Chapter 22
Elder Domnhall MacRae
The last echoes of the clan's roar faded from the courtyard, swallowed by the stone walls until only silence lingered—a silence so heavy it pressed against the skin.
The wind rose through the ramparts, sharp and cold, as one by one the clansfolk drifted away, their voices low, their eyes alight with something Domhnall had not seen in months: unity. Hope.
Domhnall stood upon the broad stone steps, a hand on his son's shoulder, feeling the rigid tension in Calum's frame.
He saw the fire in the lad's eyes—a mix of fury and humiliation.
He knew that look well. It was the look of a man who had watched his birthright slip from his grasp in a single, painful moment of indecision.
"Ye should have spoken," he said, his voice low, edged with weary sorrow. He was no longer the public voice of an Elder before the clan—just a father, stripped bare, speaking plain to his son.
Calum turned, jaw tight, fists clenched tight enough to crack, the tendons in his neck taut as bowstrings. "They went against me, Father! They… they chose her. She doesna even belong here—everything was fine until our marriage."
Domhnall’s gaze hardened, his voice like stone.
"Strathloch has chosen, aye, and they did so because their Laird would not. For a month now, ye’ve hidden from what must be done.
Do ye think your silence went unnoticed?
The air in this keep has been thick with unrest—aye, with anger.
It has been near two months since the raid, and still ye let grief fester like an open wound.
I begged ye, Calum, again and again, to mete out judgment, to see the six below dealt with.
Ye would not, and so the people were left to stew in doubt, fear, and rage. ”
He drew a long breath, the sound of it rattling in his chest. His cane thudded against the stone as if to drive the truth deeper.
“There were whispers, lad. Whispers of rebellion. Men ready to take matters into their own hands, to break open the cells and deliver justice themselves. I stayed them as best I could, but ye near drove this clan to ruin with your blindness. I hoped, prayed even, that ye would see sense and act. But ye did not. And so it fell to Sorcha.”
The name hung between them like a bell tolling.
Domhnall sighed heavily, the weight of the moment pressing upon him.
"I gambled, son. I stayed my hand because I hoped ye would come to your senses.
I wanted ye to do what was right. But your refusal.
.. it put the very soul of this clan at risk.
They would have splintered, Calum. Torn apart from within, all because ye could not bear to look upon the truth. "
He paused, shoulders bowed beneath the years, feeling the sting of having hoped his son would finally see the wonder Sorcha truly was.
"And Sorcha," he said, voice softened now, tinged with awe, "that lass…
even with all that this clan has done to her—what we have done to her—she still stood.
She held them together with the sheer force of her will.
She gave them hope. She didn't have to do that, Calum. She could have walked away and let this clan tear itself apart. All she did was her duty, she said—and that is what she has been doing since she arrived: her duty. And duty, lad, is all she has given since the moment she stepped foot in this keep. She married you. She cared for your people when you would not. She faced their cruelty and your neglect, and still she rose.”
Calum flinched, his face twisting, but Domhnall pressed on. His eyes burned with disappointment—deeper than anger, heavier than shame.
“She does not ask for your love. But she deserves your respect. And more than that—she has earned the clan’s. And yet… after all this… she still told them she would hear you. She still gave you a place beside her. A chance, lad. A chance you have not earned.”
His gaze locked with his son's, disappointment carved deeper than anger itself.
“I have told ye, time and again. A laird’s desires count for naught.
His only duty is to his people. Not to himself.
Not to his pride. Had ye acted as ye should, those three traitors—and the three invaders with them—would ne’er have lingered so long in our cells.
Ye failed them, Calum. And worse—you failed her. ”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned again. Calum’s jaw worked, but no words came.
He gave a final pat to his shoulder—half a gesture of guidance, half a release. His steps were slow as he turned from his son, descending the stair with the weight of years in his bones. The wind caught at his plaid, tugging it like the hand of fate itself. He did not look back.
Ye’ll make your own choice now, lad, he thought grimly as his boots struck stone. Mayhap my words will take root. Mayhap they’ll wither, like all else I’ve tried to plant in you.
At the mouth of the hall, where the stair met the stone threshold, several of the Elders waited. Domhnall crossed the courtyard to join them, his cane striking in steady rhythm as they spoke in low voices—already turning from judgment to duty, from fury to the work of rebuilding.
Behind him, Calum remained on the platform, the courtyard slowly emptying around him. The clang of the smithy picked up again in the distance; the murmur of the clan returning to its labors filled the air. The storm had passed—but the weight of what came next rested squarely on his shoulders.
He cast one final glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall, silent in prayer that his son might still learn what it meant to lead—not by birthright, but by heart.