Chapter Fourteen Vows Carved in Thorns
The first sight of Kincaid Keep should have cracked Morna open with relief. Instead it made her wary.
Stone walls rose out of the hills like a clenched fist, banners snapping in the wind, torch smoke curling from battlements even in daylight. The place looked safe, and that was the problem. Safe places asked you to relax. Safe places expected you to forget the way a boot on gravel could mean death.
Morna could not forget.
They rode the last mile with Kincaid men surrounding them, two ahead, two behind, more flanking through the trees. Liam kept close enough that Morna could see the tension in his jaw each time the wind shifted. He was home, yet he moved as if he still rode the perimeter of enemy ground.
Caelan sat on the horse as though the saddle might vanish under him.
He held the reins properly, posture straight, but Morna could see how exhaustion hollowed him.
His wrists were bandaged with clean cloth now, courtesy of the patrol’s kit, and the cuts along his forearms had been washed.
Still, the bruises remained. Marks from ropes. Marks from hands. Marks from choices.
Elara rode between two warriors, face pale but stubborn. She refused to sag, refused to lean into anyone’s help. She looked far older than she had a moon ago, and far younger than she should have had to be.
Ewan, mounted behind Liam, kept scanning the hills the way he had since Blackwood. Morna had seen him try to stop, to let his guard drop, and fail. It was not cowardice. It was training carved in too young.
Ivor had been given a horse too, though Morna suspected only because Liam did not want him walking behind the column where he could vanish. Ivor’s gaze flicked from man to man, measuring, calculating, as if he searched for the first crack in Kincaid discipline.
Morna watched him back. A man like Ivor did not join escape plans without expecting payment. Even now, even within sight of safety, he was weighing the cost.
The gates opened with a groan that made Morna flinch. She forced herself to keep her spine steady as they rode into the courtyard.
People had gathered.
Morna had expected it, yet the sight still stunned her.
Dozens of faces, men and women, children clinging to skirts, old warriors with canes, young ones with wide eyes.
They watched the column as if it were a ghost parade.
They watched Caelan. They watched Elara.
Some crossed themselves. Some whispered prayers. Some just stared, mouths parted.
A woman ran forward, hair loose, eyes wild. She shoved past a guard and caught Elara in her arms so hard the girl’s horse danced sideways.
“Elara,” the woman sobbed. “My girl, my girl.”
Elara froze, stiff as a spear, then slowly returned the embrace, hands shaking.
Morna’s throat tightened. The reunion was beautiful, and brutal. It reminded her of what she had lost, and what she had never had.
Caelan dismounted with controlled movements. The moment his boots hit stone, his knees nearly buckled. He caught himself by gripping the saddle horn, breathing once, twice, then straightened again.
Morna slid down from her own horse, legs unsteady. She looked up and met his gaze.
He did not smile. His eyes held too much. But he stepped closer, close enough that the sleeve of his tunic brushed hers.
“You are here,” he said quietly, as if confirming a fact in a ledger.
Morna’s voice came rough. “So are you.”
A murmur rose among the crowd, then a deeper ripple of movement, like tide turning. Men parted. A figure approached.
Gavin Kincaid.
Morna had seen lairds before, had watched them from a distance with the practical detachment of someone who dealt in herbs and bodies, not politics. Gavin carried the weight differently. He did not wear it like a cloak. He wore it like armor that had fused to his skin.
His gaze fixed on Caelan, and for a heartbeat the laird looked like a man rather than a leader. Relief flashed, sharp and unguarded, then vanished behind restraint.
“Caelan,” Gavin said, voice low.
Caelan dropped to one knee without hesitation.
Gavin stepped forward and hauled him up by the forearm, refusing the gesture. “Do not,” he murmured, so only Caelan and Morna heard. “Not today.”
Caelan’s eyes lowered. “Aye, my laird.”
Gavin’s gaze swept over him, taking inventory of injuries and of something deeper. Then he looked to Elara and her sobbing mother, and Morna saw his expression tighten with anger that had nowhere to go.
“Inside,” Gavin ordered, voice carrying now. “All of you. The hall. Food, water, heat. Then we speak.”
The crowd parted, still watching. Some reached out, touching Caelan’s sleeve as he passed, as if to prove he was solid. Morna felt hands brush her arm too, curious, cautious. She kept her face neutral.
The great hall was warm, a shock after weeks of cold. The scent of bread and meat hit Morna’s empty stomach like a physical blow. She swayed, and Caelan’s hand tightened around her elbow, steadying her.
“I have you,” he murmured.
Morna’s fingers curled around his sleeve, more instinct than choice. “Do not let go,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
His grip tightened slightly. “I will not.”
