The sight nearly split him in two. Two distinct, warring versions of himself pulled in opposite directions: the man who wanted to cross the space between them, bury his face in her neck, and protect her from the dark; and the Laird who had already failed his people once tonight.
"I'll help get the servants movin'," she said quickly, her voice sharp with adrenaline. "The kitchens will need water brought up from the well immediately, and the lower rooms must be cleared if the wind shifts the smoke toward the keep."
"Aye," he said, his voice a low, distracted rasp.
Then he was gone, throwing the door open.
The corridor outside the chamber already thundered with panicked movement. Men were rushing from the barracks, grasping for heavy broadswords and shields before the fog of sleep cleared and they realized steel would be utterly useless against this particular enemy.
Servants carried sloshing wooden buckets, their bare feet slapping against the stone. Doors banged open and shut all along the long corridor.
The smell hit him halfway down the steep spiral staircase. Smoke. It wasn't heavy yet, not thick enough to impair vision, but it was present. Sharp, bitter, and smelling of burnt heather, it tightened the lungs with a sudden, suffocating grip.
Fergus descended the final steps into the great hall two at a time, his hand skimming the rough masonry. The keep had transformed entirely in a matter of moments. Lantern light swung wildly across the high stone walls as servants scrambled. Stable boys ran through the open double doors toward the pitch-black courtyard. Somewhere outside, a horse screamed in pure,primitive panic, the high-pitched sound cutting through the chaos like a honed blade.
Angus appeared through the smoke and confusion, carrying a heavy leather saddle tucked under one brawny arm.
"Wind pushed sparks over the western ridge," Angus said immediately, his face streaked with soot. "The lower grazin' fields caught first. The bracken is dry as bone, Fergus. Men are tryin' to contain it with wet plaids, but it's spreadin' faster than they can run."
"How far?"
"Too damn far."
Fergus swore under his breath, a dark Gaelic oath. He pushed past his clansman, shoving through the heavy oak doors and out into the courtyard.
The heat hit him instantly. The western sky shimmered with a deep, violent orange beyond the tall rocky ridge, while black smoke columns spiraled upward into the starless night. Sparks lifted into the gale like a swarm of fiery embers, carried farther and faster than they should have gone. Too dry. Everything was way too dry.
The courtyard churned with frantic activity. Men were rushing with water barrels toward the waiting pack horses. Stable hands were pulling frightened, rearing animals from their woodenstalls, their eyes rolling white with fear. Women carried heavy wool blankets and iron kettles of water from the back kitchens.
Above the shouting and the clatter of hooves came the sound of the fire itself—a distant, low, rhythmic roaring. Growing louder with every tick of the clock.
Alasdair stood near the main iron gate, already mounted on his great black stallion, issuing orders with brutal, military efficiency. The sight grounded Fergus immediately, pulling him back into the cold mindset of the soldier he had been for twenty years.
Alasdair turned the horse sharply the moment he saw Fergus clear the keep steps. Their eyes met through the drifting haze.
"How bad?" Fergus demanded, crossing the gravel to him.
Alasdair pointed a gauntleted hand toward the west. "The grazin' fields are completely gone. The wind's shiftin', pushin' north now toward the timber line."
Fergus followed the direction, his eyes scanning the dark horizon, reading the familiar contours of the land the same way they had done together since they were boys. The angle of the slope. The density of the tree line. The position of the river. The velocity of the wind. He calculated the structural risk instinctively.
"The wind is west for now," Fergus said sharply, his voice cutting through the noise. "We can still hold the line before it reaches the barley crops if we act fast."
Alasdair nodded once, his jaw clenched tightly. He was already turning his horse.
"Split the men!" he barked to the gathered clansmen. "Half to the northern ridge with axes! Half with me toward the lower fields! Get water from the river and start cuttin' firebreaks before the flames cross further east!"
The men scattered immediately and executed the drill. Fergus grabbed the shoulder of the nearest stable hand, his grip like a vice. "Move every beast south of the river. Every cow, every sheep. I daenae care if ye need to wake half the glen to do it. Move!"
"Aye, me Laird!"
"Angus!"
"I'm here, me Laird."
"Take six men with the heavy axes and cut down every tree and bush between the lower fields and the crop line. Clear a wide path. Fast as ye can."
Angus nodded once, his expression grim, and disappeared into the shadows of the tool shed.
