Maxwell’s breath came slow. “War rarely is.”
Archer swallowed hard. His eyes darted toward his men, toward the dead, toward the gate they could no longer take. “Call a truce,” he blurted. “Call it now. Enough.”
Maxwell watched him, expression unreadable. “Why?”
Archer’s grip tightened on his sword. “Because me father is dead and me men are dying and ye’ve proven yer point. If we continue, we’ll both bleed until there’s nothin’ left but widows and burnt fields.”
Maxwell’s jaw flexed.
It was true.
He had ended Lyall. The feud, at least in its current shape, could end here if Archer had any sense.
Archer lifted his chin, voice trembling with desperation and pride both. “We can put it in writing. A binding agreement. An alliance upon the births of our heirs. A tying of blood, so this never happens again.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed.
Finley came up beside him, breathing hard, blood on his sleeve. Hunter stood on the other side, chest heaving, staring at Archer like he wanted to finish what Maxwell started.
Maxwell lifted a hand, stopping Hunter from stepping forward.
“Ye speak of heirs,” Maxwell said to Archer, voice flat.
Archer nodded too quickly. “Aye. Yers and mine. A future.”
Maxwell felt the words strike like a blow. He had no patience for talk of future when his men were still on the ground bleeding.
But he also knew this was the moment that decided whether his lands saw peace or another generation of raids.
He looked at Archer and saw fear there, yes, but also understanding. The boy had seen the cost of his father’s ambition.
Maxwell’s shoulders sank a fraction, exhaustion finally seeping in. “We will speak of writing once yer men lay down their weapons.”
Archer nodded quickly, then lifted his voice. “Down! All of ye, down!”
O’Douglas men obeyed, some dropping swords as if they burned.
The shouting eased. The clash faded. The battlefield became a place of groans and sobbing and the low murmur of men checking on one another.
McNeill men began to cheer.
Not wild, not careless, but proud. Grateful. A sound that rose up around Maxwell as if trying to lift the weight from his shoulders.
“Laird McNeill!” someone shouted.
“McNeill!” others echoed.
Hunter clapped Maxwell’s shoulder hard. “Ye did it.”
Maxwell did not answer. He stared at the body of Lyall O’Douglas, then at the blood on his hands, and felt only one thing clearly.
Relief.
It hummed through his chest like the first breath after nearly drowning.
He had protected his lands, his people, and his family.
But even as the cheers rose, Maxwell’s mind turned inward, toward the keep, toward stone walls and corridors and quiet rooms.
