Chapter Nine The Price of Peace #3
Gavin’s gaze locked on Liam. “You have been applying pressure,” he said. “Quiet strikes, stolen supplies. Has it worked?”
Liam felt the weight of the question. It was not only about tactics. It was about whether Gavin’s earlier trust in Liam’s measured approach had been a mistake.
“It has rattled Eamon,” Liam said. “He is nervous. He has sent riders south. He is not as secure as he pretends.”
Kenan scoffed. “Rattled does not feed us.”
Liam kept his voice even. “If we continue, we can force Eamon into an error that weakens the gate without a full assault.”
Baird’s eyes narrowed. “How long?”
Liam hesitated a fraction. He did not know. He could not promise speed.
Kenan seized the pause like a weapon. “He cannot answer,” Kenan said. “Because his way is slow. Because he is letting an outsider steer him.”
Anya’s face went pale. Liam felt anger rise, hot and clean, but he forced it down. Anger would become proof of attachment, and attachment would become a knife.
Gavin’s gaze flicked to Anya. There was reluctance there, and respect, but also the hard calculus of a laird under siege. “Lady Anya,” Gavin said, and his tone was formal now, not kind. “If your father accepts this offer, what happens?”
Anya swallowed. “Roderic gains a public wedge,” she said. “He isolates you. He makes you look like aggressors if you respond. And he will not stop with a renunciation. He will demand tribute. He will demand men. He will demand hostages.”
The word hostages seemed to hang in the air, a grim prophecy.
Kenan’s gaze sharpened. “Then we take the hostage first,” he said, and his eyes cut to Anya.
Anya went still.
Ronan’s breath hitched. “No,” he said, voice rough. “You cannot.”
Gavin’s jaw tightened. He looked at Kenan, then at Baird, then at the elders, then at Liam. Liam saw the trap close. Roderic’s move had forced Gavin toward a harsh choice, a choice that would prove strength to his warriors and reassure his merchants.
A choice that would shatter Anya.
Gavin’s voice was steady, and that steadiness made Liam’s stomach drop. “We cannot allow uncertainty to linger,” Gavin said. “Roderic is tightening a snare around us. If we wait and MacFarlane accepts, we will be isolated. If we strike now, we choose the ground.”
Anya stepped forward, voice urgent. “Do not strike,” she said. “If you assault the gate, Roderic will claim you are the aggressors. He will punish both clans. There are other ways.”
Kenan’s expression hardened. “Other ways that keep us weak.”
Gavin’s gaze did not soften. “I have listened,” he said. “And I will still choose what protects my clan.”
Liam felt his mouth go dry. He knew what came next. He could see it in Gavin’s eyes, the acceptance that sometimes protection required ugliness.
“Liam,” Gavin said.
Liam straightened. “Aye, my laird.”
Gavin’s words fell into the hall like a verdict.
“Prepare for a full assault on the pass,” he said. “If Eamon does not yield within days, we take the gate by force. Kenan will muster the men here. Liam, you will coordinate from the border.”
Kenan did not bother to hide his satisfaction. It flickered across his face, sharp and unmistakable.
Anya drew in a breath that sounded too thin for the space it had to fill. “Gavin,” she said quietly. “Please.”
Gavin looked at her then. For the briefest moment, something human crossed his expression. Regret, perhaps. Or apology.
Then it was gone.
“And until MacFarlane’s answer is known,” Gavin continued, his voice steady, “Lady Anya will be taken into custody. As political hostage.”
The words struck the room with physical force.
The hall seemed to tilt, as if the stone itself had shifted beneath their feet. Conversations died mid breath. Even the fire at the hearth crackled more softly, as though it, too, had drawn back.
Anya did not cry out.
She did not argue.
She stood utterly still, her face smoothing into a blankness so complete it frightened Liam more than any anger could have. It was as if her mind had stepped away from her body, leaving only a shell behind to hear the rest.
Ronan reacted for both of them.
“You cannot,” he shouted, surging forward. “She is my sister.”
Steel whispered half free. Guards shifted their footing. The hall tightened, coiling toward violence.
Liam moved without thinking, stepping between Ronan and the high table. His hand did not touch his weapon, but his presence carried enough command to halt the moment.
“Stand down,” he said, his voice low and absolute.
Ronan’s eyes burned as he stared past him. “You let this happen,” he spat. “You brought her here.”
Liam did not turn. “She came,” he said. “For your clan. For mine.”
Ronan’s laugh broke out, harsh and unsteady. “And this,” he said, gesturing wildly toward Anya, “is what she gets.”
Liam felt the truth of that accusation settle into his chest like a stone.
Across the hall, Anya’s gaze finally lifted. It did not go to Ronan. It did not go to Gavin.
It found Liam.
There was no plea in her eyes. No accusation. Only understanding, sudden and devastating.
The order had been given. The path chosen.
And there was no space left to stop what came next.