Chapter 25 #2
Struan growled with frustration as his sword came down in a powerful arc, aiming for Marcus’ shoulder.
Marcus barely managed to deflect the blow, the edge of Struan’s sword grazing his side.
The pain was sharp, but he ignored it, forcing himself to stay focused.
He countered with a quick jab to Struan’s midsection, but Struan was quick, sidestepping and bringing his sword down in an upward motion toward Marcus’ throat.
“Revenge?” he grunted, his sword a blur in the air. “For what, Struan? What’s this all about?” His eyes locked onto Struan’s, searching for any sign of clarity, but all he saw was madness flickering behind the man’s eyes.
Both men strained against each other, their muscles burning with the effort.
Struan’s breath came in heavy bursts, his rage evident, but Marcus was just as determined, his grip on his sword unyielding.
In that moment, Marcus could feel the weight of the confrontation, not just as a matter of honor but as something far deeper—the lies, the betrayals, the animosity that had built up between them.
“Yer faither,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “Yer faither stole what was mine! He took it all, and now, I’ll take everythin’ from him—and from ye!” His words seemed to lose all sense as he continued to rant, each sentence more fractured than the last, the rage consuming him completely.
Marcus’ mind raced as he tried to make sense of the accusation, but before he could react, Struan’s eyes narrowed with malicious intent.
“Ye’ll regret this, Marcus,” Struan snarled through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with fury.
With a sudden, violent twist, Struan broke the deadlock, shoving Marcus backward.
Marcus stumbled but quickly regained his footing, his eyes narrowing as he saw the opening in Struan’s stance.
Without hesitation, he lunged forward, striking low, aiming for Struan’s legs.
Struan tried to pivot away, but Marcus’ sword found its mark, slicing through the side of Struan’s leg with a sharp hiss of steel.
Struan staggered back, a roar of pain escaping him as he fell to one knee.
Blood oozed from the wound, staining the ground beneath him, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to surrender.
Marcus stood over him, sword raised, ready to finish the fight, but he hesitated—something in Struan’s defeated posture told him the fight was near its end.
In one swift move, Struan swung his sword underhanded and caught Marcus off guard. The blade sliced across Marcus’ side, pain flaring as the sharp edge tore through his flesh. Marcus gritted his teeth against the pain, his hand instinctively clutching his side as he fought to keep his balance.
“Yer faither—he took what was mine!” Struan shouted once more, his voice almost pleading now, but his eyes were filled with a deep-seated hatred. “He ruined me!”
Marcus’ sword came down in a sweeping arc, and with a final, powerful strike, he disarmed Struan, sending the man’s sword flying from his hand. Struan stumbled, falling to his knees, his chest heaving with exhaustion. Marcus stood over him, his sword poised but not raised to strike.
“Enough, Struan,” Marcus said, his voice low but firm, his heart pounding in his chest from the adrenaline. “Ye’ve lost.”
Struan looked up at him, eyes filled with both anger and the weight of a lifetime of bitter memories. But Marcus wasn’t going to kill him—he wasn’t going to let the madness of this grudge consume them both and then start a war between clans.
Meanwhile, the battle around them raged on. Anthony and Noah were holding their own against the MacCormack guards, their swords dancing through the air in a blur of motion. Eli and the guards were keeping the rest of the attackers at bay, ensuring that no one else could interfere with the duel.
But Marcus’ focus remained solely on Struan, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the right moment to strike.
Struan’s face twisted in pain, but his eyes remained defiant.
“Ye think ye’ve won, Marcus,” he spat, blood trickling from his mouth.
“Ye may’ve defeated me here, but this war is far from over.
” Marcus’ grip tightened on his sword, but he kept his expression stoic.
He knew Struan was broken, but the truth of the matter had not yet been uncovered.
There was more to this than just the battle—it was the truth, and Marcus would get to the bottom of it, no matter what.
As Struan held his hand up, "Halt!" his guards hesitated, their eyes flicking nervously between their fallen leader and the victorious lairds.
One by one, their swords dropped, the fight drained from them as they realized the battle was lost. With a collective, reluctant motion, they slowly raised their hands in surrender.
The clearing fell silent, the sounds of clashing steel replaced by the wind rustling through the trees.
Eli rushed forward, his boots kicking up dirt as he knelt beside Marcus. “Laird, are ye all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Marcus grunted, his voice low but steady.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at his side where the wound from Struan’s trick still stung with raw intensity.
The pain was there, but he could push it aside.
What he truly wanted, what consumed his thoughts in that moment, was to see Annabeth again.
The thought hit him like a sudden wave, sweeping away the lingering tension of battle.
The excitement of victory seemed to fade into the background as the longing to find her, to speak to her, filled his chest. His mind replayed the memory of their parting, the way she had left without a word, and the emptiness that had settled in him since then.
He sighed, pushing the feeling aside for a moment, but it was harder than ever to ignore.
The truth hung heavily in his chest. He wanted to go home, yes, but what he really craved was the comfort of Annabeth’s presence. Her absence had left a void in his life, one that no amount of battle or victory could fill.