Chapter Seven
Sorcha
The days dragged on much the same—Sorcha toiled from dawn till dusk, overseeing the keep’s stores and servants, her hands roughened by work no lady ought to do.
Yet no word of thanks crossed the halls, no friendly smile to warm her bones.
Only sharp looks and whispers that chilled her more than the Highland winds.
Each night, when the last light had faded and the keep lay quiet but watchful, she slipped beyond the walls to the clearing hidden among the trees.
There, beneath the silver moon, her sword flashed and sang in practiced arcs, her bowstring twanged sharp and true.
Every ache in her limbs was a welcome dullness, a reprieve from the sharper ache that sat heavy on her heart.
Years had passed since her brothers first pressed a bow and sword into her hands after the raid that stole her mother.
Yet she could still summon the stink of smoke, the crackle of burning thatch, and the weight of a scavenged blade in her fist as she drove it into the man who had struck her mother down.
From that night on, the lessons from her father and brothers became both shield and salvation.
Now, with every pull of the bowstring or swing of her sword, she carried memory and vow alike—that none under her care would ever suffer as she had.
But the gossip spread, like wildfire caught on dry brush. Elspeth—slippery and cruel—having seen Sorcha leave the keep one night—had taken to whispering in corners, planting seeds of doubt among the keep’s folk.
“Did ye see her leave again last night?” a servant murmured, voice thick with suspicion.
“Where might the Lady be wanderin’ so late?” another fretted.
And so the glances grew colder, the tongues sharper, as the people wondered what business their Lady kept beyond the keep’s walls in the dark hours.
Sorcha heard the murmurs but bore them silent. It was a burden worn deep in her bones—and one she would carry to her last breath.
Then came the night the horns shattered the stillness—clamorous calls that set the keep to alarm and battle.
Raiders had come upon Glenbrae.
The clang of armor and hurried footsteps filled the stone halls, voices shouting orders and prayers alike.
Sorcha, who had been returning to the keep after practicing her skills heard the horns and ran toward her clan, shedding her cloak as she came. She carried a longbow on her shoulder, a quiver on her back, and a sword at her hip—the tools of a warrior born not of rank, but of fire and hardship.
“To arms!” she called, voice steady and clear. “Hold the gates! Protect the stores! None shall pass this night!”
With many of their warriors fighting battles away from the keep, hands that once tended grain now grasped weapons, faces once cold now looked to her for strength.
She moved among them like the wild wind, steadying the fearful, rallying the fighters.
Steel met steel beneath the moonlight, but Sorcha’s heart was iron.
Coming up behind a dark shadow preparing to strike one of the kitchen maidens, Sorcha drew her bow and loosed an arrow.
The shaft struck true, piercing the raider’s neck and sending him crashing to the ground.
She waited only a moment to ensure he was dead before turning to the frightened lass.
Meeting her wide eyes, she urged, “Get inside the keep—now.”
Without hesitation, Sorcha sprinted back into the fray.
The clash of steel, the stench of fear and smoke, the cries of her people around her—it all threatened to drag her back to the raid of her childhood, when she had sat at her mother’s side, half listening to gentle lessons on what it meant to be Lady of the clan.
But this time she was no bairn clutching a rusted blade, no frightened girl left to fate.
The bow at her shoulder and the sword at her hip were hers by vow and by skill, hard-won through blood and loss.
For all the whispers and scorn, in this moment she was no mere Lady. She was Strathloch’s true shield.