Long tables were laden with roasted fish, thick rounds of bread, wheels of cheese, and steaming bowls of stew.
Pheasants turned on spits above open flames, their skins crisping to a perfect golden brown.
The men crowded the tables, their laughter echoing across the yard. Guards who had once stood silent and stoic now roared with cheer, their faces flushed from ale and warmth.
A few lads took up fiddles, filling the air with lively tunes. Declan stood among them, mug in hand, feeling the burn of whisky down his throat chase away the weight that had followed him all day.
For a while, he forgot the ache in his chest. Forgot the storm of doubt that had plagued him. He let the laughter and the light wash over him, the camaraderie grounding him as it always had in the days of battle.
He was one of them before he was their laird—a fighter, a man who had clawed his way from ruin.
Killian nudged him as he downed another mug. “Ye ken, me Laird , it’s good to see ye drink and feast with the men. It’s been far too long since we’ve had a night like this on castle grounds.”
Declan grinned, a rare sight that drew cheers from the men who caught it.
He raised his mug high. “Aye, it’s been too long.” His voice carried over the chatter, and soon the yard quieted, all eyes turning to him.
He stepped closer to the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes.
“Listen well, lads,” he began, his tone booming but warm. “Tonight’s nae just a night for drinkin’ and laughin’. Tonight’s for honourin’ each of ye who’s stood by me through every storm this clan’s faced.”
He glanced around the circle, his gaze steady, proud. “Ye’ve bled for this land, ye’ve fought for it, and ye’ve guarded its people when danger crept too near. I ken well what I ask of ye, it’s nae easy bein’ one of Clan McCallum’s men. But by the saints, ye’ve all made me proud to lead ye.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the group, men lifting their mugs in response.
Declan continued, his voice tightening with emotion he tried to mask behind his ale.
“These lands, this castle, the need for peace, it’s nae mine alone. It’s ours. Every inch of it has been earned by the sweat on yer brows and the strength in yer arms. So tonight, we drink nae for me, the Laird, but for ye, the men who keep this house strong. For Clan McCallum!”
The men roared in response, mugs slamming against the tables.
“For Clan McCallum!” they echoed, their voices rising like thunder.
Declan raised his drink high once more and took a deep swig, the burn in his throat a welcome fire as he drank the entire contents of his cup to his men's approval.
Cheers burst around the yard again. Declan barked a laugh, shaking his head.
“Aye, aye, enough of that foolishness. Drink up before I start makin’ ye train sober come dawn!”
The men howled in protest and laughter, diving back into their mugs. Music rose again, rough voices singing songs of the Highlands, of victories and homecomings.
“’Tis a good night,” Declan leaned back on the bench, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he watched his men, his family, celebrate.
For the first time in days, his heart felt lighter. And yet, as the night deepened and the stars began to pierce the dark sky, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Isabelle.
Her smile. Her touch. The way her eyes had softened when she’d told him she was ready to trust him, and now, that trust she put in him sat like a rock on his shoulders.
He took another drink, trying to chase her from his mind. But he remembered the sting of words from his father that cut deeper than any blade and the drunken rage that had ruled. He’d swornall his life he would never become that man, but the thought of an heir, his child, terrified him.
What if the darkness that lives in me blood finds its way into the next generation?
Declan dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. He could still feel Isabelle’s touch from the night before, soft and trusting, her eyes full of warmth he didn’t deserve. She made him weak.
Around her, he lost the control that had defined him all these years, and that frightened him most of all. He took another long pull from his mug, wishing he could drink away the weight pressing against his ribs.
“Ye look like a man fightin’ demons, me Laird . The ale’s strong, but nae strong enough to drown that look in yer eye.” Killian’s voice broke through his thoughts.
The man dropped down beside him on the bench, a half-grin on his face though his tone was measured.
