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“Ye spent two days riding yerself to death,” Fergus spat, the spit flying from his lips. He sneered, shaking Mabel hard to emphasize his point. “Ye ran yer horses into the ground… for something I would have discarded the absolute moment she gave me an heir!”

Fergus’ attention shifted to Caelan’s face, desperately looking for the emotional break he craved. For one fatal heartbeat, Fergus’ eyes moved away from the woman he was holding.

Mabel did not hesitate.

She drove her heel straight down, slamming it with absolutely everything she had directly into the instep of Fergus’s right foot, followed by driving her elbow backward into his ribs.

Fergus let out a sharp, breathless grunt of pain. The sudden agony forced his grip to loosen for a fraction of a second. The dirk slipped away from her throat.

It was all Caelan needed.

Mabel tore herself forward, throwing her weight to the side and clearing the line of attack.

Caelan moved with terrifying, blinding speed. The broadsword practically materialized in his right hand. He closed the entire distance between them in a single, massive bound. He did not swing the blade. He drove his scarred shoulder into Fergus’ chest with brutal force, slamming the smaller man through the heavy rear door.

The wood splintered instantly. They spilled out into the freezing, muddy courtyard of the lodge.

Fergus scrambled backward in the mud, driven by blind, animalistic terror. He slashed wildly with the dirk, missing Caelan completely. He scrambled to his feet, pulling a longsword from his belt as he backed away.

Caelan stepped out into the freezing courtyard, the moonlight catching the heavy silver scars crisscrossing his bare chest. He did not rush. He raised the broadsword, his grip perfectly relaxed, his breathing slow and measured.

Fergus lunged wildly. He brought his longsword down in a frantic, heavy arc, aiming directly for Caelan’s unprotected neck.

Caelan did not even block it. He simply pivoted on his heel, letting the frantic blade slice harmlessly through the empty air inches from his shoulder. Before Fergus could recover his balance, Caelan brought the pommel of his broadsword up in a vicious arc, smashing it squarely into the center of Fergus’s face.

The sickening crunch of breaking cartilage echoed loudly in the courtyard.

Fergus screamed, stumbling backward, his face covered in dark blood. He swung blindly again, driven by fear rather than skill. He left his entire left side unprotected.

Caelan parried the strike effortlessly with a harsh, metallic clang. Years of commanding the borders, years of fighting desperate, hardened killers, showed the massive difference between them. Caelan was perfectly cold. He was controlled. He dismantled Fergus’s frantic defense with three brutal, methodical strikes, knocking the longsword out of alignment and driving Fergus backward into the stone wall of the courtyard.

Fergus hit the wall hard. He was bleeding profusely, gasping for air, his sword arm trembling. He looked into Caelan’s black, emotionless eyes and finally realized he had absolutely no chance of winning.

Panic consumed him. Fergus looked wildly around the courtyard.

Mabel was standing in the splintered doorway of the lodge, clutching the torn fabric of her shift to her chest, her blue eyes wide as she watched the fight.

Fergus gripped his sword with both hands, let out a desperate, guttural roar, and lunged directly away from Caelan, attempting one final, suicidal attack against the unarmed woman.

Caelan intercepted him.

He moved faster than a man his size had any right to move. Caelan stepped hard into Fergus’ path, bringing his broadsword around in a devastating, horizontal arc.

The razor-sharp steel cut clean through Fergus’s leather armor, through his ribs, and severed his spine.

Fergus froze instantly. His sword dropped from his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud. The life vanished from his eyes before he even hit the ground. He collapsed heavily into the freezing dirt, a dark pool of blood spreading out beneath him.

The fight ended almost as quickly as it began.

Absolute silence fell over the lodge. The freezing wind rushed through the courtyard, biting at Caelan’s bare skin.

A dozen yards away, near the wooden stables, the four surviving Comyn guards who had been cornered by Rowan and Ewan stared at their dead laird. They did not say a word. They slowly opened their hands, letting their swords drop into the mud. They fell to their knees, surrendering.

Caelan did not look at them. He dropped his broadsword into the mud.

He turned his back on the entire world and walked straight toward Mabel.

She was standing perfectly still in the ruined doorway, shivering hard in the freezing air. When she saw him drop his blade, a heavy, ragged sob tore its way out of her throat.