“If it can be stolen,” Maxwell said darkly.
Finley laughed outright.
By nightfall, the keep hummed like a living thing. Torches glowed along the ramparts. Guards rotated seamlessly. Servants hurried through the halls with practiced efficiency.
But Maxwell wasn’t done.
Not nearly.
He and Finley took to the war room. Logs spread across the table, maps weighted down with carved stones. The large hearth burned bright, stretching their shadows long across the floor.
Finley poured two mugs of ale. “If O’Douglas tries anything stupid, it’ll be subtle.”
“Subtle can still kill,” Maxwell muttered, marking the northern border lines.
Finley drank. “Ye think he’ll send a man into the storerooms?”
“I think he’ll test us,” Maxwell said. “See how tight the reins are. How alert the guards are. How much he can learn without asking.”
“Ye think he’ll steal.”
“I think thieves walk in sheep’s clothing.”
Finley scratched his beard. “Then we’ll meet them fang for fang.”
Maxwell grunted.
For hours, they reviewed supply lists, border reports, patrol schedules. Nothing escaped him. He refused to let it.
Finally, Finley slumped back in his chair. “If ye tell me ye want to re-count the potatoes, I will stab ye with a spoon.”
But Maxwell barely heard him.
He was staring at the map, at the marks he had drawn, at the paths a careless scout might slip through. At the names of villages under his protection. At the bloody weight of leadership he had carried alone for far too long.
He tightened his grip on the pencil.
“Finley,” he said quietly.
“Aye?”
“Nay man from O’Douglas walks these halls unwatched.”
“Understood.”
“And if ye see anything… any gaps, any shadows, any whisper that feels wrong, ye come straight to me.”
“Aye,” Finley said with more seriousness. “Of course.”
Maxwell ran a hand over his face.
He was tired.
But he could not sleep.
Not tonight.
Not with O’Douglas on the horizon, or his clan depending on him. And not with the memory of Ariella’s soft laughter drifting through his mind like an unwelcome comfort.
