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He reached out with his bare hand, ignoring the freezing temperature, and pressed his long fingers directly into the deep indentations left by the horses. He felt the sharp, defined edges of the hoofprints. He measured the stride length between the impressions. He moved two feet forward, checking the next set of tracks.

Then, he understood.

Caelan stood up slowly. He wiped the wet mud from his hand onto his heavy leather trousers.

“He dinnae bind the wound,” Caelan stated, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying clarity in the quiet clearing.

Rowan stood up, frowning deeply. “The blood stops right here, Caelan. If he dinnae bind it, where is the trail?”

“He swapped the horses,” Caelan explained, pointing a long, scarred finger directly at the mud. “Look at the depth of the tracks, Rowan. The three horses that tore through the brush were carrying heavy weight, and they were exhausted. The prints are deep, and the stride is short. Right here, in the center of this clearing, the tracks change.”

Ewan stepped closer, lowering his torch. He squinted at the mud. “There is nae blood left to follow,” Ewan said. “But ye dinnae need blood if ye ken how to read the ground.” He pointed at a line of churned turf leading northeast. “Three horses, riding hard. There.”

“Fergus had fresh mounts waiting in this clearing,” Caelan continued, his mind rapidly locking onto the tactical reality of the situation. “He knew we would track the wounded man’s blood. He intentionally used the bleeder as a decoy to ensure we followed this exact path. When they reached this clearing, the wounded man transferred to a fresh mount. The others dinnae even slow down. They swapped horses and bolted.”

A tense silence fell over the twenty men.

“Clever bastard,” Ewan muttered, spitting into the mud.

“Which direction do we ride, Laird?” a young guard asked, gripping the reins of his horse tightly. “Do we push south toward the Comyn borders? He must be making a run for his own keep.”

Caelan remained perfectly silent for a long moment. He stared out into the dark, impenetrable forest. The freezing wind howled through the branches, but inside Caelan’s mind, the chaotic noise of the night vanished.

He closed his eyes.

“Stop tracking the horses,” Caelan ordered quietly. He opened his eyes, turning his head slowly to look directly at Rowan. “Start thinking like Comyn.”

Rowan frowned, stepping closer. “What do ye mean?”

“Fergus Comyn is an opportunistic coward,” Caelan said, his voice dropping into a dark, rapid cadence as he began piecing the entire strategy together aloud. “But he is a brilliant tactician. He knows me. He knows I am already behind him. He knows I will ride me horses into the ground to catch him.”

Caelan began pacing a tight line in the mud, his bare chest heaving with the force of his rapid deductions.

“He willnae ride south,” Caelan stated firmly. “He knows our border patrols will bottleneck him at the southern pass. He knows I will send ravens to the neutral lairds demanding they block the roads. He is dragging a screaming, struggling woman. He needs absolute, total isolation.”

Ewan crossed his thick arms. “He cannae stay in the open. He needs four walls and a roof to hold her. He needs a place to force a priest to say the vows.”

“Exactly,” Caelan agreed, stopping his pacing to point directly at Ewan. “He needs a place that is already fully stocked with provisions. A place secure enough to hold her for days, perhaps weeks, until the political fallout settles. He is nae fleeing blindly into the dark. He is riding toward a destination he specifically chose long before he ever breached me walls tonight.”

Rowan stared at Caelan, his eyes widening slightly in realization. “Where does he have property that is off the main roads? A place he can reach without crossing allied territory?”

The answer dawned on Caelan.

He knew exactly where Fergus was going. He remembered the old maps William Crawford used to lay out on the tables. He remembered the specific, isolated pockets of land the surrounding clans ignored because the terrain was too harsh to farm or defend.

“The hunting lodge,” Caelan said softly.

Rowan and Ewan both went still.

“The abandoned Comyn hunting lodge,” Caelan repeated, his voice vibrating with absolute, lethal certainty. “Deep within the northern forest. It sits isolated at the base of the Black Ridge. It is miles away from the main roads, bypassing the MacNab borders. Nay one has used it in twenty years. It is a fortress disguised as a ruin.”

Ewan swore loudly. “He would have to cut straight through the high pass to reach it from here. It is brutal terrain in the dark.”

“That is exactly why he took it,” Caelan replied coldly.

“Caelan,” Rowan stepped forward, his voice serious. “That lodge is miles away. Even with fresh horses, it will take Fergus a full day and a half to reach it. For us, starting from behind on exhausted mounts… that is nearly two days of hard riding. The horses will break before we cover half that distance.”

Caelan did not hesitate. He turned sharply on his heel, striding straight back to his massive black warhorse. He grabbed the heavy leather horn of the saddle and vaulted his bare, scarred body smoothly up onto the animal’s back, jamming his bare feet securely back into the cold iron stirrups.