Author: julianawight

Two days before

The scent of pine smoke clung stubbornly to Castle Galbraith’s stones, a remnant of the feast that had burned late into the night. Vivienne inhaled it as she moved through the passage, skirts whispering against the flagstones, the weight of her satchel steady at her hip. Her steps echoed softly in the quiet, and her thoughts, as ever, turned back to a time when she had walked halls like this one with a far different stride, her head bent to her mother’s sharp whispers, her tongue sharpened to wound those who had done nothing but exist.

Odette.

Even the name was enough to stir shame that never truly dulled. Once, Vivienne had stood in her mother’s shadow, a willing accomplice to cruelty she had not dared question. She remembered laughing when Odette faltered, mocking her when her voice caught, turning away when she was left alone and aching. It had been easier to obey, to please, to be the daughter her mother demanded instead of the sister Odette had needed.

But that world was gone. Vivienne had watched it fall piece by piece, the mask ripped from her mother’s face, the cruelty exposed and discarded like a rotten cloak. And she had watched Odette rise, her quiet steel revealed, until she stood beside Gregory Galbraith as his wife, her head high, her worth undeniable. A queen carved from ash.

Vivienne had hated herself most in those moments. Hated the girl she had been, small and vicious, a reflection of another’s will. But hatred, she had learned, could be a seed as much as a poison. From it had grown something else, something that had carried her through the war and after.

Healing. She had discovered her talent almost by accident, binding a wound in the chaos of battle, pressing linen to stop a bleeding that would have ended a man’s life. Her fingers had not trembled then. They had known what to do, as though some part of her had always been waiting to be used for more than spite. From that moment, she had not stopped. She had learned poultices and sutures, tinctures and teas. She had burned her fingers on boiling honey, stained her skirts with wine and blood, memorized the smell of herbs until they haunted her sleep.

And now, when she walked through the halls of Galbraith, it was not as her mother’s daughter or her sister’s shadow. It was as Vivienne, healer.

The chamber she entered was bright with morning, light pouring through the narrow window slits to fall across the straw mattress where a soldier sat, bare-chested and pale. A line of red crossed his ribs, angry and raw, though shallow enough that it had not cut deep. His friends stood clustered near the wall, their faces still pink from laughter, though they tried to school themselves into solemnity as she entered.

Vivienne set her satchel down with a thump. “Which o’ ye thought it wise tae let him climb trees wi’ a blade in his hand?”

The men grinned despite themselves, glancing at one another. One, the youngest, spoke up. “He said he could dae it.”

The wounded soldier shot him a glare, though his cheeks darkened as his gaze flicked back to Vivienne. “It was naught. Just a slip. Hardly worth callin’ ye fer.”

Vivienne arched a brow, pulling a jar from her satchel. The scent of thyme and honey filled the air as she opened it. “A slip that’s left ye bleeding across half yer chest. If this is what ye call naught, lad, I dinnae wish tae see what ye call serious.”

His friends snickered. He ducked his head, muttering, “I didnae want tae trouble ye.”

Her mouth twitched, though she smothered it into something stern. “Ye’ll trouble me more if ye let it fester. Now sit straight.”

He obeyed at once, his back stiffening as though she were the laird himself. Vivienne dipped her fingers into the salve and began to spread it across the wound, her touch firm but careful. The soldier hissed, then clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the far wall. His skin was hot beneath her hands, the muscle tense under the sting of the balm.

“Breathe,” she instructed, her voice gentler now. “It will bite at first, but the pain will pass.”

He did, though his chest rose sharp, the breath uneven. She could feel the heat of his gaze flickering toward her, quick and guilty, every time she shifted. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who thought kindness might mean something more.

When the salve was spread, she took up a strip of linen and began to wind it across his ribs, tight enough to hold but not to choke. His friends began whispering then, loud enough for her to hear.

“Bet he fell just tae have her hands on him.”

“Aye, next time he’ll throw himself from the wall.”

“Or the stables, if he thinks she’ll kiss him better.”

The boy flushed scarlet. “Shut yer mouths.”

Vivienne’s lips curved despite herself. She tied the bandage neat and pressed her palm to it, steady. “If ye mean tae wound yerself fer attention, lad, pick somewhere less daft than a chest wound. A nick on the arm would dae as well, and ye could still lift a cup wi’out tearing the stitches.”

His friends roared with laughter. The boy groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Vivienne’s voice softened as she leaned back. “Keep it clean. Change the linen twice a day. Nay hunting, nae climbing, nae wrestling—though I doubt ye’ll listen.”

He peeked at her through his fingers, half a smile tugging his mouth. “I’ll listen if ye tell me again.”

His friends howled at that, and Vivienne shook her head, gathering her satchel with a sigh. Saints save her, he was barely more than a boy. It was harmless, and yet, she remembered when she had once thought such fancies were worth clinging to, before she had seen what love truly was.

Her heart tightened at the thought of Odette again, radiant beside Gregory, her hand steady in his even as the world had crumbled. Love was not fluttering hearts and foolish wounds. It was steel. It was choosing each other when the walls shook and the blood ran.

She straightened, her voice brisk once more. “Rest. Heal. I’ll look at it again.”

And with that, she swept from the chamber, her satchel slung once more at her side, the laughter of the soldiers chasing her down the corridor. She ignored it, her steps quickening.

Her own chamber waited, small but bright, her things already laid out. The satchel she had carried for years now sat open on the bed, half-packed with herbs and linens, the tools of her trade. She had work ahead of her.

Castle Keith. The name rang heavy in her chest, though she had not yet spoken it aloud. Tomorrow, she would ride there, summoned for her skill, though the details had been scarce. She knew only this: their healer had died a long time ago, their laird had called, and she was needed.

The hinges creaked softly.

Vivienne glanced up, startled, to find Odette standing in the doorway of her chamber. The morning light poured around her like a halo, catching in the pale gold of her hair, the steel of her gaze. Vivienne’s chest pinched at the sight. Her stepsister had changed so much since those days in Beaumont’s halls. She was no longer the girl Vivienne had mocked, nor the young woman their mother had scorned. She was Odette Galbraith now, laird’s wife, her presence sharp and sure, her smile a blade and a balm all at once.

And yet when she crossed the threshold, it was with quiet steps, the hem of her gown trailing through the rushes as she tilted her head. “What was all that ruckus? I could hear the laughter halfway down the passage.”

Vivienne turned back to the satchel, tucking a roll of linen into its side. “Just silly boys. They’ve naught better tae dae than make fools o’ themselves.”

Odette leaned lightly against the doorframe, her brows arched, her smile tugging faint. “Silly or nae, that one looked fair handsome tae me. Broad shoulders, clear eyes. Ye truly have nay interest?”

Vivienne let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Odette. If Gregory hears ye say such a thing, he’ll send the poor lad straight tae the border and nae let him back inside the walls.”

Odette’s laugh followed, warm and amused. “Gregory would dae naeysuch thing. He kens well enough where me heart lies. I’m saying the boy might be good fer ye, Vivienne, nae fer me.”

Vivienne paused, her fingers smoothing over a jar of honey before slipping it into her bag. Her lips curved faintly. “Perhaps he’ll be good fer someone, one day. But it will nae be me. Me heart is nae so easily swayed by a clumsy smile and a bandaged chest.”

Odette’s eyes softened, her head tipping as she studied her. “Then what daes sway it? Is it the work that drives ye so hard? Ye never rest, Vivienne. Ye live as though there is nay tomorrow, as if ye’ve something left tae prove with every stitch and every poultice.”

