Chapter Three The Gate of Mockery #2
“He called you cautious, then mocked you for it,” Anya said. “He wants you to prove yourself. He mentioned Kenan because he wants your men to compare you.”
Ronan scoffed. “He is a mouth with guards.”
Anya did not look at him. “He is a mouth with a plan,” she said, sharper.
“He wants our clans divided. If the MacFarlanes believe I failed here, they will look for any deal that keeps food in their bowls. If the Kincaids believe you are being slowed by me, they will press you toward a battle Roderic is ready to frame as your aggression.”
Liam studied her face. He saw strain there now, not weakness, but the strain of carrying fear and refusing to show it.
“You came to bargain,” Liam said.
“I came to learn if bargaining was possible,” Anya corrected. “It is not. Not in good faith. That matters.”
Ronan’s eyes flashed. “Then we attack.”
Anya turned on him, voice low and fierce. “Not like that. Not because you are angry. If you attack in rage, you will die, and your death will not open the road.”
Ronan’s jaw flexed. He looked away, wounded pride mixing with helplessness.
Liam felt an unexpected flicker of respect. Anya held her brother without pleading, without softness. That was not the posture of a na?ve diplomat. That was the posture of someone used to containing chaos.
Liam leaned forward slightly. “So what now?” he asked. “If not talk and not a charge.”
Anya drew a slow breath. “We change the field,” she said. “Eamon believes he can choke the pass without consequence because he thinks no one will hold him accountable. He laughs because he expects silence.”
Liam frowned. “You mean parchment and claims.”
“I mean proof,” Anya replied. “Record every demand, every stolen barrel, every wagon turned back. Then we use that proof to build pressure beyond this ridge. Merchants talk. Lairds listen when coin is threatened. Roderic fears united opposition. If we show that his men are not keeping order but committing robbery under his banner, he loses the clean story he wants.”
Liam’s instincts resisted. Words were fragile. Proof could be denied. But she was right about one truth Liam understood well: a war could be won or lost before the first blade swung, depending on who believed what.
Anya continued, “And we make this gate expensive to hold. Men need supply. They need food, ale, firewood. If their wagons are delayed, if their stores shrink, Eamon will be forced to tighten his grip or loosen it. Either way, his posture cracks.”
Liam’s gaze sharpened. “Cut their supply.”
“Not with open battle,” Anya said. “With pressure. With patience. With strategy.”
Ronan scoffed again. “So we become thieves too.”
Anya’s eyes snapped to him. “We become smart,” she said. “Do you want to win, or do you want to die loudly?”
Ronan fell silent.
Liam watched Anya, and the first real crack formed in his old assumption. He had expected a woman who believed words could tame a predator. Instead, he had a woman who understood predators, and who knew that words mattered only when backed by credible consequence.
He did not like that he respected her for it.
A veteran named Fergus approached. “Camp is set,” he said. His eyes flicked to Anya, guarded. “The lads are restless.”
“They can stay restless,” Liam replied. “Restless keeps them awake.”
Fergus grunted and walked away.
Anya’s gaze followed him. “They blame me,” she said quietly.
“They blame delay,” Liam answered. “If you were not here, they would blame the cold, or the rocks, or Gavin. Men always want a clear target for their frustration.”
“And you?” Anya asked.
Liam held the question, then chose honesty. “I blamed you before we left the keep,” he said. “Today, I blame Eamon and the lord who put him here.”
Anya’s shoulders eased a fraction. “That is not trust,” she said.
“No,” Liam agreed. “It is recognition.”
Anya looked down at her hands, then back up. “Recognition is a beginning,” she murmured.
Liam stood. Beginnings had a way of becoming debts. He did not want a debt to a MacFarlane, and he did not want to feel the strange pull of wanting her to succeed.
“We send a runner to Gavin tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight we watch. We learn their rhythm.”
Anya nodded, then glanced toward Ronan. “And we endure,” she said, more to her brother than to Liam.
Ronan’s mouth tightened, but he did not argue.
As evening deepened, the camp settled into tense routine. Men ate in small groups and kept their voices low. Sentries rotated. The fire stayed small. Liam kept his focus on the ridgeline, refusing to relax simply because they had not been attacked. A place like this punished carelessness.
When the sky cleared, stars sharpened over the ridge. Cold thickened. Liam began his perimeter rounds, moving between sentries, checking angles and sightlines. He did not trust that Eamon would remain content with mockery. Men like that enjoyed testing boundaries.
Near the ridge above the stream, Liam paused, scanning the dark where the gate lay hidden beyond trees. He could not see its torches from here, but he felt its presence anyway, like a pressure in the air.
A soft crunch behind him made him turn. Anya stood a few paces away, hood down, hair caught by the wind. Her cheeks were red with cold, but her eyes were clear.
“You should be sleeping,” Liam said.
“I cannot,” Anya replied.
Liam glanced toward the nearest sentry, a young man pretending not to listen. He lowered his voice. “If you wander at night, my men will assume you are looking for trouble.”
“Perhaps I am,” Anya said, and there was no playfulness in it. Only determination.
Liam studied her, then looked back to the ridge. “Speak,” he said.
“I wanted to be sure you understood what he did,” Anya murmured. “He will tell the story of today as if I came to beg and failed. He will send whispers into my clan and into yours.”
“I know,” Liam said.
“And you will not let those whispers steer you into his trap?”
Liam breathed out slowly. “I will not charge a gate because a man laughed at me.”
Anya’s shoulders eased. “Good.”
Liam’s gaze flicked to her hands, bare in the cold. “Where are your gloves?”
“I left them in my saddlebag,” she said. “I did not think I would be walking.”
Liam reached inside his cloak and pulled out a worn pair, old leather lined with wool. He held them out.
Anya hesitated. “I cannot take those.”
“You can,” Liam said. “Put them on.”
She accepted them slowly. Her fingers brushed his, brief contact that startled him more than it should have. He stiffened, annoyed at himself, then forced his attention back to the ridge.
“Thank you,” Anya said softly.
“Go back,” Liam replied. “Tomorrow will be worse.”
Anya did not move immediately. “Liam,” she said.
He turned, impatience ready, then paused at the expression on her face. Not pleading. Not fragile. Only earnest.
“I know you think my way is foolish,” she said. “But I do not think yours is cruel. I think you are trying to protect your people the only way you believe works.”
The words landed too close to something tender in him, and he did not like it. Understanding made a man visible. Visibility made a man vulnerable.
“I am not here to be understood,” Liam said.
Anya nodded once, accepting the wall without arguing. “Then I will say only this,” she murmured. “If we are to stand united, even briefly, you will need to let me contribute more than a soft voice. I will not be your ornament in this camp.”
Liam held her gaze. Moonlight caught the edge of her eyes, and he saw fear there, yes, but not fear of the cold or the gate. Fear of failing her people.
“You contributed today,” he said. “You kept your brother from riding into a crossbow.”
A faint, tired smile flickered at her mouth. “That is a low bar.”
“It is a necessary one,” Liam replied.
Anya pulled the gloves on, flexing her fingers. “Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” Liam answered.
She turned and walked back toward the fire, a quiet figure swallowed by shadow.
Liam watched her go, then faced the ridge again, forcing his mind steady.
Anya was not na?ve. She was observant. Sharp. More dangerous to his assumptions than any spearpoint.
He did not know what that meant yet. He only knew Eamon’s trap was not built solely of timber and stone.
It was built of expectations, and for the first time since Gavin gave the order, Liam wondered if strength alone would be enough to break it.