When a man fell, Neil hauled him up by his leather vest and shoved him toward another partner. When a parry was late, he rapped the guard’s knuckles with the flat. He wanted their effort to burn down whatever was twisting in his chest.
It did not.
A guard scrambled to his feet, panting. “Me Laird, are we drilling for a raid?”
“We are drilling because ye are soft,” Neil replied. “And because I willnae lose another person while ye stand there gawking. Again.”
They tried, only to disappoint him again. His own body felt like a bell struck on every surface, and the clang inside him grew louder with each exchange. He saw his father’s hand curling into a fist and heard the old saying that had lived in the halls like a rule.
A laird who loves is a laird who dies.
The thought lingered. He parried a cut, turned the guard’s blade, and sent him sprawling with a kick. The lad groaned and rolled to his side.
“Up,” Neil commanded. “Unless ye fancy a bandit standing over ye while ye nap.”
Later, the yard looked like a field after hard rain, marked by footprints and sweat and the sour steam of effort.
Neil finally jerked his chin toward the gates.“Enough. Go tend yer wounds. Ye fight like ye have nothing to lose. Find something, then come back.”
They limped away in twos and threes, speaking low. No one came near him.
He exhaled once they were all gone and crossed to the woodline, where a stack of logs waited. An axe leaned against the chopping block. He set a log upright, squared his stance, and brought the axe down.
Crack.
He split another log. Then another. Chips spat against his boots, and his shoulders burned. His hands went numb, then he found the pain again.
He chopped until sweat soaked his shirt and ran down his spine.
A laird who loves is a laird who dies. Keep yer heart locked and yer sword ready, lad.
His father’s voice had been a map he walked even when he said he hated it.
Keep yer distance.
Keep order.
Keep everything at arm’s length so it cannae be taken.
Keep yer life in the process.
He had followed it into a cabin and intofivehungry years. He had followed it back into a castle where a woman he wanted had stood in front of him and asked if he planned to claim her or keep her at the edge of his life.
He swung the axe harder. The blade bit deep and stuck. He wrenched it free with a low growl and sank the next strike clean. The wood split in half.
The ache in his arms peaked, but the knot in his chest did not loosen.
By night, the yard had emptied, and the lamps along the path were small islands of light. He left the axe sunk in the block and climbed up to the tower two steps at a time.
His old chamber at the top held its familiar quiet. A narrow window. A chair by the wall. The table where he had brooded over maps and pretended that thinking was action.
He closed the door and stood in the room where he had hidden from the world and called it planning.
The air still held the echo ofher. He could not prove it, but he felt it. The night she had sat on his bed and argued against his rules. The small sound she made when he had flinched at thunder, and she chose a story instead of pity. The warmth of her hand on his skin while she checked the bandage on his shoulder.
He dropped into the chair and rubbed at that bandage, feeling raised skin through the linen. Her voice echoed in his mind, quiet and sure.
“Ye have every reason to fear love… I think the lack of it did more harm than any blade I have ever seen.”
