Chapter 26
Calum
The air in the courtyard hung thick with the breath of gathered clansfolk, a low murmur rippling through them like wind over tall grass.
A restless breeze worried the banners along the wall, and though the sun had climbed the sky, it gave little warmth.
None spoke above a whisper. All eyes were fixed upon the dais, where justice waited to be handed down.
Calum’s steps slowed as he crossed the threshold of the keep’s great door.
The weight of a hundred eyes pressed upon him, silent and heavy as judgment itself.
His gaze caught on the newly built gallows, its rough-hewn timber standing stark against the pale sky.
Seven nooses hung from the beam, their ropes twisting lazily in the wind—a grim pendulum marking the moments before justice.
And there, upon the dais, stood Sorcha—her stance straight and unyielding, her plaid drawn close about her shoulders like armor for the trial ahead.
Behind her waited his father and the elders of the clan, solemn as stone.
As Calum approached, Elder MacFarlane came up behind him and gave a firm, reassuring pat to his shoulder, then made his way to join the others upon the dais—their gathered presence lending quiet weight to what was to come.
He had not expected the silence to fall so quickly, nor the heads that turned to mark his arrival.
A few muttered, some stiffened—but none called out.
They were waiting. Watching. For a heartbeat, he faltered, the old pride whispering that it would be easier to remain at the edge of the crowd, unnoticed.
But MacFarlane’s words from the hall rang in his ears: “Strength wears thin when it is left to bear the weight alone.”
He set his jaw and moved forward, his boots striking the packed earth of the courtyard until he reached the dais.
The murmurs rose—surprise, uncertainty, maybe even respect—but he kept his gaze forward.
Whatever judgment Sorcha passed this day would be hers alone.
His place here was not to guide her, but to stand with her—to show her, and their people, that she would not face it without him.
“Bring the marauders forth,” Sorcha called into the hushed courtyard.
Six guards moved to obey, vanishing through the keep doors. A few breaths later they returned, boots scraping against the stones as they dragged prisoners in their wake—mud-streaked, hollow-eyed, and beaten.
Calum did not know these men’s faces from Adam. These raiders had invaded his clan, pillaging and murdering five of his kin for the promise of supplies and coin in exchange for his wife’s death.
A heaviness settled in his chest as he looked upon them. Once, he might have pitied them—called them desperate men driven by hunger and lies. But not now. He had learned that mercy, when given without wisdom, only weakens those who offer it.
The guards forced the raiders to their knees before the dais. The crowd pressed closer, breath held, the weight of vengeance hanging thick as fog.
Calum set his jaw, steadying himself. He would not speak, not unless asked. Today was hers to command. But when Sorcha's shoulders drew inward, tightening under some silent unseen burden, he shifted closer, enough that she would feel his strength at her side.
Sorcha looked over the prisoners, then to the gathered crowd. Her voice did not tremble.
“You came upon our lands with promises of coin and plunder in exchange for my death,” she said, her voice carrying clear across the courtyard.
“Instead, you brought devastation. You spared no blade, chose no victim. Men, women, and children fell beneath your hands. You broke the laws of men, and the laws of honour. You burned our homes, bled our kin, and filled our nights with fear.”
She paused then, letting the silence stretch, her gaze cold as iron. “The blood spilled here is on your hands. The lives taken will not return. And the punishment for such greed and betrayal…”—her tone fell to a low, steady finality—“…is death.”
Her words struck the crowd like a blow—no cheers, no dissent. Only the grim silence of agreement.
The guards moved forward, dragging the condemned to the gallows. Ropes were fixed and tightened around each neck, the rough hemp creaking in the cold air. A single order was given. Boxes were kicked away.
The sound—wood striking stone, rope snapping taut—echoed through the courtyard. A crow startled from the wall, its harsh cry lost to the wind as the bodies swayed, boots dangling above the stones.
He let out a long, steady breath when it was done. Sorcha did not flinch. Her eyes swept the gathered crowd once, then shifted back to the doors of the keep—where eight guards now stood at attention, waiting.
The air thickened again.
His chest constricted.
He knew who would be called next.