Maxwell’s voice was calm. “Ye shamed yerself.”
Lyall barked a laugh. “I will take yer lands piece by piece, McNeill. Yer people will starve while mine feast.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “Ye will take nothing.”
Lyall lunged.
Maxwell blocked cleanly, the impact jolting up his arm. Lyall fought like a man used to being obeyed, heavy swings meant to overpower. He relied on strength and noise and the belief that the other man would flinch.
Maxwell did not flinch.
He turned Lyall’s blade aside, stepped in, struck hard enough to force Lyall back a pace. Lyall’s eyes sharpened, anger rising as he realized Maxwell would not be intimidated.
“Ye’re nothin’ without yer reputation,” Lyall spat, circling. “A scarred brute with nay heart and nay heir.”
The words landed where Lyall meant them to.
Maxwell felt the hit, hot and immediate, because he thought of Hunter’s warning, Hunter’s reckless courage, and the truth that had haunted him since the day he took his lairdship.
If Hunter died, the line ended.
If Maxwell fell, Ariella would be left with ashes.
Lyall saw something flicker in Maxwell’s eyes and smiled, thinking he had found a crack.
“Ye cannae protect them,” Lyall said, voice low with satisfaction. “Nae all of them. Ye’ll fail again.”
Maxwell’s gaze went cold.
He moved decisively.
He stepped into Lyall’s next swing, turned it, and drove his blade forward in one clean motion that ended the man’s words forever.
Lyall’s mouth opened, surprise replacing arrogance. His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering into the mud.
He fell.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then someone shouted, “Lyall is down!”
O’Douglas men faltered. The line wavered.
Maxwell wrenched his sword free, blood running down the steel, and turned toward the remaining fighters.
“Down,” he barked, voice carrying. “Weapons on the ground. Now.”
Some obeyed at once, terror taking them faster than loyalty.
Others tried to rally, but without Lyall’s presence, their courage crumbled.
Archer O’Douglas pushed through the press, face pale, eyes wild, his sword lifted but shaking.
He was younger than Maxwell expected. Not a boy, but not hardened either. A man who had grown up under a father’s shadow and had mistaken that shadow for strength.
Archer stared at Lyall’s body, then at Maxwell’s bloodied blade.
“This wasnae meant to be this,” Archer said, voice raw.