Servants moved quickly, guided by Gavin’s barked orders. Bowls of broth appeared, thick with barley and herbs. Bread was set on trenchers. Water and ale poured. Blankets offered.
Morna took broth first, forcing herself to sip slowly so she would not vomit from hunger.
Elara ate like a starving wolf, tears still slipping down her cheeks.
Ewan ate, then stopped, scanning the hall as if expecting guards to burst in.
Ivor ate as if he had always belonged here, which made Morna’s skin prickle.
Gavin did not sit. He stood at the high table, hands braced on the wood, watching them eat as if he could not believe it until he saw them swallow.
Liam entered and took position at Gavin’s right, wiping rain from his cloak. Anya followed behind him, quieter, her eyes assessing. Morna recognized her from stories and from the way the warriors shifted when she walked in. She was not Kincaid by blood, but she carried herself like a commander.
Anya’s gaze flicked to Morna, to the way Caelan’s hand lingered at Morna’s elbow. Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful, then moved on.
When the first edge of hunger eased, Gavin lifted a hand. The hall quieted.
“Tell me,” he said, voice controlled, “what happened.”
Silence stretched.
Caelan set his bowl down with care, as if the movement mattered. His fingers trembled slightly. Morna saw him press his thumb into his palm, a small act of pain, like he was trying to anchor himself to the present.
“The convoy was taken,” Caelan began. His voice was even, but his eyes were distant. “Not a battle. A capture. Valerius’s men moved like they had done it before. They killed the ones who fought too hard. They kept the rest alive.”
Gavin’s jaw tightened. “Valerius.”
“Aye,” Caelan said. “Foreign mercenary. Efficient. He runs the camp like a business. He breaks men for profit, not for sport.”
Morna watched Gavin’s knuckles whiten on the table.
Caelan continued, measured as if delivering a report, yet Morna heard the strain beneath.
“Blackwood is hidden, north of the old peatlands. Fences and watchtowers. Rotations. Supplies come in every five days, sometimes six. Mostly dried grain and salt meat. They keep enough to maintain prisoners, not enough to strengthen them.”
Anya leaned forward slightly. “How many guards.”
Caelan’s gaze sharpened. Numbers were easier. “Between forty and sixty at any given time. Shifts change at dawn and at dusk. They rely on fear more than manpower.”
Liam asked, “Who answers to Valerius.”
“A second called Marrek,” Caelan replied. “Harder, less controlled. If Valerius is a blade, Marrek is a club.”
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Roderic is paying for this.”
Caelan nodded once. “Aye. The camp exists to extract intelligence. Patrol routes, supply lines, alliance plans. Valerius promised Roderic answers, and he will want his bonus.”
A murmur ran through the hall, like a low growl.
Morna felt her hands tighten around her cup. She remembered Valerius’s calm eyes, the way he spoke as if pain were currency.
Gavin’s gaze cut to Morna. “You were taken with them.”
Morna lifted her chin. “I was gathering herbs near the road. They assumed I was Kincaid, or useful enough not to kill. I did what I could to keep people alive.”
Gavin nodded once, acknowledgment rather than gratitude. “And you saw the camp.”
“I did,” Morna said. “Illness spreads easily there. Rot in wounds. Fever. They allow only minimal remedies. They want prisoners weak, desperate, and grateful for any scrap.”
Anya’s eyes sharpened. “Do they sell prisoners.”
Morna hesitated. “Not openly. But Valerius trades favors. Better food for information. Cleaner bedding for obedience. He measures men like livestock.”
Caelan’s throat worked. “He measured me most.”
Gavin’s gaze snapped back to Caelan. “What did he want.”
Caelan’s hands clenched. “Everything. He wanted me to admit that rules are worthless. That principles are a weakness.”
Silence tightened again, and Morna felt the hall’s attention narrow. This was not a logistics report anymore. This was the part that cut.
Caelan inhaled, slow. “He offered food. Safety. In exchange for my loyalty.”
“And you refused,” Liam said, voice steady.
Caelan’s mouth twisted, and Morna knew he was thinking of the lies, the thefts, the deals with Ivor. Refusal had not been clean.
“I refused,” Caelan said at last. “But I did not remain the man I was.”
Gavin’s eyes hardened, but he did not interrupt.
Caelan looked down at his hands, as if expecting blood to still be there. “To keep Morna alive, to keep Elara alive, I did things I would have condemned. I lied. I stole. I made bargains with men I despise.”
Ivor lifted his cup in mock salute. “You are welcome.”
Liam’s glare cut toward him. “You will keep your mouth shut unless asked.”
Ivor’s grin did not falter, but he leaned back.