“Aye,” he admitted.
Ariella’s voice softened. “Good thoughts.”
Maxwell looked down at their sleeping son again, and something in his chest eased.
“Aye,” he said again, and this time he meant it.
For the first time since he’d spoken the words to her, Maxwell felt something settle in his bones.
Peace.
Not the fragile kind that depended on treaties and truce letters. The real kind. The kind that lived inside a man when he stopped fighting himself.
He stood with Ariella near the long tables as the feast truly began, watching the keep in motion. The sound of voices rose and fell like music. Ale was poured. Bread was torn and shared. Someone began a song near the far end, and another voice joined in, then another, until it became a chorus that made the stone walls feel less like a fortress and more like home.
Maxwell should have been on guard. He always was. Habit ran deep.
But today, his vigilance was quiet, resting instead of braced.
He watched Mairi and Callum near the edge of the courtyard, their own little one year old toddling between them, unsteady legs determined to conquer the world. The child squealed when Callum pretended to stumble, and Mairi laughed so hard she nearly dropped the cloth she was waving like a banner.
“Come here,” Mairi scolded, though her voice was bright. “Ye’ll fall.”
Callum bent, scooped the toddler up, then spun once, earning a shriek of delighted terror. Mairi swatted his arm. “Callum Hendry, ye’ll make him sick.”
Callum only grinned. “He’s a Hendry. He can handle it.”
Maxwell’s gaze drifted farther.
Isla stood near one of the guard posts, cheeks flushed, smiling at a young guard who looked as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Isla’s posture was bold, chin lifted, eyes bright with challenge.
The guard stammered something.
Isla laughed, not unkind. “Say it again. I like the way ye struggle.”
The guard’s ears turned red.
Maxwell glanced down at Ariella, eyebrow raised slightly.
Ariella’s mouth twitched. “Daenae.”
Maxwell’s voice stayed neutral. “She’s going to devour him.”
Ariella murmured, amused, “He deserves it.”
A sudden yelp rose behind them.
Young Ewan.
Maxwell turned in time to see the boy crouched behind Finley, who was lying on the grass dramatically, one arm thrown over his eyes like a wounded hero.
Finley groaned loudly. “I’ve been struck! I am dying!”
Ewan crept closer, gripping a stick like a sword, trying to look fierce and failing because his grin was too wide.
“Stand and fight,” Ewan whispered.
Finley’s voice came out weak. “I cannae. Tell me wife… I loved her.”
