The pattern of destruction made no sense—unless someone had wanted it to make sense.
The fire had started on the outer walls. Not on the roof, where a chimney spark could have landed, not on the hearth, but low. Deliberate. The wind blew west, yet the flames had crawled eastward like serpents seeking fuel. The narrow path cutting into the crops—too specific, too intentional—told a story Halvard wished he could ignore.
Someone had done this.
Someone had stood here with a torch and a purpose, he was sure of it.
He crouched beside a fallen beam, lifting it enough to see beneath. The underside remained untouched—smooth wood, barely warm. But the outer layer was burned to a hateful black.
“A torch was taken tae this,” he muttered.
Sten approached quietly. “Ye see it too?”
“Aye.”
“And th’ wind blows west today,” Sten added. “Nay east. Fire should’ve spread th’ opposite way.”
Halvard’s jaw tightened. “’Twasn’t nature.”
His gaze shot to the one cottage still standing. Men formed a frantic line, tossing water up onto the thatch while others stomped out embers. Halvard didn’t hesitate—he seized a ladder, jammed it into the mud, and climbed up to help douse the roof, his muscles burning with effort as he sloshed bucket after bucket across the dripping straw.
Twenty harrowing minutes later, the last sparks died. A wave of shaky relief moved through the crowd. A thin woman pushed forward, hands trembling as she gripped Halvard’s arm.
“Thank ye, laird,” she whispered hoarsely. “My man’s out huntin’. If ye’d nae come…” Her voice broke.
Halvard steadied her hand with his own. “We only did what yer home deserved. When yer man returns, send him tae me at th’ keep. I’ll speak wi’ him.”
She nodded, clutching her child as she stepped back, eyes shimmering with exhaustion.
Halvard turned slowly, surveying the ruin. Three homes gone. A strip of crops burned. Animals shivering and bleeding from smoke inhalation. Families displaced. Children crying. Men broken with helplessness.
This wasn’t an accident. This had a message in it, carved in flame.
A message Halvard recognized all too well.
Sten drifted closer. “Ye think it’s Harcourt?” he whispered.
Halvard said nothing. Saying the name would solidify the fear crawling across his skin. Saying it aloud would make suspicion into intent, and intent into war.
“The rumors of him lingerin’ near th’ coast…” Sten pressed, voice hard with unease.
Halvard’s spine stiffened but he remained silent.
A shuffling step behind them made him turn. Redfern stood there, face gray from smoke and his lingering sickness, but his eyes sharp as a blade. He coughed once, then said quietly:
“It’s a weighty accusation. One that cannae be thrown lightly.”
Halvard met his gaze. “I’ve made nay accusation.”
Redfern inclined his head. “Good.”
Nothing more. No defense of the earl he served. No warning either. That silence—unnerving though it was—offered somemeasure of relief. Politics were the last thing Halvard wanted spilling over raw flame and frightened villagers.
A soft scuff of boots on ash pulled his attention. Elsie approached with her arms full of bandages, her cheeks streaked with soot, hair damp from sweat and smoke. She looked exhausted, fierce, heartbreakingly determined. In that moment Halvard felt something lock painfully behind his ribs.
“We need to help rebuild,” she said softly.
Aye, they would rebuild. They always did. That was the Highland way.
