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Angus looked down at his boots, a small, sad pout on his lips. He did not argue. He nodded once, and the bright enthusiasm from earlier vanished.

Brodie’s chest tightened until he could barely draw a breath. Looking at the boy’s small, disappointed slump of shoulders, a fierce, terrifying knot twisted in his gut. He did not care about the clan tariffs, the MacFaris threat, or the rumors whispered behind his back. But this boy—this small, fragile piece of life left behind in the wake of so much death—was everything.

Moving awkwardly, Brodie pulled his son toward him.

He didn’t usually hold the lad like this—he was a warrior, a laird who raised his son to be hard against a hard world. But now, he wrapped his massive arms entirely around Angus’s small frame, burying the boy’s head against the thick wool and fur of his chest. His gauntleted hand cradled the back of Angus’s dark hair, pressing him close, holding him with a sudden, desperate tightness.

Angus blinked in surprise against his father’s tunic, then wrapped his small arms tight around Brodie’s neck, clinging to him in the morning cold.

Brodie closed his eyes, resting his chin against the top of his son’s head, his jaw clenched tight against the cold terror clawing at his heart. He couldn’t fix the past; he couldn’t break the curse, but as he held his son against the rising dawn, he swore silently into the frost that he would burn the world to ash before he let this boy suffer another loss.

The frost on the courtyard cobbles was beginning to melt into dark, slick puddles in the morning sun. Sheona stood near the mouth of the armory archway, pulling her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders as she checked the iron clasps on a basket of fresh linen.

The heavy oak gates groaned on their iron hinges, swinging inward to reveal Brodie and Angus. Angus was chattering animatedly, his small leather boots kicking up slush as he trotted beside his father’s long, heavy strides. Brodie’s large frame was still dusted with dirt from the goat pens, his dark hair messy from the cold wind.

Before Angus could call out to her, Douglas stepped into the center of the yard, his face grim, flanked by two armed guards. Behind him stood two riders who had just dismounted, their horses steaming in the chill air.

One rider wore the fine, fur-trimmed mantle of the Council of Elders—Sir Thomas Morrison, his dark hair neatly combed and his lined face wearing a quiet, measured calm. But it was the man beside him that made Sheona’s breath catch in her throat.

Aaron Gallaway.

As guardian of the former MacFaris lands, Aaron stood tall and dark-clad, his broadsword strapped across his back. He had come with Morrison to oversee the hearing preparations and ensure the Council’s decision on the land and the upcoming hand-binding was strictly observed.

Sir Thomas Morrison possessed an easy, gentle aura that usually put folk at ease, but the sheer weight of Aaron’s presence sent a sudden, sharp coldness straight through Sheona’s chest.

Standing in the middle of the MacKinley courtyard, watching the man who held the fate of her birthright in his hands, Sheona suddenly felt stripped of every bit of authority she had gained over the past weeks. She felt like an outsider. An intruder standing on borrowed stone.

Aaron stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand onto Brodie’s shoulder. “Brodie.”

“Aaron,” Brodie rumbled, his voice dropping into its familiar, gravelly baseline as he shook the man’s forearm. “Ye made good time from the southern border.”

"Aye. Passed yer cousin on the Glenlyon road, as it happens," Aaron said, his mouth pulling at the corner. "She sends her regards. And warns ye she intends to arrive before the binding, whether ye invite her or nae."

Brodie's expression didn't change. "She always does."

Aaron turned his head, his sharp dark eyes sweeping past Brodie until they landed directly on Sheona. There was no hostility in his face—only the same measured, cool courtesy he had always shown her, even on the day her family’s keep had burned to ash.

He took three steps toward her, bowing his head slightly. “Lady Sheona. I trust the keep has treated ye well.”

Sheona’s hands tightened around the wicker handles of the linen basket until her knuckles turned white. The polite, unearned kindness hit her, cutting far deeper than any harsh word or glare ever could.

“I… me Laird,” Sheona fumbled, her tongue heavy and clumsy against her teeth. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I havenae had the chance to thank ye properly. For me life. For choosin’ nae to order me execution at the gates.”

Aaron paused, his dark eyebrows knitting together. He held up a single hand, cutting off her words before she could sink any further into the speech.

“Daenae thank me for that, lass,” Aaron said, his voice flat, clear, and devoid of pity. “I made that choice because yer father’s sins belonged to him alone.” He took a half step closer, his eyes pinning her to the spot. “Whether ye choose to carry them now is entirely yer own decision.”

The words hung in the freezing air between them, sharp and heavy as iron. They lingered in her mind, repeating with every beat of her pulse as Aaron turned back toward the hall.

Sir Thomas Morrison gestured toward the main doors, and the men began to walk toward the great hall, their heavy boots echoing off the stone walls. Sheona fell in several paces behind them, keeping her head low, her basket clutched against her waist.

“The border watch reported no trouble from the MacFaris remnants since the moon turned,” Aaron said to Brodie as they approached the inner threshold. “Ye’ve managed the keep well, Brodie. And yer judgment regardin’ the lass…” Aaron tilted his head back toward Sheona for a fraction of a second, his tone genuinely respectful. “…I must admit, ye saw somethin’ in Lady Sheona that the rest of us were too blinded by old hatred to notice. Ye kept her safe, and ye’ve given her a place.”

Sheona’s heart gave a sudden, fluttering leap in her chest. She slowed her steps slightly, her gaze rising to the back of Brodie’s broad shoulders, waiting—desperately waiting—for him to acknowledge it. To hear him say, even in his gruff, clipped way, that she belonged here.

Brodie didn’t even turn his head. He let out a short, rough bark of laughter, tossing a careless glance toward the small boy trotting at his side.

“Nae me,” Brodie grunted, his voice carrying clearly back to her over the quiet courtyard. “That would be me son. The boy drags her around like a stray hound he found in the woods.”