and I’m still…” She trailed off, that familiar fog closing in when memories threatened to surface. Her fingers found her sleeve again, grounding herself in the texture. “I need peace. Need silence. Need walls thick enough tae ensure that the world cannae reach me.”

“And ye think stone walls and prayers will give ye that?” Daemon’s voice was rough with something that might have been grief. “Alyson, hidin’ from the world isnae livin’.”

“I’m nae livin’ now!” The words burst out of her, sharp and raw. “I’m just… survivin’.” She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart race beneath her fingers. “And I’m so tired of bein’ afraid, Daemon. Tired of seein’ pity in all of yer eyes. Tired of this… this soul crushin’ fear that Campbell left in me that I cannae undae or outrun or escape.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with truths none of them wanted to acknowledge.

Finally, Tòrr spoke. “There’s more tae this than healin’, isnae there?”

She met his green eyes—so like her own—and saw the understanding there. He’d always been able to read her, even when she tried to hide.

“Aye. I refuse tae live me life in fear of Cody Grant, braither.”

Daemon’s fist slammed onto the table, making everyone jump. “That bastard!”

“He’s sent three more letters in the past fortnight alone,” Alyson said quietly. “Each more… persistent than the last.”

“Persistent?” Catherine’s voice dripped with contempt. “The man’s obsessed. He wants ye as some twisted… recompense fer losin’ Isabeau tae Micheal.”

“Let him come.” Daemon’s hand dropped to his dirk. “I’ll gut him where he stands.”

“And start a clan war?” Tòrr’s tone sharpened. “Grant may be a fool, but he has allies. The Pact of Argyll isnae dead just because Angus Campbell is.”

“Herman Forbes still draws breath,” Daemon added grimly. “And that snake has been pullin’ Cody’s strings since the lad was old enough tae hold a mirror!”

Alyson listened to them discuss her future, her safety, her life as if she weren’t standing right there. A familiar numbness crept over her, the same detachment that had kept her sane in Campbell’s dungeon.

“If I take these vows,” she said in a gap in their argument, “Grant has nay claim tae me. Ever. Nor any other. The Church protects its own.”

“The Church didnae protect ye from Campbell,” Micheal shot back.

“Because I wasnae under their protection then.” She lifted her chin, feeling something almost like strength flow through her. “But once I take vows, even Grant wouldnae dare such blasphemy.”

Tòrr studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, and she knew she’d won—or lost, depending on how one looked at it.

“If this is truly what ye want,” he said slowly, “I’ll nae stand in yer way.”

“Tòrr—” Daemon started.

“She’s a grown woman, braither. And she’s survived things that would have broken most men.” He looked at Alyson with something that might have been respect beneath the sorrow. “If she needs this tae feel safe again, who are we tae deny her?”

“Ach!” Catherine made a sound of distress. “But tae lose her tae—”

“Ye’re nae losin’ me.” Alyson’s throat tightened. “I’ll still be yer sister. I’ll just be… elsewhere. Which was bound tae happen sooner or later anyway, if I married.”

Alive, nae livin’. But safe…

“Iona Abbey is a week’s ride from here,” Daemon said, his tactical mind already working through logistics. “Through MacLeod lands first, then skirtin’ the edge of Glen Moore. We’ll need tae arrange—”

“Glen Moore,” Tòrr interrupted, straightening. “That’s in Keane MacLean’s territory, is it nae?”

“Aye. The abbey falls under his protection.”

A thoughtful silence fell as they all considered this.

“He’s pretty much kept himself out of clan politics,” Tòrr mused. “Never joined the Pact, but never openly opposed it either. A hard man, by all accounts, but fair.”

“We should write tae him,” Catherine suggested. “Ask fer safe passage through his lands and his protection fer the journey. If Grant’s men are watchin’ the roads—and we should assume they are—we’ll need assurance that MacLean’s warriors willnae see an armed MacDonald escort as a threat.”

Tòrr nodded slowly. “Aye. That’s wise.” He looked at Alyson. “When dae ye want tae leave?”

The question hung in the air, final and irrevocable.

