He had spent his childhood in this hall. He could still remember the way it had once been—alive with sound and movement. Laughter had echoed off these walls, the clatter of tankards and the rumble of voices filling the space as the Campbell brothers jostled and jested, their mother and father looking on with indulgent exasperation. He and his four brothers had turned this very floor into their battlefield as children, practicing their swordplay with wooden weapons, their shouts mingling with the warm din of a home that had felt solid, unshakable.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Now, the hall was a shadow of what it had been, just as the Campbell brothers were only ghosts of the boys that had laughed and played here.
His boots felt heavy against the stone as he moved forward, his gaze settling on the man at the far end of the table.
Bryce.
His eldest brother’s face, once filled with easy confidence, was now lined with exhaustion. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, his shoulders carrying a weight that had not been there years ago. But it wasn’t the weariness that struck Niall the hardest—it was the way Bryce looked at him.
Not with the warmth of a brother long separated. Not even with wary curiosity. But with anger. And worse—mistrust.
The sight of it stung in a way Niall hadn’t expected. He had known there would be no welcoming embrace, but still, some foolish part of him had hoped for something other than this cold, scrutinizing stare as Niall entered his family home for the first time in years.
“I’ll ask again. What are ye doing here?” Bryce’s voice was quiet, but the edge in it was unmistakable.
Niall swallowed down the bitter taste in his throat. He wasn’t here for sentiment. He wasn’t here to mend old wounds. He was here to save his brother’s life.
He met Bryce’s cold stare head-on. “I need to talk to ye. It’s important.”
Bryce didn’t reply. His sharp eyes flickered over Niall before shifting to Charlotte, assessing her with the same cool scrutiny. “And who is this?”
Charlotte stepped forward, chin lifted. “Charlie Douglas,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. And if you’ve got even an ounce of sense in that head of yours, you’ll listen to what Niall has to say.”
Bryce raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that might have been amusement—or intrigue. “Is that so?”
She held his gaze, unwavering. “You bet it is. We’ve ridden a long way to get here. Will you hear us out?”
For a moment, Bryce simply studied her, as if trying to decide whether she was mad or impressive. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he turned to David.
“Tell the cook to bring food and drink,” he instructed. “I’ve not lost my manners and was always taught to be hospitable.”
David hesitated, his gaze flicking between the two brothers, but he gave a short nod and left the hall.
Bryce gestured to the long table. “Sit.”
Niall hesitated. It felt strange, being here like this. The last time he’d sat at this table, he had been younger, angrier, and had stormed out of the castle for what he’d thought was the last time. Now, as he lowered himself onto the bench, a different kind of unease settled in his chest.
Bryce took his seat at the head of the table—their father’s old place. It was a jarring sight. Their father had always been larger than life, a man who had ruled with wisdom and strength, and now... now Bryce sat in his place, wearing the weight of responsibility in the tight lines around his mouth and the exhaustion in his eyes.
What would their parents think if they could see them now? Would they be heartbroken by the mess Niall and his brothers had made of their family?
Niall pushed the thought aside. There was no time for ghosts. Instead, he met Bryce’s gaze across the table and said, “We need to talk about Boyd MacAllister.”
The heavy oak doors creaked as a serving man entered, carrying a wooden tray laden with a jug of ale, a loaf of dark bread, and a wedge of cheese. He placed it on the table with a respectful nod to Bryce before stepping back, awaiting further orders. Bryce, however, waved him away with a flick of his fingers, never taking his sharp gaze off Niall.
“MacAllister? Ye’ve ridden all the way here to try and turn me against my business partner? I dinna know what game ye are playing, little brother,” Bryce said, reaching for the ale and pouring himself a cup. “But if ye think ye can ride in here after all these years and start stirring up trouble again, ye are mistaken.” He took a long drink, his eyes glinting with anger.
Niall leaned forward, his fingers pressing against the worn wood of the table. “Ye canna trust him, Bryce.”
Bryce scoffed, slicing off a piece of cheese with a knife from his belt. “So ye have already said. I’m not a fool, little brother. MacAllister and I have a business arrangement, that’s all.”
“Aye?” Niall said. “And do ye know what that business arrangement is?”
Bryce’s eyes narrowed. “What concern is that of yers?”
Niall slammed his fist against the table, making Charlotte jump. “It’s my concern if it’s going to get ye killed!”