The words hit their mark. Vivienne stilled, her back straightening, her hands frozen over the satchel strap. For a moment, shame threatened to rise again, that old weight she had carried since the day she had first seen Odette stand tall as Gregory’s wife. But she crushed it, forcing her voice steady, her chin lifted.

“This is nae penance, Odette. I long since accepted that naething I dae will make up fer what I was. I cannae change the girl who mocked ye, who obeyed me maither’s cruelty. But I found something that is mine, something that mends instead o’ destroys. Healing isnae about proving meself. It’s about… purpose.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. “When I set a bone, when I keep fever from stealing a child, when I bind a wound that might have festered—I feel whole. I will nae turn from that. Nae even fer comfort or ease.”

Odette was quiet a long moment, her eyes searching Vivienne’s face. Then she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. “Dae that mean ye are set on this? Leaving Galbraith lands, heading tae Keith with nay more than a summons and a name? Ye dinnae even ken what awaits ye there.”

Vivienne tied the strap of her satchel tight, her voice firm. “Aye. I am set. Whatever awaits, I will meet it as I am now, nae as I was.”

Odette’s lips parted, as though she might argue, but she only sighed, her shoulders lowering with quiet resignation. She crossed the chamber, her hand reaching for Vivienne’s. “Then I’ll nae try tae stop ye. But I’ll miss ye, sister.”

The word struck like an arrow. Sister. It was no longer rival or stranger, but the bond she had always longed for. Vivienne’s throat closed as she turned, clasping Odette’s hand tight. For once she let the softness show, let the truth rise past the no-nonsense exterior she had always clung to.

“I’ll miss ye too,” she whispered.

Odette drew her into an embrace, warm and steady, her hand stroking her hair the way no one had since they were children. Vivienne clung to her, her chest aching with a strange mix of grief and hope. They had lost so much, both of them, but they had found more too. Odette had found love. Vivienne had found purpose. They had found each other. Perhaps that was enough.

When they drew apart, Odette’s eyes shone, but her smile was sure. “Go then. Tae Keith. And remember—nay matter what clan ye serve, ye are still me sister. And ye will always have a place here.”

Vivienne nodded, her grip on the satchel firm. “Aye. And ye’ll always have me.”

She turned toward the door then, her steps light though her chest was heavy. Tomorrow she would ride for Keith, for a land she had never seen, for a future she could not yet imagine. But for the first time in her life, she would do it as herself. As a healer.

And that, she thought, was enough.

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Chapter One

Near the Borders of Clan Keith, 1718

The road narrowed as it curved east, hemmed in on both sides by low stone walls and bramble-thick hedges.

Vivienne adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, her fingers curling into the soft wool with a grip that bordered on reverence. It had belonged to her mother once.

Sheona.

Not just a name, but a presence that clung like perfume to every room she’d ever walked into—floral, cloying, impossible to breathe through. Sheona, who had taught her how to speak softly in rooms that did not want to hear her. Who had carved obedience into her with every glance, every correction, every whispered warning dressed up as care. The woman who had smiled with ice in her teeth and called it motherly love.

The shawl had outlasted her.

Sheona had left behind no letters, only this: a shawl worn threadbare at the edges, and a hundred small cruelties Vivienne had never quite known how to name.

And yet still, she wore it, because leaving it behind felt like abandoning something that had shaped her too deeply to forget. A reminder of the woman her mother had tried to make her, and the vow she had made never to become that woman again. A weight, yes, but ballast all the same. Something to remind her of where she came from, and that there was no turning back, even as the road beneath her shifted and the path ahead stretched into places she could not yet imagine.

She wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, as if it might hold her together.

The horse beneath her shifted, hooves striking uneven ground, and one of the Galbraith guards glanced over his shoulder. “All well, mistress?”

Vivienne blinked. The question had to be repeated in her mind before she could answer. “Aye. Just tired.”

He gave a nod and turned back around. Conversation between the men had long since dulled to murmurs of travel talk, idle and meaningless. She let them fade.

Her thoughts were louder.

There were four guards, whom she had not met before. Not properly at least. Laird Gregory Galbraith had chosen them himself, after she’d insisted she didn’t need an escort at all. After everything that had passed between her and Gregory and Odette, the fact they now saw her as family, someone worth protecting, was no small thing.

They didn’t know that she hadn’t slept the night before. That she’d stood in her chambers repacking the same satchel three times over, hands shaking from something that was not fear, but not quite bravery either. That Odette had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and half amused, asking if she’d truly lost her mind.

“Ye’re nae even sure what ye’re walking intae,” Odette, her step-sister had said, voice low, a smile playing behind the warning.

Odette had once been her adversary, the bitterness between them sown by Sheona’s careful hand. But that had changed—after Odette’s marriage to Laird Galbraith, after Vivienne’s quiet repentance. Now, she was her closest kin. Her voice was low, familiar, a smile playing behind the warning.

Odette, who had once been the outsider in their home and Vivienne, who had worn cruelty like a borrowed dress, thinking it the only way to belong. They had both changed. War had seen to that. Love, too.

Vivienne had only smiled. “That’s never stopped either o’ us.”

And that was true. Once.

But now, riding across borders toward a clan she’d never met, summoned by a man known only through whispered titles and unsigned letters, the uncertainty felt like a living thing, coiled in her belly. It slithered up her spine when she let her guard down, gnawed at her resolve.

She shifted again, the leather saddle creaking. The wind carried no birdsong here. Just the rustle of unseen branches and the faint echo of hooves behind them.

The letter had said very little.

“Our healers is gone. The sick pile faster than we can bury them. I’ve heard ye have a gift. Come, then. Show me how good ye truly are. Come before the season turns. Enter by the western border, if ye value yer life. — G.K.”

Just the rough initials and the weight of expectation.

Vivienne had read it a dozen times. She’d turned the parchment over in her hands, trying to divine something between the lines. Something more than need. Something more than desperation. Because surely no laird—no Beast, as they called him—would send for a stranger unless he’d run out of every other option.

The name alone made her stomach twist.

The Beast o’ Keith.

It had sounded like a jest, the first time she’d heard it. But Gregory hadn’t been laughing. He’d said the man hadn’t left the battlefield in five winters. That he refused court, sent no emissaries, dined alone. That he wore armor even in his own hall. Slept in a chair because no bed could hold the weight of his rage.

“Nay woman’s ever looked at him without flinchin’,” Gregory had muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark. “And I’d rather send ye intae the sea than intae Keith lands.”

And now, Vivienne Beaumont, once the girl who’d stood behind her mother’s shoulder like a shadow, now the healer who walked with poultices alone, was meant to cross into his lands and help.

She swallowed.

She had so many questions.

Why me? Why now? Why the west border? Why nay more information? Why hadnae he sent someone?

But of course, she already knew the answer. Because he was the kind of man who did not ask. He commanded. Even his letter had felt that way. Not curt, exactly. But final. Like the paper itself would not suffer to be questioned.

Her horse slowed as the path thinned, and one of the guards raised a hand. “Mistress,” he called softly, pointing. “There.”

She looked up.

A stretch of rock, then a rise of wooded ridge, and just beyond it, the faint line of another road, bisecting their path like a scar. And further still there was smoke, the kind that meant people, and a fire burning just out of sight.

“Keith border,” the guard said. “We’ll make camp just shy o’ it.”

Vivienne nodded.

They dismounted near a bend in the path where the trees grew close. The men moved with efficiency, one gathering wood, another checking the horses. She took her satchel and stepped to the edge of the camp, beyond the fire ring, beyond the reach of their chatter.

One of the younger guards knelt beside her, holding out a piece of oatcake wrapped in linen. “Mistress,” he offered, his voice careful, unsure. “Ye should eat something. It’s a long ride still.”

