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“Ye summoned me,” Mabel said, keeping her voice level.

“Sit,” Caelan ordered, gesturing to the heavy wooden chair opposite his desk.

Mabel did not sit. She stood her ground, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “I prefer to stand. What is happening? I saw Duncan drag a man into the keep.”

Rowan exchanged a brief, dark look with Caelan before turning his attention to Mabel. “One of me scouts found him hiding in the tree line on the southern ridge, Miss Mabel. He had a clear view of the gatehouse.”

“An assassin?” Mabel asked, her heart giving a violent thud.

“Nae,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh, vibrating rumble. He walked around the edge of the desk, leaning his hip against the wood. “Duncan just dragged him in from the outer wall. He wasnae armed for an assassination, nay blade fit for it, nay skill in his stance.”

“Then what was he doing?”

“Watching,” Caelan answered bluntly. “He admitted that he was sent strictly to observe. He was sent to confirm whether ye had reached Blackthorn Keep alive.”

Mabel’s breath hitched. She tightened her grip on her own hands. They ken I am here.

“Who sent him?” she asked, her voice dropping into a tight whisper.

“He claims he doesnae ken the name of the man paying him,” Duncan interjected from the doorway, stepping fully into the solar and pulling the door shut behind him. “Says he was hired in a tavern near the coast by a man wearing a brown cloak. He is lying, of course, but it hardly matters.”

“Duncan is right, it doesnae matter,” Rowan agreed, pushing off the hearth. “Because if one clan sent a watcher, the others are doing the same. News of yer father’s death has spread, Mabel. The vultures are circling the carcass.”

Mabel flinched, the crude wording cutting sharply through her composure.

Caelan shot Rowan a lethal glare, silencing the younger man instantly.

“The situation is becoming increasingly dangerous,” Caelan said, turning his piercing gray eyes back to Mabel. “Every hour we wait, the surrounding clans are gathering their men, calculating how quickly they can march on MacAllister lands before winter sets in. If we daenae move first, someone else will decide the future of yer people for ye.”

“What are ye going to do?” Mabel asked, looking directly into his scarred face.

“I am summoning the council,” Caelan declared flatly. “Me closest allies, the clan elders, and the men who fought beside yer father. They are already gathering in the keep. Tomorrow morning, we will convene in the Great Hall to determine exactly how we will secure yer lands.”

Mabel frowned, a cold, defensive instinct rising in her chest. “Determine how? Ye mean ye will decide who I am to marry.”

“I mean we will find a way to keep yer clan from being slaughtered,” Caelan corrected harshly, his jaw ticking. “And ye will attend the meeting.”

Mabel’s blue eyes widened. “Me? Why? So a room full of strange men can discuss me like I am a prize mare on an auction block?”

“Because ye are the heiress!” Caelan snapped, his voice echoing violently off the stone walls. He stepped closer, towering over her. “Because they need to see exactly what they are fighting for. And because ye need to understand the gravity of the situation ye are in. Ye will sit at that table tomorrow, Mabel, and ye will listen.”

Mabel stared up at him. She wanted to yell at him. She wanted to remind him of the heat between them in the garden, to demand why he was acting so untouched by it. But she was a MacAllister. She would not beg for warmth from a stone.

“Fine,” Mabel said, her voice dripping with ice. “I will be there.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the solar, leaving the three men in heavy, uncomfortable silence.

The following morning, the Great Hall was unrecognizable.

The long wooden dining tables had been pushed together into a central square. The air was thick with the heavy scent of burning peat, stale ale, and damp wool.

Mabel stood near the arched doorway, her stomach twisting into painful knots. She wore a heavy gown of dark green wool, the closest thing she had to her clan’s colors, her golden hair pinned up in severe, neat braids. Isla hovered nervously behind her.

The Hall was packed. Hard, battle-scarred Highland lairds, gray-haired clan elders, and trusted military advisors filled the benches. The noise was deafening, a chaotic chorus of gruff voices arguing over maps and borders.

Caelan stood at the head of the table. He wore his heavy black leather coat, his broadsword strapped to his hip. He looked in his element, a brutal, uncompromising warlord commanding a room full of killers.

Rowan stood near him, speaking quietly to an older man with a thick white beard. Duncan was stationed near the hearth, his sharp eyes scanning the room for threats.