Page 94 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Murmurs erupted again. Formal duels were serious matters, governed by strict codes. Once demanded and accepted, they couldn't be withdrawn.

"Granted," Tavish said before anyone could protest. "Name yer terms."

"First blood or yield. Nay interference from seconds or witnesses. The victor's claim stands unchallenged." Keir's smile returned, vicious and confident. "And when I win, Lady Maighread will reconsider me suit without further obstruction from pretenders and liars."

"And when I win," Tavish countered, "ye withdraw yer claim entirely. Ye leave MacEwan lands and dinnae return. Ye accept that Maighread has made her choice and it willnae ever be ye."

"Agreed." Keir drew his sword in one smooth motion. "Shall we begin?"

The crowd scattered, forming a rough circle in the courtyard. Maighread caught Tavish's arm, her grip fierce.

"Ye dinnae have tae dae this," she whispered. "We can refuse, find another way⁠—"

"No. This ends now." He covered her hand with his, squeezing once. "Trust me, lass."

Her grey eyes searched his face, fear and faith warring in their depths. Then she nodded, releasing him and stepping back to the edge of the circle.

Tavish drew his blade, testing its weight. The injury to his hand had healed well thanks to Maighread's careful tending. No pain, no stiffness. Good.

He'd need every advantage he could get.

Keir moved into position, his stance confident. The man had clearly trained extensively, his form precise and controlled. It wouldn't be easy.

But Tavish had spent years fighting. Years learning to read opponents, to adapt mid-combat, to survive against impossible odds. And he had something Keir didn't.

Something worth fighting for.

They circled each other, blades raised. The courtyard had gone silent except for the scrape of boots on stone and the whisper of steel through air.

Keir struck first, a testing thrust aimed at Tavish's shoulder. Fast, but not committed. Tavish parried easily, feeling out his opponent's rhythm.

Another strike. Another parry. They traded blows for several passes, neither gaining ground. Keir fought recklessly, each movement calculated and controlled.

Too controlled.

Tavish feinted left, then came in hard from the right. Keir blocked but had to adjust his stance, thrown slightly off balance. There. A weakness. The man relied too heavily on form over adaptation.

They continued circling, trading strikes that rang loud in the enclosed space. Tavish's arms burned with effort, his breathing growing labored. But Keir showed strain as well, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

A slash toward Tavish's ribs. He twisted away, countering with a quick thrust that Keir barely deflected. The other man's eyes widened fractionally. Surprise.

Good.

Tavish pressed his advantage, increasing the pace. Quick strikes interspersed with unexpected angles, forcing Keir to react rather than plan.

Their blades locked, bringing them face to face for a moment.

"She'll never be yers," Tavish growled. "Nay matter what happens here today."

"We'll see about that." Keir shoved him back, creating distance.

They reset, both breathing hard now. The fight had shifted, intensity building. No more testing. No more circling. Just brutal, focused combat.

Keir lunged, committing fully to a strike aimed at Tavish's throat. Tavish sidestepped, letting the blade pass inches from his skin, and brought his own sword around in a vicious arc.

Steel met steel with a screaming clash. Keir stumbled, his balance compromised. Tavish didn't give him time to recover. He pressed forward, raining down strikes that drove Keir backward across the courtyard.

The other man blocked frantically, his form deteriorating under the onslaught. Panic flickered across his features as his back hit the courtyard wall.