Vivienne blinked at the bread. Her fingers closed around it automatically, more out of habit than hunger. “Thank ye,” she murmured.

He lingered a moment. She glanced up briefly and nodded. After a pause, he rose and returned to the others.

The bread sat in her lap, untouched. Instead, her hands returned to the flask. She loosened her grip, noting the ache in her knuckles with clinical detachment. Her mind, too, felt taut and overdrawn, stretched thin by the unfamiliar.

She sat cross-legged with her back against the tree, the flask cradled between her palms. Around her, the woods shifted and whispered. Her eyes scanned the shadows for understanding. What kind of land bred a laird like Gavin Keith? What kind of war left so few to tend the wounded?

She reached for the shawl again, fingers curling tight at the collarbone.

Ballast, ye’re nae that lass anymore, who flinched. Nae the girl who stayed silent tae survive.

But still, when a branch cracked somewhere beyond the firelight, she flinched.

The guard nearest her heard it too. His hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. “Stay here,” he said low, a single glance her way before he moved toward the sound.

Vivienne rose slowly, knees stiff. She strained to listen. Just the wind, maybe. Just an animal in the brush. And then—

A thunk.

The sickening sound of blade striking bone. A grunt. Another.

And then the firelight exploded in motion. Figures burst through the trees in every direction, steel flashing, shouts rising like thunder. A blur of blue and green tartan swept across the camp, and Vivienne stumbled backward in time to see one of her guards fall, his throat opened clean.

“Run!” someone roared.

Her feet moved before her mind did. She turned, half-tripping on a root, grabbing her skirts as she sprinted into the darkness. The woods closed in fast. Branches clawed at her hair. The ground sloped without warning, and she went tumbling, shoulder crashing into a rock, hands scraping raw against the dirt.

Behind her, men shouted, voices rough and urgent overlapping in a chaos she couldn’t untangle. Steel clanged against steel; each strike sharp enough to split the air. A horse screamed, high, human-like, and the sound cracked something inside her.

Vivienne scrambled to her feet. Her breath came ragged and fast, a fluttering thing that wouldn’t settle in her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her for a moment, stiff from the cold and the shock, but she forced them forward, running as fast as she could. Branches tore at her sleeves, at her hair, her skirts catching on brambles as she stumbled through the thick underbrush. Her heart thundered in her ears, louder than the noise behind her, louder than the wind that cut across the ridge.

Keith. Keith was north. Nay—west. Nay—the river was east, she should’ve—should’ve crossed it at the bend—

Panic surged, directionless and raw.

The ground sloped, then dipped without warning, and she slid down a patch of wet earth, her boots skidding, knees giving. She hit a tree hard, shoulder-first, and kept going, pain lancing down her side. Her hand clutched at the shawl as if it might anchor her, but it slipped loose, useless against the chaos.

Then, without warning, something snatched her.

A hand closed around her wrist like a snare, jerking her backwards with such force her body spun. Her ankle twisted, her mouth opened—

She screamed.

But the sound was muffled almost instantly by another hand, rough and calloused, slamming over her mouth. She tried to bite, tried to wrench away, but her limbs moved too slow, her thoughts too scattered.

“Hold still,” a voice growled at her ear, the words hot and close. “Stop fighting.”

She writhed anyway, teeth sinking into leather, but the man only hissed and twisted her arm until pain spiked white-hot through her elbow.

“Damn healer,” he muttered. “We heard they were sendin’ one from Galbraith. Should’ve kent it’d be ye. Ye’ve nay place in this.”

More men emerged from the shadows, all dressed in the same muted grey plaids, mud-caked boots, teeth bared like wolves. Her other guards… Where were they? Were they dead?

She couldn’t breathe.

One man stepped closer, squinting down at her. The man crouched in front of her, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. His face was lean, his hair tied back in a crude knot. There was blood on his sleeve—someone else’s. He looked at her like she was something caged. Not dangerous. Just… contained.

“So,” he said, voice low and mocking, “this is the lass from Galbraith.”

Vivienne blinked. Her elbow throbbed from where she’d fallen. Her vision swam.

He tilted his head. “What’s yer name, then? Dinnae think I’ve seen ye at court.”

Vivienne met his gaze, steady despite the tension in her spine. “Vivienne Beaumont,” she said. “And I’ve nay business at court. I go where I’m needed.”

Another man stepped closer, broader, with a scar running down his brow. “That’s her. The healer. The one Galbraith sent.”

The first man smiled. “Healer, is it? Thought ye’d be older.”

Vivienne forced a breath through her teeth. “I’m nae here fer Galbraith,” she said, voice hoarse. “He didnae send me.”

“Did ye hear that?” the man drawled, glancing back at the others. “Just wandering intae Keith lands with a pouch full o’ tinctures, is she?”

A few of the men laughed.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “I was summoned. By the laird o’ Clan Keith. I was told they needed healing. That’s what I came tae dae.”

The man crouching grinned wider now. “And ye just answered, did ye? Like a good wee dove?”

One of the younger men shifted behind him. “General, Sir—she daesnae look like a threat.”

“Daesnae look like a threat?” the general echoed, not taking his eyes off her. “Ye think that’s how war works, lad? Ye think the ones who patch the wounds dinnae change the fight?” He stood slowly. “She’s a Galbraith. And she’s meant fer Keith. That makes her useful. And dangerous.”

“Aye, general,” the younger man bowed his head.

Vivienne’s hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m nae a danger,” she said again. “I dinnae fight.”

“Nay,” the general said. “Ye keep others from dying. Which is worse.”

She flinched as he stepped closer, voice dropping to something colder.

“Ye’re here tae help, girl.”

Then he turned to the others. “Take her. Strip her o’ anything sharp. We move before night thickens. If Keith sent fer her, let’s see how far they’ll chase.”

He motioned, and two of the men grabbed her arms.

“Nay—please—” She fought them, legs kicking, feet slipping in the loam. Her satchel tore from her shoulder. She saw it fall, herbs spilling like leaves across the ground.

A hand struck her across the face.

“Quiet,” the general said.

Her ears rang. Her vision swam.

They dragged her through the trees, moving fast, too fast. Her boots caught on roots. Her arms ached. She tried to count her breaths. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. But the numbers blurred.

Her mouth tasted of iron.

“Take her past the ridge. We’ll cut east from there. If Keith wants tae get healers, let them come fetch her.”

The general again. “Aye. Let’s see if their Beast comes fer her.”

Chapter Two

The forest floor blurred beneath her, mud and moss and root twisting into one shapeless dark mass. A light rain fell through the canopy, soaking into her hair, her clothes, the raw places on her skin.

Her shoulder throbbed from where she’d hit it and her lip stung where the man had struck her. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as the men dragged her deeper into the trees, each step jarring something loose inside her chest.

She was cold. She was dizzy. She was bleeding. And she could not stop shaking.

Their hands were iron on her arms. Her skirts tangled around her knees. Her mother’s shawl was gone. Somewhere back near the fire, in the dirt, torn loose when they pulled her down. It felt like her body had been torn loose, too. She could feel it fraying at the edges. Unraveling.

“Walk faster,” one of them snapped, yanking her forward by the arm.

“She’s limping,” another muttered. “Leg’s bleeding. She fell hard back there.”

“She’ll manage,” came the reply, flat and cold, making her shiver. “She’s a Galbraith. They’re always tougher than they look.”

Vivienne’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized how shallow it had become until it caught, jagged, in her chest. Her ribs ached and her lips were dry. Blood clung to the inside of her mouth, metallic and thick, and her vision kept tilting every few steps.

