1
The dungeon reeked of old blood and despair.
Murdock Lyall sat perfectly still as the guards bound his wrists to the wooden chair, rough hemp biting into his skin. His dark hair hung damp against his face, obscuring fresh bruises that bloomed along his jaw. His eyes, cold and deadly, never left the two men circling him like carrion birds.
“Comfortable, me Laird?” the taller guard sneered, yanking the rope tighter.
Murdock didn’t flinch. “Aye. Though the hospitality leaves much to be desired.”
The guards exchanged glances, uncertain whether he was mocking them or had simply gone mad.
Most men would be begging by now, pleading for mercy, rattling off promises of gold and land. But Murdock Lyall sat there like a king on his throne, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, as though the dungeon existed to serve him rather than break him.
“Ye’ve got some nerve,” the shorter guard muttered, testing the knots one last time. “Threatenin' our Laird like that.”
“Threatenin'?” Murdock’s voice was low, almost conversational. “I merely stated a fact.”
“And what fact is that?”
“That me clan will pay nay cowards threatenin' a bairn.”
The taller guard stepped closer, fists clenched, jaw tight. “Ye think ye’re in a position to make demands? Look around ye, Lyall. Ye’re the one tied to a chair in our dungeon.”
Murdock’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so cold. “Aye. And ye’ll be the ones to pay for trying to snatch me daughter.”
The guards laughed, the sound echoing off damp stone walls.
It was the kind of laughter born from nerves rather than genuine amusement, the kind that came when men tried to convince themselves they held all the power.
“Brave words from a man in chains,” the shorter one said, pulling a dagger from his belt. Firelight caught the blade, making it gleam like a promise. “Let’s see how brave ye are when we’re done with ye.”
“If ye’re so scary as they say,” the taller guard added, circling behind him, “why arenae ye reactin'?”
The dagger plunged into Murdock’s stomach.
Not deep. Just enough to make most men scream, to break them. The blade twisted slightly before pulling free, and warm blood seeped through his tunic, spreading like spilled wine across the fabric.
Murdock didn’t make a sound.
His jaw tightened, the only indication he’d felt anything at all. His breathing remained steady and controlled, as though he were sitting at his own hearth rather than bleeding in a dungeon chair. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, almost thoughtful.
“Ah, but where’s the fun in doin' that when ye expect it?”
The shorter guard hesitated, the bloodied dagger still in his hand.
Good. He understood that there was something wrong about this. Something deeply, fundamentally wrong about a man who could take a blade to the gut without so much as a whimper.
The guard’s fingers tightened on the hilt, knuckles white.
The taller guard moved closer, drawing his own knife. “Maybe ye need more convincin'.”
He pressed the blade to Murdock’s cheek, just below his eye. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it down, carving a thin red line through stubble and existing scars. Blood welled immediately, running hot down Murdock’s face and dripping onto his shoulder in dark, steady drops.
Still, Murdock said nothing. He simply looked at them, and in that gaze was every promise of violence he’d ever made and kept. No bravado. No rage. Just cold certainty.
“What are ye?” the shorter guard whispered, taking an involuntary step back.
“Someone ye should have left alone.” Murdock’s voice was so low, so utterly devoid of emotion, that both guards stood a little straighter.
