He took one step forward.
Powder hit him full in the face. Sharp, blinding.
He jerked back, eyes slamming shut, one hand coming up too late. He wiped his face against his sleeve and by the time his vision cleared, she was already twenty feet away, running the ledge beside the water with the ease of someone who knew every stone by weight.
She was fast. He was faster.
He closed the distance in a hard sprint, cut the angle, and caught her wrist as she turned, spinning her back against the rock face and pinning her there before she'd finished the movement.
She twisted immediately, sharp and deliberate, skilled enough that his grip nearly didn't hold. He adjusted, pressed her firmly in place, and looked down.
Not what he'd expected.
He didn't know what he'd expected. Someone older, perhaps. Someone who looked like they belonged to legends and Western Glens.
Not this. Not her.
Green eyes. Furious. Bright.
Not frightened.
That was another thing he registered. Not the fight in her grip, not the powder still stinging his eyes. That she wasn't afraid of him. Not even slightly.
She was breathing hard, but her chin was up, and there was nothing frightened in her face. Only outrage, fully formed, like she'd had it ready.
"Well," she said, breathless but crisp. "Ye're larger than expected."
"And ye attack every guest?"
"Only the ones creepin' poorly."
He looked at her. Looked at the satchel on her back, the fox now sitting calmly at the base of the rock as though this were a scheduled event.
"I've nay time for games," he said. "Ye're comin' with me."
Her eyes sharpened. "I answer calls for help. Nae commands barked by men."
"Me heir is dyin'."
"Many are."
Flat.
Not cruel, the flatness of someone who'd seen enough dying to stop flinching at the mention of it. He held her gaze.
"Me nephew," he said. Quieter. "Six years old. He breathes wrong and has done so since the night of the fire."
Something moved in her face. Not softness, but the flatness shifted. A crack she didn't entirely control.
"Lady MacLennan sent me."
That stopped her. Something shifted behind her eyes, not softness, but a pause. A crack in the wall.
"Annabeth," she said carefully. "The healer."
"Annabeth of Marcus's keep. Aye."
She said nothing. He could see her pulling the name apart, testing it for truth.
