Chapter 25
Calum
Calum sat alone at the long table, the hall quiet save for the dull scrape of his knife against the trencher.
His morning meal lay before him—thick oat bannocks, a strip of cold, salted venison, and a bowl of yesterday’s mutton broth.
He ate without tasting, his thoughts as heavy as the mist that clung to the glen beyond the walls.
He had refused to seek Sorcha out the night before unwilling to give his counsel on what judgment should befall the prisoners held in the cells.
That choice was hers now—her right, her burden.
Yet the knowledge did little to ease the unease that gnawed at him.
The soft shuffle of boots drew his gaze upward.
Elder MacFarlane entered, cradling a small wooden bowl and a hunk of coarse barley bread.
With the ease of a man long accustomed to the place, he settled across from Calum, tearing the bread with slow, deliberate hands before dipping it into his broth.
For a time, only the sound of chewing and the crackle of the hearth filled the hall.
At last, the elder dabbed his mouth with his sleeve. "Ye'll be joining us in the courtyard, then? When Sorcha passes judgement?"
Calum set down his knife. "Whether I stand there or no, it matters little. The clan needs no sign from me. She’s the one they follow now—their saviour, not I."
MacFarlane regarded him steadily, eyes sharp beneath his grey brows. "Aye, the people look to her. But they watch ye as well. Do ye not ken that?"
Calum gave no answer, his jaw tight. He traced the grain of the trencher with a thumb, as if the wood might yield some truth he’d long refused to face.
The elder leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Have ye heard what befell last night? I was here, in this very hall, when she marched John in after he came at her—seeking to finish what his children failed to do, before she could pass judgment upon them. She bested him, aye, but she should never have had to face him alone.”
Calum’s fist clenched against the table. He had not known. Guilt crawled beneath his skin like fire. He’d sat in his chambers, nursing wounded pride, while she’d faced the man whose children’s betrayal had bled them all.
MacFarlane let the silence linger before continuing.
"The lass is strong, aye, but strength wears thin when it is left to bear the weight alone. Whatever judgement she gives this day, it is not yours to shape. But mark me, lad—you should stand beside her when she speaks it. Let her, and all the clan, see that she is not abandoned."
The words struck deep. Calum’s pride bristled, but beneath it lay a truth he could not deny. He’d hidden behind the shield of duty for too long, mistaking silence for penance. It was cowardice, not humility, that had kept him apart.
Elder MacFarlane cleared his throat, his voice rough with age.
"Calum, ye sought the bonniest bloom, yet ignored the sturdy heather that stood before ye all this time. The heather endures every storm, lad—it bends, but it doesna break. See her now, and know her worth before ye lose her entirely."
The elder's meaning cut sharper than any blade.
Calum drew a long breath, his chest tight.
Whatever judgment Sorcha passed, he would be there to face it—if not at her side, then near enough that she would know she was not alone.
It was time to face the truth: what he had felt for Elspeth had been but a boy’s infatuation, long outgrown though pride had kept him clinging to it.
Sorcha was his wife—not Elspeth—and Elspeth was a traitor whose folly had cost them five good lives.
It was past time he showed his clan—not through command, but through presence—that their laird had learned humility.
It was humbling to admit that he—whose first duty should have been to his people—had allowed a bruised ego to guide his hand.
He had railed against being told whom to marry, though he’d always known his station meant such things were never his to choose.
He had called it pride, but it had been fear—fear of being seen as his father’s pawn, of living a life not his own.
Yet in fighting it, he had become something far smaller than the laird his people had deserved. A fool, and nothing less.
He thought of Sorcha now—the fire in her eyes, the steadiness in her voice when she faced men twice her size—and felt the hollow space where his pride had lived begin to ache with something sharper. Regret. Admiration. Perhaps even longing.
With that resolve, he pushed back his bench and rose.
Beyond the doors, voices gathered in the courtyard, low and expectant—awaiting justice.
The air that met him was crisp and clean, laced with woodsmoke and the scent of wet stone.
The morning light broke pale over the yard, steady and cold, yet somehow it seemed to him a new beginning.
Calum squared his shoulders and stepped forward to meet them.