“Dae ye?” Gordon’s tone softened, though his gaze stayed sharp. “Because from where I stand, it looks like ye’re seein’ ghosts instead o’ strategy.”
Aidan didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hiss of the fire. Finally, he reached for the bottle again and refilled his glass. “If ghosts are what’s left tae lead me, then so be it.”
Gordon studied him quietly. “Ye’ve sent her away, Aidan. Ye’ve done what ye thought was right. But ye cannae fight the battle comin’ with half yer heart buried on that road.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed. “I did what needed tae be done.”
“And what about what ye wanted?”
Aidan looked up sharply, meeting his friend’s gaze. “What I wanted,” he said, his voice low, “daesnae matter.”
The words came out harder than he meant, but there was no taking them back. He tipped the glass to his lips again, the whisky biting clean and hot.
“Ye should talk tae Tòrr,” Gordon said after a moment. “He’ll want tae ken what happened.”
“I will,” Aidan said.
“When?”
“When he gets here.”
Gordon frowned. “He’s comin’ here?”
“Aye,” Aidan said, setting the glass down. “He left two days ago wi’ a band o’ his men. Should reach the glen by dawn tomorrow. Said he had word o’ movements near the border. MacLeod’s likely stirrin’ again.”
Gordon exhaled slowly. “Then it begins.”
Aidan nodded. “It always daes.”
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The fire had burned low, the room bathed in a dim, amber glow. Gordon finished his drink and rose, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink.
“Try tae get some sleep,” he said, though his tone made it sound more like a command than advice.
Aidan gave a small, dry smile. “I’ll sleep when the noise outside stops.”
Gordon studied him for a moment longer, then nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Aidan sat there, staring at the flames until his eyes blurred. The maps before him blurred too, all lines and borders fading into the same meaningless scrawl. He could no longer tell one from another.
He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his hand. The firelight caught the ring on his finger—the crest of his clan—and he turned it once, as though the motion could steady him.
He thought of her again. Of the sound of her voice, soft and unguarded when she’d said his name. Of the warmth of her skin beneath his hand. Of the way she had looked at him when he had told her she had to go, so heartbreakingly calm, as if she had already known he’d choose duty over her.
He had never hated himself more.
He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. The quiet roared around him. He had sent her away to keep her safe, and yet every mile she rode felt like a piece of him stripped away.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a gust of wind passed through the courtyard, making the torches flicker. It sounded almost like a whisper—herwhisper.
Aidan opened his eyes. For a moment, he could almost see her standing there again, framed by firelight, looking at him like she saw everything he tried to hide.
He reached for the glass again but stopped halfway. His hand lingered in the air, trembling slightly before curling into a fist.
He didn’t drink. Instead, he sat there and listened to the fire crackle and the wind move through the stones, and he let himself feel the ache, the longing, the quiet ruin of what he’d chosen.
The road stretched ahead in silence, dark and endless. The horses’ hooves struck dull against the wet earth, the sound echoing faintly through the glen. The sisters rode until the light faded, stopping only when the shadows thickened around them. Now, settled in a small house offered by a kind farmer’s wife, the world outside was quiet but for the wind whispering through the heather.
Inside, the single-room cottage smelled faintly of peat and bread gone cold. A small fire burned in the hearth, throwing light across the three of them huddled under thin blankets. Sofia had fallen asleep first, her head tilted back against the wall, her breathing slow and steady. Alyson lay curled near the fire, her hair spilling across her arm, one hand clutching her rosary as she slept.