She didn’t know how far they’d come. Couldn’t track direction anymore. North and south had blurred. The forest closed in like a hand tightening its fist. She didn’t know if her guards still lived or if the laird even knew she was gone. Keith. I need tae get tae Keith. I need tae—

She moved before she had time to question herself.

Her body twisted hard, dragging her feet sideways, and yanked her arm back with everything she had. The shock of resistance tore through her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She wrenched free and bolted left, toward the thickets.

It worked… for half a breath. The grip on her right arm slipped. Her sleeve tore. She turned fast, lungs heaving, skirts catching on thorns. But the woods were uneven, wild. Her boot caught on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and suddenly the ground was gone.

She fell hard.

Her body hit the slope like a dropped stone. Her hands landed on sharp rock, skin splitting open on impact. Her elbow smashed into something solid, and pain screamed up her arm. Her chin struck moss. She rolled once, twice, and then lay still, winded, mouth full of dirt and the dull, sick tang of blood.

The world pulsed around her, the trees above spinning as she tasted copper on her tongue and heard footsteps closing in. Still, she tried to crawl, but they were on her again within seconds.

“Feisty,” the general’s voice hissed behind her. “Ye think ye’re clever, lass?”

“Let go o’ me!” she cried, voice cracking. “Let go, let go—”

Another strike across her cheek silenced her. Pain lit up behind her eyes and the world blurred.

“Hold her,” the man barked. “We’re almost tae the ridge.”

Vivienne could barely hear him as blood roared in her ears. Her limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. And then—

A sound. A low whistle. The men froze.

“Someone’s coming,” one of the men hissed.

The general turned, eyes narrowing. “Get her behind cover. Now.”

They dragged her toward a fallen tree, but it was too late.

The woods exploded. Steel screamed against steel. Horses reared. Shadows broke through the underbrush, figures in dark green and black tartan, moving like thunderclouds.

The first blade missed her by inches, driving instead into the chest of the man holding her left arm. He went down in a howl of blood and disbelief.

A second man fell near the ridge, tackled by a Keith warrior in a bear-like charge. The two of them crashed into the underbrush, weapons slashing wild.

She felt hands leave her and felt her body hit the earth. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, the noise rising around her into something unbearable. She could hear the general yelling, commands or curses, she couldn’t tell.

And then, through the chaos, she saw him.

He didn’t come riding like the others, shouting or swarming. He came alone and moved through the melee with lethal precision, every strike efficient, brutal. His blade was long, and it did not pause. It caught the torchlight as it moved, silver and clean, like a line drawn through the dark.

Vivienne’s breath snagged.

He wasn’t armored like the rest. No visible sigil. No crest. Just a high leather guard strapped tight around his neck, like a collar too purposeful to be for vanity. His long hair was unbound, wet with sweat and rain, clinging to his jaw, his brow, the curve where cheek met temple.

And still, he looked untouchable.

But it was more than that. It was the way he moved. Not just strength. Not just skill. Presence. Like the earth itself made way for him. His silence rang louder than any war cry.

Vivienne couldn’t look away.

She knew she should run, should hide, but something in her stilled. Her heartbeat, ragged and wild moments ago, slowed into something heavier, as if her body recognized him before her mind did.

He looked carved from the storm itself. Violent, rain-slicked, beautiful. And terrifying. And she did not know why, but for one brief, breathless second, she wondered what it would feel like to be seen by a man like that. To be held in the eye of that silence. To be claimed by it.

Then the general shouted, and the moment shattered.

Vivienne tried to crawl back, away, but her limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. Her palms slid on moss. Her head swam. She heard their swords clash before she saw it.

The general swung first, wide and brutal, a fury-fueled arc.

The man parried easily, stepping in close. The second clash came louder, and then the two men locked blades, face to face.

Vivienne couldn’t look away.

The general fought with anger. She’d seen men like that before, too reckless to be clever. But this man moved with a cold, controlled violence, not rushed or enraged, he was trained for this. He broke the lock and sent the general reeling with a strike to the side of the knee. Then he stepped in and slammed the hilt of his sword into the general’s jaw.

He fell, face down.

The silence that followed felt unnatural, too quiet for all that had just passed. Vivienne could only watch as the man turned toward her, his face clean of blood, his eyes—grey, or perhaps silver—locking onto hers. He didn’t speak, just looked, and in that silence thick with smoke, blood, and something she couldn’t name yet, Vivienne froze.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t read a thing behind those strange, silver eyes. He looked half-man, half-shadow. And in that moment, she didn’t know if he had come to help her or to claim her. Didn’t know if he would offer her his hand or take her by the throat. He could be savior or punishment.

All she knew was that he saw her.

She didn’t know what he was yet, only that no one that precise, that silent, could be safe.

She ran until her lungs tore.

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One week before

The morning in Caorann began the way most of them did—wet stone underfoot, smoke curling from the hearth fires in slow ribbons, and the sharp scent of peat mingling with lavender soap in the corridor that led from the cloister to the chapel. The shutters were still drawn, but a faint light had begun to edge towards the windowsills, soft and grey with mist. Somewhere deeper in the keep, a bell tolled once, then fell quiet.

Mairead liked the silence before morning prayers. She liked the hush of it, the way the air seemed to still just long enough for her to gather her thoughts, to breathe in something deeper than silence. A pause, she liked to call it. The kind the soul needed to remember itself. It was in those moments that she felt closest to what she hoped God saw in her—not pious or perfect, but willing. Still learning.

She had meant to go to the chapel early that day. To light a candle and give thanks for something she couldn’t name. But her steps slowed in the corridor.

“Mairead.”

She turned.

Sister Agnes stood at the far end of the passage, her voice low but firm. The older woman’s hands were folded in front of her habit, her shoulders square, her face unreadable—but not unkind.

“There’s been word from Glen Lyon.”

The name stopped her breath.

“Fer the church?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Sister Agnes gave a single nod. “It’s still in ruin. They’ve begun clearin’ the wreckage. But they’ve asked fer help. Fer someone skilled in scripture. In healin’. Tae guide.”

She didn’t say what else she meant. Didn’t say the other word that hung heavy in the air between them: conversion.

Mairead’s fingers curled against her palms. The corridor was warm from the hearths below, but her hands had gone cold.

“Ye’re sendin’ me,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

The nun’s gaze softened just slightly, a flicker of something like approval ghosting behind her eyes. “Aye. If ye accept. Ye’d be part o’ the rebuildin’ effort. There’s still unrest, but the laird himself has allowed it. A pagan, aye—but one who daesnae seek war.”

The stone wall pressed cool against Mairead’s back. She hadn’t realized she’d moved until the roughness caught her shoulder blades. A strange flutter moved behind her ribs. A sense of being… shifted. As though something in her life had turned, just slightly, without her having touched it.

“And when I return?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Sister Agnes took a step closer. Her voice lowered, but it was no less certain. “Then ye will be ready.”

Mairead’s breath left her all at once.

Ready.

To take the veil. To give herself wholly. To leave behind the questions, the wondering. To put on the habit and call it enough. To belong.

Her throat tightened, and it took her a moment to nod. “Thank ye,” she said, her voice shaking. “I dinnae deserve such trust.”

“Ye’ve earned it,” the nun said simply. “The journey begins within the week. Ye’ll go with a few others. I believe Sister Mòrag is preparin’ provisions already.”

Mairead barely heard the last part. She was still holding onto those words.

Ye’ve earned it.

She had waited her whole life to hear that. And yet it didn’t settle in her chest the way she thought it would. It trembled there instead. Restless. A little too alive.

She dipped her head in reverence. “I’ll find Kirsteen. She should hear it from me.”

Sister Agnes nodded once. “See that ye dae.”

