A murmur rippled across the table. Councilor Mungo leaned forward, clasping his weathered hands tightly. “Aye, me laird. His guilt is clear.”
“But his punishment…” Councilor Fergus hesitated, glancing uneasily at the others. “Filib’s kin are strong in the north. If we put him tae death, we risk a blood feud.”
Baird’s jaw tightened. “The law demands death fer treason.”
“Aye,” Fergus agreed quickly, “but law daesnae quiet families. His braithers will nae take it lightly.”
Baird stared him down. “Should we spare a traitor because his kin might throw a tantrum?”
The room fell into uneasy silence. He could feel the tension coil under his skin, heavy and taut. It was far easier to imagine putting Filib to the sword and being done with it. But he knew well enough that every decision made in this hall rippled outward. Every action echoed.
Councilor Duff cleared his throat. “We dinnae argue his guilt, me laird. Only the consequence. The north respects Filib’s line. Kill him, and we may invite a new enemy before the Sinclairs are even dealt with.”
“Aye,” Mungo added reluctantly. “It may be better tae… delay the sentence.”
“Delay?” Baird’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous calm. “After what the man has done, ye’d have me delay?”
Fergus lifted his chin. “I’d have ye consider the greater good, laird. Malcolm is gone. The Sinclairs press at our borders. And now another northern clan may turn hostile if we spill Filib’s blood. We must weigh every consequence.”
Baird braced his hands on the table, his fingers curling against the wood. He could feel the anger simmering, rising, threatening to break loose, but he kept it caged…barely.
“These consequences,” he said quietly, “arehisdoing.Hischoices.Hisbetrayal.”
“Aye,” Duff said gently. “But the fallout will be yers.”
Silence followed, thick and suffocating. Baird’s thoughts drifted unbidden to the dungeon, to Filib pacing like a rat in a trap, to Malcolm, clutching his chest at the altar, to Davina’s face when she had realized a man standing beside him every day had helped kill her intended groom, and finally, to the clan outside these walls, who were all tired, strained and afraid.
He straightened slowly. “So, ye believe that killing him would dae more harm than good?”
Fergus nodded. “Fer now, aye.”
“And ye’d have him live out of fear?”
“Nae fear,” Fergus corrected. “Strategy.”
Baird’s lip curled. “Strategy would have been him keeping his loyalty in the first place.”
Councilor Mungo shifted uncomfortably. “What would ye have us dae, me laird?”
Baird looked around the table, meeting each man’s eyes, letting them see the weight he carried.
“I’ll nae show mercy,” he said firmly. “But I’ll nae hand the north a reason tae come marching down upon us either.”
He exhaled, having reached a decision.
“Filib remains alive… fer now. His execution is delayed until we’re done with the Sinclairs. Once we’ve dealt with Ewan Sinclair, we’ll return tae Filib’s judgment.”
A few councilors relaxed. Others tensed further.
Mungo inclined his head. “It’s a sound choice, me laird.”
Fergus nodded. “A wise one.”
Baird wasn’t surewisewas how he’d describe the feeling in his gut. It felt like swallowing fire, like betrayal wrapped in patience, like restraint that cost him far more than simple bloodshed would have. But leadership was rarely the choice that let him sleep at night.
He looked around the chamber, bracing his palms against the table.
“Before we end this Council, there is something I must say.” He paused, to assure that everyone was listening. “Me braither… Malcolm…” His voice caught for half a breath, the first crack any of them had heard. “He stood in this hall with all of us. He trusted all of us. And he died because one among us chose silver and spite over loyalty.”
