Chapter 16
Calum
The light in the great hall had softened as the sun dipped lower, spilling warmth through the high windows.
Calum found his father seated near the hearth, the firelight deepening the lines age had carved into his face.
His old hound snored softly at his feet.
Elder MacRae didn't look up at once—he simply tipped his head toward the empty chair and muttered, "Ye look like a man struck twice and still cannae decide who threw the first blow. "
Calum sank into the chair, jaw tight. "I visited the cells. After washing."
"Oh?" his father said, voice steady, neither surprised nor reproachful—as if he expected Calum would have done so already, before they spoke.
"My mind is muddled," Calum admitted. "I'm no' certain what to believe about what happened while I was away."
"Aye," Elder MacRae said kindly. "But I thought ye'd come to that on yer own."
For a long moment, silence held between them, broken only by the fire's crackle as damp logs gave way to flame.
"I have questions, Da. Things dinnae add up.
" Calum rubbed his temple. "Elspeth claims she was framed.
That Sorcha—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair.
"Some of my own clansfolk—folk I've known all my life—sit below in the cells, confessing they welcomed raiders onto our lands.
They say they thought they were doing me a favor, enlisting them to invade, so long as they killed Sorcha.
They promised supplies and riches in return.
Five of our people were killed because of this treachery.
And then there's Elspeth... I canna tell what to believe. "
Elder MacRae leaned forward, firelight glinting on the steel in his gaze.
"Calum, my son, ye've grown into a fine warrior. But sometimes ye mistake pride for wisdom."
Calum lowered his gaze, guilt thick in his throat.
"I thought I was following my heart—doing what was right for me."
"And if ye were not my son, that might've been enough.
But that is nae the burden of a Laird's son.
Yer duty is to yer people, not yerself. A marriage contract was made, and I warned ye against gettin' close to Elspeth when ye were promised to another.
Yer reckless heart and wounded pride have led yer people to question yer ability to lead.
By letting Elspeth disrespect Sorcha without a word, by setting the example yerself—ignoring and scorning her—you've been painted with the same brush as Elspeth, who they now see as a traitor responsible for the deaths of five clansfolk. "
Calum paled at his father's words. He thought of the subtle slights from his people since his return—being called by his given name instead of his title—and the fact no one but his father had greeted him in the courtyard. Their doubt cut deeper than he wished to admit.
That evening, as he ate, Isobel sought him out. The girl looked pale and weary, her wrist bandaged and trembling as she sat beside him.
"I owe her my life," she whispered before he could ask.
"I thought she was just a snooty Laird's daughter.
.. but when I was attacked by a man twice my size, she shot him clean through the neck without blinking.
Saved me. Then she fought with the rest, blade drawn and fierce as any man. More than some."
Calum blinked. "Ye're certain?"
Isobel nodded, shame flickering in her eyes.
"She saved me, even after I'd said cruel things to her.
I tripped her once while she carried a pot of stew and laughed when she was scolded for spilling it.
I listened when Elspeth twisted every tale.
But she saved me. All of us, despite how we treated her. "
Calum retreated to his chamber after his meal, body exhausted from travel and mind burdened by all he'd learned.
The next morning, he ventured into the village to check on the people. Though signs of the recent fight remained, most repairs were already done. He found it wasn't only his father or Isobel singing Sorcha's praises.
The cook spoke of Sorcha's tireless help—working tirelessly to stretch their stores after livestock were slaughtered and oat and barley fields were burned in the attack.
She helped to ensure no one went hungry until their supplies could be restored.
The old cooper told of her helping his son repair his mother's roof—and many others'—after fires set by the raiders damaged homes.
Even the stable lads muttered about Sorcha helping stitch up a horse wounded by a stray arrow.
"Elspeth told us she didnae belong," one said. "But now I reckon she just wanted to turn us against her."
Calum saw the shame in his clansfolk's faces for their past treatment of Sorcha, and how respected—and even adored—she was now.
When he returned to the keep he spoke to a lass who worked as a laundress in the keep, who tearfully told him that though they now saw what a gem Sorcha was, she had never once changed how she treated them—still doing all she had done since she arrived.
They knew they'd been ungrateful and cruel, but none knew how to make it right.
Sorcha accepted their thanks with polite distance, her mask never slipping, as if their change of heart meant nothing.
But even as he gathered these truths from his people, one question gnawed at him.
Elspeth's words echoed—Sorcha leaving the keep each night for hours.
What was she doing?
He felt the need to know. To see it for himself.
That evening, after the sun dipped behind the hills and shadows stretched long, he waited—hidden in the dark behind the stable wall.
He nearly missed her when she emerged from the kitchens' door, cloaked in midnight wool, her steps quick and silent. Calum followed at a distance, careful not to make a sound, until she reached a clearing deep in the forest.
From behind the wide trunk of an ancient tree, Calum watched as she removed her cloak and laid it on a boulder, then drew a sword from its scabbard and set it on the ground.
Taking the longbow from over her shoulder, she nocked an arrow from the quiver at her back and fired.
It struck the tree he was hiding behind with a solid, startling thunk.
His breath caught—had she seen him?
But no. She didn't advance toward his hiding place. She was practicing.
She loosed two more arrows into trees spaced around the clearing, then laid down the bow, rolled her shoulders, and picked up her sword.
That was when he noticed it—a large, worn log stood upright in the clearing, the bark stripped away, the wood nicked and scarred. A pell. A practice post.
She began swinging her sword in long, powerful arcs, the blade slamming into the post with unrelenting force. Each strike was smooth, deadly, punctuated by her sharp cries that echoed through the trees.
She was training. Alone. The moon hung high above, silvering the clearing like a watchful lantern.
He watched her for what felt like hours until she finally finished.
Slipping the bow over her shoulder once more, she walked to each tree she had struck, retrieving her arrows and sliding them back into her quiver.
She sheathed her sword, donned her cloak, and left the clearing as quietly as she had arrived.
Calum stepped from his hiding place, taking in the clearing—the practice post, the trees scarred with arrow strikes. Turning to the one he had hidden behind, he saw a circle carved into its trunk and the arrow hole perfectly centered within it.
Calum's jaw tightened. This wasn't the work of a woman idly passing the time or seeking a bit of exercise. This was discipline. Training.
And for what?
The Sorcha he'd dismissed as cold and unfeeling was not the one standing in this clearing. That woman was dangerous in ways he hadn't understood—and perhaps in ways he still didn't.
As the night closed in around him, he turned back toward the keep, his questions pressing heavier than before. Whatever truth lay between them, he would find it. And this time, he would not turn away.