The corridor emptied behind her as she turned and walked back the way she came. Her steps were faster now. Lighter. But her breath didn’t come easy.

She was going to Glen Lyon, the pagan stronghold. To the glen where men still traced runes in the dirt and left offerings for trees. Where they danced on solstice nights and drank from carved horns and didn’t know the shape of a rosary bead.

And yet, God had opened the door, and she was walking through it.

She turned, her robes sweeping softly behind her. Mairead stood frozen a moment longer, her hands still trembling slightly. Then she turned and hurried toward the courtyard.

Kirsteen.

She found her in the herb garden, kneeling beside a row of wild mint, her hair pulled back in a rough braid. She looked up as Mairead approached.

“Ye look like a woman wi’ news,” Kirsteen said, squinting into the sun.

“They’re sendin’ me,” Mairead said breathlessly. “Tae Glen Lyon.”

Kirsteen blinked, then grinned. “About time.”

Mairead laughed. “I’m tae help rebuild the chapel. When I return—”

“Ye take yer vows.”

“Aye.”

Kirsteen stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I suppose we’d better start packin’. They’ll want us off before the week’s end.”

Mairead frowned. “Us?”

Kirsteen tilted her head. “Didnae they tell ye? I’m goin’ wi’ ye.”

The breath whooshed out of Mairead’s lungs. “Ye’re what?”

“I was requested. Fer healin’. Fer… guidin’.”

Mairead stared at her. Then a small smile broke across her face. “We’re goin’ taegether.”

Kirsteen’s grin widened. “Glen Lyon willnae ken what’s comin’.” Then she paused, as if just remembering. “Oh—Mairead, the laird’s asked tae speak wi’ ye.”

Mairead stilled. “The laird asked fer me?”

“One o’ the guards told me. Said John wanted tae see ye before we left.”

Her stomach twisted. “Why?”

Kirsteen shrugged. “I dinnae ken. But if he daes, ye’d best go.”

They stood there for a moment longer, sunlight pooling at their feet, the scent of mint and wild thyme in the air between them. And for the first time in a long time, Mairead felt something like hope.

Kirsteen bumped her shoulder lightly. “Ye’d best go then, before he sends someone tae drag ye by the wrist.”

Mairead laughed. “Aye. Though I’m nae sure what he could want wi’ me.”

Kirsteen nudged her gently again. “Go on, then. I’ll meet ye back in the dormitory. We’ve packin’ tae dae.”

Mairead hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be quick.”

“Famous last words,” Kirsteen muttered, but her smile didn’t fade.

Mairead turned toward the staircase and took the stairs with careful steps, her skirts gathered in one hand, the other brushing lightly along the cool stone wall. She passed two novices in the corridor below, murmuring good morning, and they bowed their heads in return, though their eyes followed her longer than they should have. No one had said it aloud, but it was clear enough that word had already traveled. That she was to go, that she had been chosen.

Her heart beat faster at the thought.

She reached the laird’s chamber and paused, smoothing the front of her gown, then knocked twice.

The door opened, and there he was, Laird John of Caorann. His hand braced against the wood, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then it softened, almost too quickly.

“Sister Mairead,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

The room was warm, filled with the scent of old wood and ink. She hesitated only a breath, then entered, folding her hands before her.

“I was told ye wished tae see me.”

John’s gaze didn’t leave her. He motioned to a chair near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”

She did, perching lightly on the edge, while he crossed the room to pour water into a cup and brought it to her.

“They’ve accepted,” he said quietly. “Glen Lyon. The laird will allow the missionaries tae assist with the rebuilding o’ the chapel.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “Aye. Sister Agnes just told me.”

He studied her. “And ye’ve agreed?”

“I have.”

His jaw tensed. Only slightly, but she saw it. “Sister… ye dinnae need tae go.”

Her brow furrowed. “I dae. It’s part o’ me path. I’ve prayed on it.”

“There are others,” he said. “Others who could take yer place.”

“I was chosen.”

He stepped closer. “By a nun. Nae by God.”

She blinked. “That’s—me laird, why would ye say that?”

He sighed, turning away for a moment before facing her again. “Because I worry. About what ye’ll face there. They’re pagans still. Heathens, some o’ them. And their laird—he’s nae a man ye should trust.”

Mairead set the cup down, her fingers now folded tightly in her lap. “I’ve been called tae serve, me laird. Ye ken what this means tae me. It’s the final step before me vows.”

He was quiet a long moment. Then: “What if ye didnae take them?”

She stared at him. “What?”

“What if ye stayed?” His voice dropped lower. “Ye could dae good here, Mairead. Teach. Heal. Live.”

She rose from the chair. “But I want tae take them.”

“Because it’s all ye’ve ever kent,” he said, stepping toward her. “Because ye think it’s the only way tae be pure. But ye are already—ye shine wi’ a light that has naethin’ tae dae wi’ vows or veils.”

Her breath caught. “I dinnae understand.”

He smiled, gently this time. And stepped closer. “Ye dinnae have tae. Just listen.”

“I… I must go,” she said, shaking her head. “This is me chance tae prove I’m ready.”

“Prove tae who?” he asked. “God? Or them?”

She looked up at him. “Both.”

A beat passed. Then he reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand.

It startled her.

The warmth of his palm was gentle. His eyes were soft, but she didn’t want to return their stare, so she stilled.

“I only want what’s best fer ye,” he said. “I’ve watched ye grow from a frightened girl tae somethin’ more. Somethin’ rare. And if I could spare ye pain…”

She shook her head. “I dinnae need sparin’. I need direction. I’ve prayed fer it—and now I have it.”

His thumb brushed against her cheekbone. She flushed.

She told herself it was only gratitude, kindness. He was a man of God. He cared for her soul, nothing more.

He stepped back then, slowly, and smiled again. “Then go,” he said. “And may the Lord walk beside ye.”

She nodded, flustered, and moved toward the door.

And as she slipped out into the corridor, her heart pounding and her thoughts tangled, she told herself that she had misunderstood.

That it had been blessing, not longing, in his touch.

That she was going to Glen Lyon for God.

She didn’t look back. Just hurried down the stairs and into the morning light, where the road awaited and the sky was wide and clean and full of the unknown.

And somewhere ahead of her, a church had burned to ash and waited to be raised from ruin. And Mairead—blessed, chosen, still innocent of the things she could not see—began to pack.

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Chapter One

1211, Glen Lyon

The pot steamed steadily, thick with barley, onions, and softened carrots. Mairead stirred it with quiet focus. Her wimple clung damply to her brow beneath the sun, which had risen warmer than expected.

A line of villagers passed her table, and she met each with a small smile, a warm bowl, and a soft blessing.

“May the Lord reward yer labor,” she said to a man with blistered hands. He hesitated, then nodded, accepting the food like it was something more than nourishment.

Behind her, the church ruins breathed with quiet effort. Just weeks ago, it had been set ablaze, torched in the night by pagan raiders who saw its presence in Glen Lyon as a threat. The roof had collapsed in places, and the stone walls still bore smoke stains like bruises. But this space, the old nave, had been chosen for the soup line on purpose. The villagers rebuilding it had insisted: healing had to start here, where the wound was deepest.

Mairead and the others had come from Caorann with the Church’s blessing—missionaries, laborers, a few healers. Their task was simple: help rebuild the glen and bring the Light of God to those who still walked in shadow.

Mairead and the other missionaries from Caorann were working to rebuild it stone by stone, determined to restore what had been lost. She had come with them not just as a helper, but as a woman preparing to take her final vows.

That was to be her last mission before she finally joined the convent. It was a test of faith, although she had never questioned her calling. Her heart had long since settled. All she longed for was this work and service to the Lord. Her faith was not decoration. It lived in her hands.

