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Mabel practically fell from the saddle. Her legs were numb from days of relentless riding. Her knees buckled the moment her leather boots hit the slick cobblestones. The tall guard caught her by the elbow before she could hit the ground, his grip surprisingly steady.

“Follow me,” he said.

Mabel walked through the gates of Blackthorn Keep.

Because it was the dead of night, the courtyard was cloaked in heavy shadows. It was not bustling with women and children as her own home usually was. Instead, it was occupied almost entirely by men. The night watch moved along the battlements with silent, lethal efficiency. Guards stood near the armory doors, their low, gruff voices carrying through the freezing mist. It did not feel like a cold, evil place, but it felt martial, a stronghold that lived and breathed vigilance.

Mabel kept her eyes fixed firmly on the broad back of the guard, refusing to let the intimidating atmosphere crush the last remaining shreds of her courage. She clutched the golden signet ring tightly in her fist.

They walked through the wooden doors of the central keep. The interior stone walls were stark, lit by sputtering torches that cast long, dancing shadows.

The guard led her down a long, quiet corridor, finally stopping before a heavy, black oak door.

He knocked twice. A heavy, rhythmic strike.

“Enter,” a voice rumbled from the other side.

The sound vibrated right through the heavy wood. It was incredibly deep, carrying a quiet, authority that made the tiny hairs on the back of Mabel’s neck stand up.

The guard pushed the door open and stepped aside. “The messenger from Clan MacAllister, Me Laird.”

Mabel swallowed hard. She gathered her ruined, muddy skirts in her trembling hands and stepped over the threshold into the solar.

The door clicked shut behind her with a dreadful finality.

The room was vast, dominated by a roaring fire blazing in the huge stone hearth. The air was thick with the comforting scent of burning peat and old leather.

He was standing at the far end of the room.

The Black Laird.

He had his back to her, standing still in the deep shadows, staring into the flames. He was tall… taller than any man in her father’s guard, his shoulders broad enough to strain the fabric of his dark tunic. His black hair fell loose, brushing his shoulders in untamed waves.

Mabel stood frozen near the door. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid.

Say something, she ordered herself, though her quiet, introverted nature screamed at her to remain silent. Speak.

“Me Laird,” Mabel whispered. Her voice was weak, failing her in the heavy silence.

He did not turn around. “Ye carry William’s ring.”

It was not a question.

“Aye,” Mabel managed to say, taking a single, hesitant step toward the desk that sat between them.

“If William sent a messenger in the dead of night,” the Black Laird said, his voice remaining low and unreadable, “it means he is nay longer standing on his own walls.”

Mabel’s chest seized. The raw, bleeding wound of her grief was violently ripped open. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting desperately against the tears burning behind her lashes. She was the rightful heiress now. She could not break down.

“He is dead,” Mabel choked out, the words tasting like ash. “The castle fell three days ago. He held the great hall, so I could escape through the passages.”

The shadow by the fire went rigid.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the solar was the violent crackle of the flames. The Black Laird did not move. He did not offer empty condolences. He did not sigh. The stillness rolling off him was terrifying.

“Step forward,” he commanded quietly.

Mabel forced her trembling legs to move. She walked up to the edge of the desk. She reached into her damp leather pouch and pulled out the folded parchment. The thick red wax bore her father’s seal, exactly as he had pressed it mere moments before the enemy breached their doors.