“I climbed a meaningful hill last week,” she protested. “The one at Glenoran. Big. Steep. Traumatic.”
“That was a driveway,” he reminded her.
“It was sloped.”
Flynn laughed, the sound stolen quickly by the wind. Heather couldn’t help smiling despite the mud she was pretty sure had taken permanent residence in her right boot.
The mist swirled around them like soft smoke, revealing and hiding the towering spires in shifting fragments.
“Okay,” Heather panted, “new tactic. Distract me. Tell me something Scottish. A legend.”
He considered. “Long ago, a giant lived on Skye—”
“Ugh, I already know where this is going—”
“—and when he died, he turned tae stone, standin’ tall over the island so he could keep watch forever.”
Heather paused to catch her breath dramatically. “Do all Scottish legends involve giants, water horses, faeries, betrayal, or turning into rocks?”
A pause. Then, slowly, “Yes…”
“Excellent. Very comforting.” She rolled her eyes.
The wind shoved against them, playful at first, then stronger, forcing Heather to brace her hands on her thighs.
Flynn stopped climbing long enough to touch a hand to her lower back. “You doin’ all right, Campbell?”
“I’m thriving,” she wheezed. “This is my villain origin story.”
His laugh rumbled warm and low. “Come on. We’re nearly there.”
To her credit, she didn’t argue. Much.
By the time they reached the base of the rock spires, the mist had thickened into wandering veils, drifting between the stone pillars as if the world was exhaling.
Heather stopped, breath cut short—not from exertion this time.
“It’s… otherworldly,” she murmured.
“Aye.” Flynn’s voice dropped, reverent. “Feels like walkin’ through a myth.”
They stood in the hush for a beat, both catching their breath from opposite reasons. Then Heather’s eyes snagged on something—something wrong in a place already filled with strangeness.
Along the low stone wall curving beneath the ridge, a patch of lichen darkened in a suspicious pattern. Not natural. Not accidental.
Deliberate.
Her pulse tightened.
“Flynn,” she whispered.
He stepped beside her instantly. “What’ve ye got?”
Heather crouched, fingers brushing away the lichen, exposing angled lines—
A thistle.
Stylized. Intentional.