Mairead handed another bowl to a boy who looked barely seventeen. He made the sign of the cross before stepping away. She echoed the motion, lips moving in silent prayer.

One bowl. Then another. The rhythm steadied her.

The pot was half-empty when a voice disrupted the flow.

“Sister Mairead?” The voice, girlish and hesitant, broke gently across the murmur of voices.

Mairead turned to find Kirsteen lingering at the edge of the commotion, arms folded tightly, curls escaping her veil in wild coils. Her cheeks were pink, her posture tense.

“May I speak with ye? Just a moment.”

Mairead glanced toward Brother Tomaigh. “Will ye take over fer a moment?”

He gave a silent nod, already stepping forward. His large hands closed over the ladle’s handle as she released it. The soup sloshed slightly under the shift.

She offered a small nod in thanks. As he rolled up his sleeves and took position behind the pot, Mairead wiped her palms on her apron and turned toward the girl, by the edge of the ruined sanctuary, where light filtered through the fractured beams and wind slipped through the stone gaps, carrying the scent of damp moss and char.

Kirsteen was uncharacteristically silent, fidgeting with her sleeve as though trying to keep her thoughts from spilling.

“Ye’ve been awfully quiet,” Mairead said gently, letting a hint of mischief into her voice. “Must be spendin’ too much time with me.”

Kirsteen cast her a sidelong glance, lips twitching. “Only waitin’ tae see ye break, that’s all.”

“Break?” Mairead echoed, amused.

“Aye,” she said, grinning as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Ye’ve been keepin’ something tae yerself since we left Caorann. And I think I ken what it is.”

Mairead raised a brow. “Dae ye now?”

Kirsteen leaned closer, lowering her voice like they were sharing a confession. “He spoke tae ye, didnae he? Laird Caorann. Before we left.”

Mairead’s lips pressed into a line. “He did.”

Kirsteen straightened with a triumphant noise. “Ha! I kent it. And what did the mighty Laird have tae say tae ye?”

Mairead lowered her voice, hands folding in her lap. “He asked me nae tae come.” From beyond the ruined wall, the muffled sounds of ladles and quiet chatter drifted through the morning air.

Kirsteen blinked. “He did what? Truly?”

“He said Glen Lyon was dangerous. That I ought tae stay behind.”

Kirsteen gave an exaggerated gasp. “Did he give the same warning tae Braither Malcolm? Or Sister Agnes?”

Mairead shook her head, “Nay.”

Kirsteen made a face. “Oh aye, just ye. How very impartial o’ him.”

“He was worried.” She shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the mist-soft hills beyond the church wall—or what was left of it.

“Oh, I’m sure. Concerned fer the mission, was he?” she teased, nudging Mairead with her elbow. “Or just fer the bonnie postulant with the green eyes?”

Mairead tried to keep her voice even. “He was kind.”

Kirsteen let out a soft laugh. “That man watches ye like a hawk watches a rabbit. A sanctified, scripture-quoting rabbit.”

Mairead blinked, then gave a short, unexpected laugh. “That’s awful.”

“But accurate.” Kirsteen nudged her knee with her own, biting back a grin. “Dinnae tell me ye’ve nae noticed. Half the keep saw it before ye did.”

For a breath, Mairead didn’t answer. The memory flickered. The way Laird Caorann had looked at her that morning wasn’t like a laird giving orders, but like a man searching for something. She’d told herself it was nothing.

“There’s naething tae notice,” Mairead said, though her tone softened. “He respects me devotion. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Kirsteen leaned forward, eyes dancing. “And when he leaned in and told ye nae tae come, did he happen tae hold yer hand? Look real sorrowful, like he was picturing ye walkin’ intae the mist, never tae return?”

“Kirsteen,” Mairead said sharply, though heat rose to her cheeks.

“I’m simply asking!” she said, laughing as she threw up her hands in mock innocence. “Saints preserve me, ye act like I suggested marriage.”

Mairead gave her a long look, but it lacked real force. “He meant well.”

Kirsteen shook her head, more affectionate than disapproving. “Ye’ve such a talent fer explainin’ away things that make the rest o’ us blush.”

“There’s naething tae blush about.”

Kirsteen shifted slightly, her voice quieter now. “What if he asked ye tae stay. Promised comfort, safety… maybe even love.”

Mairead looked down at her hands, resting still in her lap. “I would tell him nay.”

“That easy?”

“Aye. I dinnae want it.”

“Ye’ve always been like that,” Kirsteen said finally. “Certain. Like ye were carved out o’ something steadier than the rest o’ us.”

Mairead smiled faintly. “And ye? What are ye carved from?”

Kirsteen grinned. “Bits o’ bark and nonsense. But I stick close tae ye. Maybe some o’ yer holiness will rub on me.”

“Unlikely,” Mairead murmured, but her smile deepened.

“I still think he fancies ye.”

Mairead sighed, then nudged her playfully. “And I still think ye talk too much.”

“That’s what makes me charming.”

“Nay, that’s what makes ye exhausting.”

“But ye’d be too lonely without me.”

Mairead didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out and briefly placed a hand over Kirsteen’s. “I would.”

Kirsteen went still, then gave a quick smile. It was the kind that tried to hide something tender. “Well. Then I’ll keep botherin’ ye. Just tae make sure.”

They stood together in that fragile light, a moment held between ruin and renewal. And then—

A scream. A sharp, human, terrifying scream.

Mairead froze, her spine snapping straight as a cry sliced through the air.

Kirsteen whirled beside her, curls whipping as she scanned the space, eyes wide with raw instinct. Another shout followed, closer now. Then a third, shriller. The sound of feet pounding the earth grew louder, no rhythm, only panic. The low hum of the people surrounding them fractured like glass.

Mairead turned sharply, skirts twisting at her ankles. Kirsteen’s hand found her forearm, clinging for one startled second as they both froze.

Through the haze of afternoon light, thick with drifting ash, men rushed out of the half-constructed church. Through the ruined doorway, shadowed figures surged forward in a blur of limbs and flame. One carried a torch. Another swung something metal. Fire caught fast on the edge of thatch, rising greedy and orange. One raised a rusty axe, another bore a flaming brand above his head as if to summon judgment himself.

The builders dropped their tools. Soup spilled across the packed earth in a hiss of broth and smoke.

Those weren’t looters. They came with purpose, not chaos for its own sake. Their faces were half-painted in streaks of ash and ochre, symbols carved into their bare arms.

Pagan marks.

Mairead recognized them, though she’d never seen them worn so boldly. This wasn’t hunger or protest. It was hatred. Vengeance. The church was rising from its ashes, and now they meant to return it to dust. She saw one of them glance her way—eyes wild, mouth twisted—and felt it in her bones. She wasn’t just a woman in their path. She was the reason they’d come. She and the others, who threatened their pagan beliefs.

Mairead’s fingers tightened around Kirsteen’s sleeve, her breath sharp. “Run,” she said with finality, as if the choice had already been made for both of them, and then she ran.

There was no thought to it, no calculation, no direction. Her body surged forward, skirts wrapped tight around her legs as she bolted from the collapsing sanctuary. Her breath burned in her throat and her heart thudded in her chest, like an alarm.

Behind her, the world unraveled. Shouts shattered into each other, wood splintered, and fire leapt eagerly toward anything dry. The sound of the torch hitting the wall made her flinch even as she ran, its flames catching fast like a curse.

Run. Just run.

People fled past and all around her. The wide eyes of a boy flashed as he tripped over a fallen beam. A builder bellowed his son’s name. The air filled with ash and panic. Kirsteen darted off with the urgency of someone who knew exactly where the edge of safety was.

