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“Just a little further, I promise ye. Keep yer feet steady, brave lass.”

Mabel’s voice was barely a raspy whisper, instantly swallowed by the howling Highland wind. She leaned low over her mare’s neck, patting the soaked, steaming coat with fingers that had gone numb hours ago. The freezing rain slashed across her face, blinding her, as the exhausted horse slipped in the thick, black mud of the narrow pass.

“I ken ye are tired,” Mabel murmured, her teeth chattering so violently she bit her own tongue. “I ken it. But we cannae stop here. Just a few more strides.”

For three days and three nights, Mabel had ridden through the most treacherous, unforgiving glens in the Highlands. She had not slept. She had barely eaten. Every time she closed her aching eyes, she saw the doors of MacAllister Castle splintering under the weight of the enemy’s rams. She saw the blood on her father’s armor. She heard his final, desperate command pushing her into the hidden passage beneath the keep.

Trust nay one else, Mabel. Go to the Black Laird. He is the only one who can keep ye safe.

The dense, suffocating canopy of ancient pine trees finally began to thin. The mare let out a heavy, shuddering breath, her hooves finding the solid edge of a cobbled road.

Mabel lifted her head, wiping the freezing rain from her eyes.

Blackthorn Keep rose out of the jagged landscape like a weapon forged from solid granite and shadow. The towering curtain walls stretched high into the bruised, night sky. Torches burned fiercely in the iron sconces along the battlements, casting a flickering, fiery glow against the rain.

It was a fortress built for war, unyielding and merciless.

A sharp, terrified shiver ripped through Mabel’s petite frame, having nothing to do with the cold. She was the youngest daughter of Laird MacAllister. She had spent her entire life sheltered within her family’s walls, spending her days quietly reading in the library, helping the healers roll bandages, and observing the castle staff. She was not a warrior. She was not a leader. Yet here she was, covered in thick mud, carrying the entire, shattered future of her clan in a small leather pouch tied to her waist.

Mabel gently nudged the mare forward. They moved out of the tree line and approached the iron-reinforced gates.

“Halt!” a gruff, commanding voice barked from the shadows of the gatehouse.

Mabel gasped, yanking back on the slick leather reins. The mare danced nervously in place.

Two heavily armed guards stepped out into the torchlight. They were men, draped in heavy, dark wool and thick leather armor. Rain dripped from their iron helms. They carried long pikes, lowering the deadly, sharpened tips until they were leveled directly at her horse’s chest.

“State yer business,” the taller guard demanded. His pale eyes swept over her ruined, mud-caked cloak with deep, immediate suspicion. “And speak quick, lass. The gates of Blackthorn daenae open in the dead of night for wandering strangers.”

Mabel’s hands shook so badly she could barely hold the reins. She forced her spine into a rigid line, drawing on every last ounce of the MacAllister pride her father had instilled in her.

“I am nae a wandering stranger,” Mabel said. Her voice cracked on the freezing air, but she forced herself to speak louder. “I have urgent business with the Laird of Clan MacCarron. I must see him immediately.”

The two guards exchanged a slow, incredulous look. The shorter one let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

“Ye and half the Highlands, lass,” the tall guard sneered, stepping a fraction closer. The iron tip of his pike remained steady. “The Black Laird doesnae take audiences in the middle of a storm. Turn yer beast around and find a tavern before ye freeze to the saddle.”

“I am nae turning around,” Mabel stated, her heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs. “Tell him I am here.”

“I am telling ye to move,” the guard growled, his patience vanishing. He took a threatening step forward. “Before I drag ye off that horse meself.”

Mabel did not flinch. She let go of the reins with one trembling hand and fumbled blindly at the leather pouch tied to her waist. Her freezing, stiff fingers struggled with the knot, but she finally managed to pull the heavy, solid gold ring free.

“I bring a message,” Mabel said, raising her hand high in the flickering torchlight. Her delicate fingers were stained black with mud, but the heavy gold caught the firelight perfectly. “From Laird MacAllister. I carry his seal.”

The tall guard stopped dead in his tracks.

He lowered his pike slowly, his eyes widening as he stepped right up to the mare’s shoulder. He stared at the heavy piece of gold pinched between her fingers. The crest of Clan MacAllister, a proud stag’s head, was unmistakable.

The man’s demeanor changed instantly. The arrogant hostility evaporated, replaced by a rigid, disciplined tension. He looked up at her face, truly looking at her for the first time, noting the delicate, aristocratic features and the long, tangled golden-blonde hair plastered to her cheeks by the rain.

“Hold here,” the guard ordered roughly. He turned on his heel and shouted up toward the watchtower. “Open the gates! We have a rider bearing a laird’s seal!”

The iron chains groaned loudly above them. The gates slowly parted, revealing the dark courtyard of Blackthorn Keep.

“Dismount,” the guard instructed, stepping back to give her room. “Leave the beast. The stable hands will see to her.”