“There,” Sinclair hissed with savage triumph flashing in his eyes. “That’s how men like us win.”
Blood soaked rapidly through Baird’s tunic, and warmth spread where the cold air should have been. His left side burned. Every breath was a sharp reminder of flesh torn and muscle split.
He straightened anyway.
“Ye mistake treachery fer strength,” Baird growled.
Sinclair laughed. “Dead men dinnae judge.”
He lunged again, pressing his advantage, blade flashing for Baird’s weakened side. Baird met him without hesitation. The wound screamed with every movement, but Baird locked it down, forcing pain into something usable. He transformed it into fuel rather than weakness. He shifted his stance, favoring one side. His eyes never left Sinclair’s. He knew well how dangerous that would be.
Every breath burned now, because every movement was pulling at torn flesh, but Baird did not slow. If anything, the fight greweven more savage. Steel crashed with a fury that drew men back from the circle they were carving into the courtyard.
Sinclair pressed him hard, sensing weakness, driving blows toward the wounded side again and again.
“Ye’re bleeding,” Sinclair was breathless. “Did ye think ye’d win this cleanly?”
Baird parried, countered, then forced Sinclair back a step despite the pain screaming through his ribs. “I didnae come fer clean,” he said. “I came ferye.”
Sinclair laughed incredulously. “Still playing the dutiful laird? Still pretending honor means something when men are dying all around us?”
Their blades locked for a heartbeat, and their faces were inches apart.
“I wonder,” Sinclair went on softly and cruelly, “if Malcolm wanted tae scream when he realized he’d been fooled.”
The name hit like a blow. Baird’s control wavered, just enough for Sinclair to see it.
“And the girl,” Sinclair continued, twisting the knife with relish. “Davina. sweet thing. Me men fought hard fer her. She screamed fer ye, Kincaid. Did ye hear her?”
Something in Baird broke. Actually, it didn’t just break… itshattered.
The world narrowed to red and white and fury so absolute it burned the pain away entirely. Baird tore his blade free and surged forward with a roar that ripped from his chest, driving Sinclair back in a relentless storm of blows.
“Say her name again,” Baird growled, striking hard, “and I will tear it from yer mouth.”
Sinclair barely parried now, surprise flickering across his face as Baird pressed him without mercy. There were no measured steps and no careful economy. Baird was rage incarnate, controlled just enough to kill.
“Ye think ye understand loss?” Baird snarled. “Ye understand naething!”
He slammed Sinclair backward.
“Ye murdered me braither!” Baird snarled, each word driven home with a strike. “Ye threatened me wife!”
Sinclair stumbled. His breath was shorter and shorter, and finally, there was fear creeping into his gaze. Baird kept advancing, a force that was bloodied and unstoppable. Even the courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
That was when Sinclair lunged. It was a desperate, reckless charge. There was too much force and too much certainty born of panic rather than skill. His blade came straight for Baird’s heart, a final gamble meant to end it in one brutal stroke.
Baird saw it clearly.
He shifted not back, but rather into the attack, turning his body just enough that Sinclair’s momentum betrayed him. Steel slid past where it would have killed, scraping armor instead of flesh. And Baird struck.
He drove his blade forward with everything he had left, the impact shuddering up his arm as steel sank deep into Ewan Sinclair’s chest. The sound was dull and final.
Sinclair froze. Baird froze. Everything stilled.
Disbelief spread across Sinclair’s face, his mouth opening as though words might yet save him. His sword slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the stones. He sank to his knees.
Baird leaned close, his breath harsh in the dying man’s ear. “This ends here.”