Dear God, make it stop.

Mairead turned to follow, legs aching, lungs raw, and then she heard a heavier sound. It didn’t fit. Boots that pounded like hooves. She looked over her shoulder and froze.

A man. No—a figure that barely resembled one. Towering. Misshapen. Scars made a map of cruelty across his face; one eye bulged, the other sunk deep like rot in fruit. Their eyes met and his were glittering with something feral and certain. The corners of his mouth lifted into a grin that wasn’t human. It was hungry.

Mairead’s pulse surged. She tore her gaze away and forced her legs to move faster, pushing past the stitch blooming in her side, past the burn in her throat. Her feet tore through mud and moss, every breath shallow, every step panicked.

But even as she ran, she knew it was too late.

The sound of his pursuit bore down on her like a storm. She fled harder, her breath hitching with every step. The air, choked with smoke and noise, rasped through her throat and her eyes watered. She ran faster than she’d ever thought she could, but still it wasn’t enough.

Too close. Too fast. Please, Lord—

An arm hooked tight around her middle. She cried out as her balance snapped and the world spun. Her back hit the earth with a thud that knocked her breath loose. She tried to scream, but he was already on top of her, pressing a hand over her mouth.

His weight compressed her ribs. His fingers found her wrists and forced them to the dirt. She kicked, but her feet found no purchase. His stench was unbearable—smoke and filth and sweat. His face hovered inches above hers.

“A holy lass,” he muttered, teeth bared. “Sent tae save us heathens, aye?”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Thought ye could come here and build over us?” he sneered, voice thick with bile. “Raise yer cross on burnt stone and call it mercy?”

His grip tightened. She tried to twist away, but he pressed down harder, breath hot against her cheek.

“We are faithless, aye? I wonder,” he rasped, voice soaked in malice, “how much yer God’ll help ye now.”

Her body recoiled even as it was trapped, her lungs struggled. Her arms buckled in his grip, her legs kicked, failed. The smoke around her thickened, the flames were now all around.

“Please,” she choked. “Please dinnae.”

He laughed, his breath hot against her cheek, as he shifted more of his weight onto her chest, the pressure forcing the last gasp from her lungs. His hands fumbled with the fabric of her skirts, tugging them up despite her legs thrashing with every ounce of strength she had left. Panic flooded her bloodstream.

Please, Lord, help me. Nae like this.

Then the weight vanished, ripped away with such force her chest bucked upward, and air slammed into her lungs in a single, searing gasp. She choked on it. Coughed. Her arms fell open beside her, numb and shaking.

She blinked against the smoke, lashes wet with sweat and ash, her body curled like something discarded. Her skirts were twisted around her thighs, her back slick with earth. Every nerve screamed.

Through the blur of flame and fog, she saw him.

A figure, tall, broad shoulders cut against the light, cloaked in smoke and silence. He walked through the blaze without flinching or faltering. Like an angel of vengeance.

God above… he looks like judgment and mercy both. A man shouldnae be that handsome. It’s impossible.

He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her, but simply gripped the attacker by the collar, the movement swift, final.

Mairead couldn’t see the aftermath. Her limbs betrayed her, heavy as iron. Her vision veiled over. She heard a snarl that couldn’t have been human, and the answering crack of something being moved with force.

The fire caught on, and his eyes met hers across the smoke. And in that moment, pinned beneath his stare, she knew he was had come to save her.

Chapter Two

Flames rose like banners of judgment, clawing at the sky with a heat that warped the air. Smoke rolled in waves over stone, timber, and flesh, rendering the world a stifling haze. Mairead lay where the ground had taken her, half-curled on her side, her chest heaving against the unbearable pressure in her lungs. Her wimple had come loose, strands of damp hair clinging to her cheeks. Her ribs ached with every breath, her knees were raw, slick with blood. Her throat burned was by the smoke.

She couldn’t move but he moved like he had been summoned by the fire itself.

She saw him only in flashes. Through stinging eyes and broken breath, his form emerged between curls of smoke: a bare back licked by flame, muscles flexing beneath skin streaked with soot, a scarred arm rising and falling in arcs of controlled violence. He fought like someone reclaiming dominion.

The brute who had attacked her lunged again, shouting something guttural. But he was slower now, confused, winded. The stranger caught him mid-charge with a hook to the ribs that cracked like kindling. He followed it with a knee to the gut that folded the man, then grabbed him by the collar and flung him against the half-collapsed beam like he weighed nothing at all.

The man stumbled to his feet with a roar, blood streaming from his nose, swinging wide with something clenched in his hand. A shard of broken wood, sharp enough to wound, but the stranger didn’t flinch. He sidestepped cleanly, caught the wrist in mid-swing and twisted. A snap echoed sharply over the fire. The shard dropped and the brute screamed.

Then came the finishing blow—an elbow to the jaw, a closed fist to the temple, and a final, ruthless strike that dropped the man where he stood.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word. Just turned slightly, scanning the chaos around them. His chest heaved with effort, but his stance was still coiled, like he could go again, and harder, if needed.

Mairead could only stare. There was no grace in his violence, only certainty.

And still the fire burned, destroying everything around them.

The beams overhead groaned like dying creatures. One snapped and fell, scattering embers across the scorched ground. The stranger didn’t so much as flinch. Ash fell on his shoulders like snow, clung to his hair, streaked his arms. He stood still, breathing deep, as if the fire itself answered to him.

Mairead coughed, the motion tearing at her lungs. The smoke forced its way into her throat, bitter and acrid, leaving a film of ash on her tongue and the taste of burnt timber and iron deep in the back of her mouth. It clawed down her throat with every breath.

Her hands curled weakly in the moss. Her mouth moved around the shape of a prayer, but no sound escaped. Her chest rose and fell in jagged shudders as her vision began to tunnel.

The light fractured. Everything narrowed to a single, burning thread. Her senses collapsed inward, sound dulled, her limbs turned weightless, and then it was as if the ground vanished beneath her. She was falling, not through space, but into a void edged in flame and silence, as though her body no longer belonged to the world it once obeyed.

She felt a rough hand on her face. A sort of slap—brief and gentle—landed on her cheek, more of a nudge than anything.

Her eyes flew open.

He was crouched over her now, framed by firelight. His face stole her breath. Sharp angles, unreadable eyes, and a jaw darkened by soot and stubble. His features were forged in something harder than beauty. Grief, maybe. Or war.

Saints have mercy…

He looked like something pulled from a legend.

He looked at her with unwavering intent, the kind of focus that stripped away ceremony without blinking

I cannae look away.

“Ye need tae stay awake,” he said, voice low and coarse.

She parted her lips, but no words came.

He didn’t wait. His shirt was off in a single motion, his torso thick with scars that told a story. He turned away for a moment, vanishing briefly into the haze. When he returned, the shirt was damp, glistening with moisture from a nearby patch of ground where fire hadn’t yet touched. He pressed the cold, soaked wool to her mouth and nose.

She flinched.

“Breathe,” he ordered. “Through it. Slow.”

She tried. The water smelled of smoke and metal and it burned as the air went down. She coughed hard. Once, then again. Her ribs cried out in protest. Her throat seized and loosened in turns, trying to pull in something that didn’t hurt.

One hand cradled the back of her head, the other steadied her at the shoulder. He anchored her.

She inhaled again, this time with slightly more control. The world came back to her in small pieces: the moss beneath her spine, the bitter taste of soot, the weight of her own limbs. And him.

He smelled of fire and sweat. Of brine and bark.

“Can ye move?”

She tried lifting her arms but they trembled. Her legs shifted, then gave out.

