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Then, the sound came.

A deep, vibrating blast of an iron horn tore through the silence of the night.

It was followed by a second, frantic blast. Then a third.

“God damn it,” Caelan snarled, grabbing his heavy leather trousers and pulling them on.

Before he even had them fully laced, the shouting began. It started as a low, indistinct roar from the courtyard and quickly escalated into a chaotic frenzy of men screaming orders.

Caelan did not bother with a tunic or boots. He lunged across the chamber, kicking the door open with his bare foot. The stone corridor of the western wing was dark, save for a single torch flickering wildly at the far end of the hall. He broke into a dead sprint, his bare feet slapping hard against the freezing stone, his massive hand gripping the broadsword so tightly his knuckles cracked.

He ran straight for Mabel.

He took the winding stone stairs two at a time, his chest heaving as he vaulted the final landing and rounded the corner into her corridor.

The two guards Duncan had stationed outside her door were gone.

Caelan’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Mabel!” Caelan roared, slamming his shoulder into the thick oak door of her chamber.

The door was already unlatched. It flew open, crashing hard against the stone wall. Caelan lunged into the room, his broadsword raised, his dark eyes frantically scanning the corners for a target.

The chamber was empty.

“Mabel!” he shouted again, his voice tearing raw from his throat.

The linen sheets of her bed had been torn back and half-dragged onto the stone floor. The wooden chair near the hearth was overturned. But it was the far wall that made the blood freeze in his veins.

The intricate wooden paneling behind the tapestry was swung wide open, exposing the gaping, pitch-black maw of an ancient servant passage. It was a passage Caelan had ordered sealed five years ago.

He crossed the room in three massive strides. He stopped at the edge of the dark tunnel, his bare chest heaving. Just at the edge of the secret door, smeared across the gray stone, was a single, fresh drop of bright red blood.

A blinding, murderous fury exploded behind his eyes.

Frantic footsteps thundered down the corridor.

“Caelan!”

Duncan burst into the chamber, fully armored in chainmail, a drawn longsword in his right hand. He stopped dead just inside the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes locking on the empty bed.

“Where is she?” Duncan demanded, his voice thick with absolute panic. “Where are the guards?”

“Gone,” Caelan practically spat, his dark eyes utterly lethal as he turned away from the secret passage. “Someone took her through the walls. Who has the watch? Who commands the southern gate tonight?”

“Forget the watch,” Duncan ordered sharply, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Comyn’s banners are at the treeline. They are hitting the western wall.”

Caelan went perfectly rigid. “What?”

“It is a siege,” Duncan shouted over the escalating roar of horns outside. “They brought ladders. They are trying to breach the postern gate right now. Half our men are still scrambling from the barracks!”

Caelan looked back at the empty, dark passage and then down at the drop of blood on the stone. The tactical reality of the situation locked into place in his mind.

“It is a diversion,” Caelan said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, vibrating gravel.

“Diversion or nae, if they breach that gate, the keep falls!” Duncan argued fiercely. “I need ye in the courtyard. Now!”

Caelan did not hesitate. He moved past Duncan, shoving the door out of his way hard enough to crack it against the stone.