“As soon as Laird MacLean grants passage.” Her voice didn’t waver. “The sooner I reach the abbey, the sooner…”

The sooner I can stop runnin’. Stop feelin’. Stop rememberin’.

“Then I’ll write the letter taenight.” Tòrr stood, moving toward his desk where parchment and ink waited. “I’ll explain the situation—carefully—and request his leave fer ye and an armed escort tae pass through.”

“Dinnae mention Grant specifically,” Daemon advised. “Just say she’s makin’ a pilgrimage.”

“Agreed. We dinnae need MacLean knowin’ we might be bringin’ trouble tae his doorstep.”

Alyson watched her eldest brother settle at the table, dipping his quill in ink with the same careful precision he brought to everything. The scratch of pen on parchment filled the hall, each stroke bringing her closer to a future she both dreaded and desperately needed.

This is the right choice.

Daemon moved to stand beside her, keeping that careful distance he’d maintained since pulling her from Campbell’s dungeon. “Ye ken I’d dae anythin’ fer ye, aye? Kill anyone, burn down any castle, start any war. Ye just have tae say the word.”

She looked up at him—the fierce, scarred warrior who’d risked everything to save her with her two other brothers. “I ken. But this is somethin’ I need tae dae fer meself, Daemon.”

“Ye’re the bravest person I ken.” he said roughly. “And I’m sorry we failed ye. Sorry Campbell ever got his filthy hands on ye.”

“Ye didnae fail me, braither.” She reached out, stopping just shy of touching his hand. Even that small gesture took courage she wasn’t sure she possessed. “Ye came fer me. Ye saved me. Ye didnae abandon me. And that means everythin’.”

“Will ye take anyone with ye?” Catherine asked. “Sofia or Liliane perhaps? Someone tae help ye settle?”

Alyson shook her head. “Nay. I need tae dae this alone.”

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it felt almost like relief.

“Done.” Tòrr lifted the parchment, shaking it gently to dry the ink. “I’ll send it with our fastest rider at first light. With any luck, we’ll have MacLean’s response within a fortnight.”

“And if he refuses?” Sofia asked quietly.

“Then we find another way.” Tòrr’s expression hardened. “But I doubt he will. MacLean may be many things, but he’s a man of honor. He’ll nae deny a woman seekin’ sanctuary.”

Alyson moved to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass. Beyond the castle walls, the Highlands stretched in all directions—wild and beautiful and vast. Somewhere out there, in those distant mountains and glens, was the abbey that would become her home. Her refuge. Her salvation.

Just a wee bit longer.

Behind her, her siblings spoke in low tones, planning logistics and guard rotations and supply lists. Their voices blurred together, becoming meaningless noise as she stared out at the darkening sky.

She didn’t see Tòrr approach until he stood beside her, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

“Are ye certain?” he asked softly. “Because ye ken once ye take those vows, there’s nay turnin’ back.”

“I’m certain.”

“Alyson.” He waited until she looked at him. “Dinnae ever believe that Campbell broke ye. He hurt ye, aye. Scared ye. But ye’re still in there—the girl who used tae sneak honey cakes from the kitchen and race Daemon across the moors. The lass who stood up tae Edwin MacLeod when he tried tae force Catherine’s hand. Ye’re still strong. Still brave.”

“I dinnae feel brave.”

“Aye. I ken.” He squeezed her shoulder, a brief touch that made her tense despite knowing he’d never hurt her. “But if ye ever change yer mind, ever decide ye want tae come home… we’ll be here fer ye. Always.”

The words wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and suffocating at once.

The next morning, alone in her chamber, Alyson stood by her window and watched the rider leave at dawn’s first light. He carried Tòrr’s letter in his saddlebag—formal words requesting passage through MacLean lands for a woman seeking spiritual refuge.

Such simple words to seal a fate.

In a fortnight, perhaps less, the response would come. Laird Keane MacLean would either grant her passage or deny it. Either way, her course was set.

Iona Abbey. Stone walls. Silence. Peace.

The words had become a prayer, repeated endlessly through sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days.

She was going to leave the castle. Leave her family. Leave everything familiar and ride toward a future written in vows and prayers.

She just had to survive until then.

And pray that Cody Grant’s obsession didn’t find her before she reached sanctuary.

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