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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