Connor found himself near the scullery without quite meaning to, drawn by the scent of bread and stewed fruit. The place was warm and busy, servants moving in and out with practiced ease. That was when he noticed a small figure frozen near the shelves.
The boy stood stiff as a startled hare, one hand half-reached toward a hanging sack of dried berries. His clothes were clean but worn, and his cheeks were still pale from recent illness. Connor recognized him at once as Eva’s younger brother. The sight stirred something unfamiliar in his chest.
“What ye doin’ here, lad?” Connor asked, keeping his voice low.
Jason flinched and shrank back, eyes wide as he stammered, “Nothin’, truly, and I meant nay harm.”
His gaze darted toward the door as if expecting punishment to fall at any moment. Connor saw the berries swaying slightlywhere Jason had brushed them. Hunger, not mischief, had led him there.
Connor reached up and took down the sack, weighing it once in his hand. He crouched and pressed it gently into Jason’s arms instead.
The boy stared, stunned, before a grin broke across his face. “Thank ye, Laird McLaren,” Jason said breathlessly.
Connor ruffled the lad’s hair, rough but not unkind. “Come along with me,” he said simply.
Jason hesitated only a moment before nodding and following at Connor’s side, clutching the berries like treasure. Together they stepped from the scullery into the broader warmth of the kitchen.
The cook paused mid-task, spoon hovering over a pot, her brows lifting in surprise at the sight of them.
Connor did not slow his stride. “This is Jason,” he announced, voice carrying authority without effort. “He’s recovered his appetite after bein’ ill.”
He gestured toward the long table laden with food. “See to it he eats to his stomach’s delight,” Connor continued. “Honey cakes, tea, berries, cheese, whatever he fancies.”
The cook’s face softened at once, delight lighting her eyes.
“Aye, me laird,” she said warmly, already moving a chair into place.
Jason climbed up, barely able to contain his excitement, and looked back at Connor with shining eyes.
“Thank ye,” he said again, softer now, as if afraid the moment might vanish.
Connor inclined his head and turned away before the gratitude could weigh on him. He told himself it was nothing, a simple kindness owed to the family bound now to his name. Yet as he left the kitchen, he felt the faint easing of a tightness he had carried too long. Somewhere deep within, a vow made in blood shifted, making room for something gentler, and he did not yet know what to call it.
He moved back into the stone corridors. The castle felt quieter here, footsteps echoing softly against the walls. Torchlight flickered along the tapestries, throwing long shadows that stretched and twisted as he passed. His hands curled into fists without him noticing.
Jason’s grin lingered in his mind, bright and unguarded, and it struck him harder than any blade. The lad’s wide eyes and thin frame had stirred a memory Connor kept buried deep. Michael had the same look when he fancied a treat, all sharp elbows and boundless curiosity. The resemblance settled heavy in Connor’s chest.
Michael had loved sweets more than anything, especially when Connor managed to steal them from the kitchens. He remembered sneaking honey cakes into the nursery, the way Michael’s face would light up like dawn breaking over the hills. Connor had laughed then, careless and whole.
The memory twisted now, sharp as grief freshly cut. Michael would never beg for honey cakes again, never sneak into kitchens or grin with sugar-stained fingers. He would never grow tall or strong or reckless, never ride beside Connor or challenge him in sparring. The unfairness of it burned hot and merciless.
Connor stopped walking, one hand braced against the cold stone wall. His jaw tightened as the familiar fury rose, thick and choking. Michael should be alive, should be grown, should be eating and complaining of sore teeth like any other lad. Instead, he lay cold in the ground, stolen by cowards Connor had yet to name.
“Aye, ye should be here,” Connor muttered under his breath.
The words echoed faintly, swallowed by the corridor. He forced himself to breathe, though each breath scraped like gravel in his chest. Twelve years had passed, yet the wound felt no less raw.
The thought of Jason laughing over berries sent another surge of anger through him. Jason lived because someone had helped him, because medicine had been found, because fate had turned kinder for once. Michael had known no such mercy. Connor’svision darkened as rage sharpened into something dangerous and focused.
He pushed away from the wall and resumed walking, his strides longer, harder. Servants shrank back instinctively as he passed, sensing the storm coiled beneath his calm exterior. Connor barely noticed them, his mind locked on the road where blood had soaked the earth. That road haunted him still.
“One day,” he swore, his teeth grinding together, “one day the truth will come to light. I will find who ordered the ambush, who struck the blow that stole me brother’s future. I will make them answer in kind, nay matter how long it takes.” That promise was iron in his bones.
As he reached the path to the barracks, Connor forced the memory of Michael’s smile to settle, not vanish. He would not let it fade into bitterness alone. Protecting Jason, protecting Eva’s family, felt like honoring what had been taken from him. With a final steadying breath, Connor squared his shoulders and climbed the steps, vengeance and duty marching side by side.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the barracks, the scent of sweat, leather, and iron filling his nostrils. His boots thudded against the stone floor as he made his way to where David was cleaning his sword at the long bench.
“Have ye had any luck trackin’ the merchant that may have been on the road the day me parents and brother were ambushed?” Connor asked, his voice low but edged with steel. His dark eyes bore into David, a storm barely contained behind them.