He exhaled, then gathered her, his arms sliding under her knees and behind her back, lifting her without strain. Her fingers, without meaning to, clutched at his bare shoulder. His skin was coarse, calloused, sun hardened.

He carried her through smoke and ash, his pace steady. Behind them, the flames roared. The chapel timbers collapsed in a groan. The roof buckled, but he did not turn to look.

He walked her to the edge of the chaos, where the air was cooler, where the smoke thinned enough for the sky to reappear. There, he knelt and lowered her on the grass with a care that did not match the force he had shown only moments before.

She clung to the cloth over her face. The air that passed through it felt heavy but livable.

He rose. “Wait here,” he said roughly. “I’ll come back.”

Then he turned back toward the fire. She wanted to call out, but her voice had abandoned her.

She watched him reenter the blaze from afar. Not as a fighter now, but as a man who knew what had to be done. He moved among the scattered workers, the men with buckets and ropes and shouted orders. At one point, she saw him take the rope at the well and draw it up himself.

And still, the fire raged, but he did not yield to it.

Mairead’s head lolled against the moss. Her limbs were no longer her own. Her vision fluttered in and out. The shirt in her hands was the only tether she had left at that moment.

She closed her eyes.

This was nae messenger o’ God, she thought, somewhere between thought and oblivion. Nay angel wears scars like that. Nay savior speaks without blessing.

And yet—

He had come to save her. And somehow, in the hollow left behind by fear, that was enough of an answer for her.

Time expanded in the strange hush that followed the fire. The final flames sputtered and curled into smoke, their resistance waning. Around her, the world descended into heavy silence. Ash floated like snow across the blackened bones of the church. Stone steamed beneath the wreckage. The air was dense with the stench of scorched wood, burnt wool, and the bitter tang of violence, freshly spent.

Dear God… they’ve burned it again. All we rebuilt, all we prayed over gone in a blink.

Mairead remained still, spine pressed into the scorched moss, the cloth he had given her clutched tight in her hands. Her limbs had ceased their shaking, but they held no will of their own.

They had raised beams with bare hands, knelt in ash and mud, clung to the promise that light could return to Glen Lyon. She had believed it. And now—

What kind o’ hatred did it take tae burn down a house o’ God twice?

From somewhere deeper in the ruin, the sound of water met wood with a sharp hiss. A man sobbed, open and unrestrained.

She opened her eyes. The man who saved her was returning.

He sat beside her, the same control evident in his motions and in the way he had lifted beams from the path of others. His chest bore the weathering of war: scars, bruises yellowed at the edges, and the deep stillness of someone who had learned not to flinch.

“How dae ye feel?” His voice had settled. Still rough, but not sharp. No softness, but no longer something meant to wound.

She cleared her throat. “Like I’ve survived something I shouldnae have.”

He made a sound, half scoff, half exhale, and reached for the waterskin at his side.

“Here.”

She tried to lift her hand. Her fingers twitched and she failed. He noted it, said nothing, and steadied her head with one palm while tilting the skin to her lips with the other. The water was cold, drawn straight from the river, sharp with minerals and the faint taste of stone. The cold cut through the burn in her throat like mercy.

Her first swallow turned into a cough. The second stayed down.

“Enough?”

She nodded, too winded to speak.

He shifted beside her, soaked the shirt again using what remained of the water, then wrung it out and brought it to her face.

“Let me help.”

This time she didn’t resist. He began with her temple, wiping away soot and sweat. Then her jawline. Her throat. He didn’t linger. His movements were efficient, almost clinical.

But the precise, measured way he touched her stirred something unspoken beneath her skin. A heat that wasn’t fire.

She blinked it back, ashamed of the way her breath caught, of the way her body leaned, barely. Guilt followed hard on the feeling, sharp and immediate. She turned her face slightly, as though the soot had settled somewhere he couldn’t reach.

She watched him through lowered lashes, her gaze flicking to the curve of his jaw, the tension still held in his hands. Then she shifted slightly. Just enough to pull back. Her fingers tightened around the cloth, and she nodded once, a subtle motion that said it was enough. “Thank ye.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Ye’re welcome.”

The silence settled back over them, awkward now, at least for her. Her hands stilled, her gaze fixed on the cloth in her lap as if it might speak first. The weight of his nearness pressed at the edges of her thoughts, and she suddenly felt the heat rise again.

“What’s yer name?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her directly then, as if he had known the question would come and had been waiting for it.

“Mairead,” she offered when he said nothing. “O’ Caorann. I came with the Church.”

He rose with the quiet resolve of someone who never moved unless it served a purpose. Every inch of him stayed composed, as if motion itself were a decision.

“Raghnall,” he said.

The name struck something inside her. It was a name spoken in sermons and whispers both, a name she had been taught to fear before she ever understood what fear was. Laird Raghnall, they had said, worshipped stone and storm, bowed to trees, not God. She had imagined someone wild-eyed, beastlike. This man was none of those things, which somehow made it worse.

“Raghnall mac Anndra?”

He nodded. A single, precise gesture. ”Aye.”

Her spine straightened. “Ye’re the laird o’ Glen Lyon?”

He arched a brow. “Dae I look like a stable boy?”

She studied him, stunned. This was the man whispered about in Caorann, the one used to frighten children into obedience? This was the pagan laird whose name preceded threats and warnings?

“I didnae expect—”

“What?”

“That ye were the one tae save me.” Her throat worked once around the words, a quiet swallow betraying something she couldn’t name. The admission felt heavier spoken aloud than it had in her thoughts.

He didn’t smile. But something in his expression shifted. ”Why nae?”

“Because…” She hesitated. The words came to her more quickly than they should have, and she nearly swallowed them again. But honesty was a sharp thing once unsheathed. “…ye’re a pagan.”

He exhaled through his nose. The noise was quiet, not amused. “Pagan. Nae a monster.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “Aye. But that’s nae… I dinnae mean it as a curse.”

His mouth flattened. “Good. If I were,” he said, tone sharpening, “ye’d be dead.”

“I’ve nay right tae judge.” She bit her lip. “But I have every right tae question.”

“And I’ve every right tae be offended,” he said, the corners of his mouth unmoving. His expression held no heat, only the tired caution of a man who had heard this too many times to care, but not enough to let it pass unanswered.

Their eyes held, unmoving.

Then, quieter, he added, “This wasnae meant tae happen.”

“The fire?”

He nodded.

She searched his face. No flicker of doubt, no hesitation. Just certainty, worn thin by anger. ”It was yer people.”

She stared at him, the words catching in her mouth before she said them. The weight of ash still clung to her skin, and the screams still echoed somewhere behind her ribs.

“That daesnae change what’s been done,” she said at last, quieter than before.

“Nay,” he said. “But it determines what happens next.” His voice was level, but there was something bitter buried beneath it.

She didn’t know what he meant. The men who had started the fire…Were they his kin? His enemies? In Caorann, they spoke of Glen Lyon justice as something half-legend, half-warning. There were stories of blood rites, of traitors buried standing. She had never known what to believe. And now, with the laird before her, she realized she still didn’t.

Mairead looked down at her hands. The cloth had gone slack in her grip. ”I cannae stay here. Nae beside a man who denies God.”

He continued, his tone unchanging. “Ye dinnae need faith tae act with decency. Or courage. I pulled ye from the fire. I stopped the man who would’ve defiled ye. I helped ye breathe. If that’s nae holy enough, perhaps yer God measures with a narrow rule.”

She didn’t speak. She had prayed and this man, this pagan, had been the one to answer.

His words echoed in the hollow of her chest, heavier than scripture. If she told the priests in Caorann what had happened and what he had done, they would call it luck. Or blasphemy.

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