Chapter 20
Sorcha
The evening air was heavy with the scent of peat smoke and damp earth as Sorcha stood by the window of her chamber, staring out at the keep and the scattered homes of Strathloch.
Her mind churned with the words she had heard, spoken quietly but with weight in the great hall—the counsel of Elder MacRae, the heavy burden pressing down on Calum, and the whispered fears of a clan fraying at the edges.
She had heard the murmurs too—words laced with doubt and thinly veiled scorn.
Some spoke of Calum’s hesitation as weakness, others whispered about her rising favor with the folk.
They called her savior, a name she bore as both shield and burden.
The tales of her skill with sword and longbow, once whispered like old wives’ tales, now carried weight and respect.
Yet, to her, they felt like a delicate frost, brittle and fleeting beneath the rising sun.
Her thoughts flickered to Calum—her Laird by title, but a stranger in the flesh. He carried his own chains, heavy with regret and pride, and though she neither sought his favor nor wished to bridge the gulf between them, she knew the clan looked to him for strength. Yet he wavered.
Sorcha clenched her fists. Loyalty was not born of titles or blood alone; it was earned in the field, in the shadows, in moments where fear threatened to claim the heart. She had learned that well—her bow and blade the echoes of a past scarred by fire and loss.
She thought of Katherine, the laundress with fierce eyes and a steady hand, who had begged for lessons in the longbow. Teaching the lass was more than skill—it was planting a seed of hope in the soil of uncertainty. It was a promise that they would not be broken, no matter the cost.
The elder’s words echoed in her ears: leadership borne of courage and clarity. Sorcha knew her place was not behind a curtain of fear or silence, it never had been. The days ahead would be harsh—testing not only the mettle of Calum and his kin but the very spirit of Strathloch.
Still, she would not rise unbidden, nor claim a throne the clan had not truly offered. If they wished her to lead, let them speak—not with whispers or hidden looks, but with clear voices and open hearts. Only then would she answer their call.
She turned from the window, her eyes steady and fierce. The heather bent but did not break. Neither would she. What she did not yet ken was that come the morrow, the choice she meant to leave to the clan would be made for her—in the full light of day, before every eye in Strathloch’s courtyard.