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At last, he stopped before a great oak whose branches stretched wide and strong despite winter’s grip. “This one,” he said.

“Why?” she asked softly.

He looked at her then. “It stands apart from the others,” he said. “But it does not lean.”

She stepped closer to the trunk, resting her palm against its rough bark. “In my father’s hall, we chose the tree that would burn long enough to carry us into the new year. A reminder that hardship does not end us.”

“And did it?” he asked.

“Some years,” she said with a shrug. “Some years it merely gave us something to gather around.”

He watched her, snow dotting her red hair.

“This year, I would rather gather,” he said, his voice lowered by something deeper than the cold air, “than stand alone as I always have.”

The words were simple, but they were not casual. He was not speaking merely of Yule. He was speaking of himself. Of the way he had ruled. The way he had borne injury. The way he had wrapped solitude around himself like armour and called it strength. He was not a man who confessed loneliness easily. And yet, he had just done so.

All her life she had belonged to something—to her clan, to her brother, to a husband chosen for her, to expectations handed down like heirlooms she had never asked to wear. She had been William’s other half. A Sutherland daughter. A political bride for six months before her husband died. Even in widowhood, she had been defined by absence. She had never asked herself who she might become if given the space to determine that outcome for herself.

Now that space stood before her in the shape of a man who was offering not protection, not obligation, but invitation. An invitation to gather, not behind him, not beneath him. Beside him.

She drew in a steady breath. “I am weary of standing as what I have always been,” she said quietly. “A reflection of others. A shadow cast by clan and circumstance.”

He looked at her fully then. The snow-dimmed light caught in his eyes, softening their usual guarded intensity.

“And what would you be,” he asked, “if you were not bound to those things?”

The question struck deeper than she expected. What would you be?

She did not answer at once. “I do not know,” she admitted. “But I would like the chance to find out.”

The men who had followed at a distance stepped forward then with axes and rope, and the steady rhythm of chopping filled the grove. When the oak finally fell, it did so with a resounding crack that echoed through the valley. They trimmed branches away to make it easier to haul back to Lemlair.

The oak was heavier than it had looked, standing proud in the grove. Ropes were secured. Two horses were hitched. The men leaned into the task with grunts and laughter, boots sliding in snow as the great trunk began its slow journey back towards Lemlair.

Sorcha walked beside Gavan rather than riding now because their horses were set to the task of hauling. Snow whispered underfoot. Her gloved fingers brushed occasionally against the rope to steady it along uneven ground.

“You need not walk,” he said, noticing. “I could place you atop one of the horses.”

“They are working hard enough,” she replied. “I do not mind the walk.”

He glanced at her. “Then we will both see it home on foot.” After a while, Lemlair rose gradually into view, its stone walls softened by snow, smoke rising thin and steady from its chimneys. Not Foulis Castle, his brother’s vast and ancient home, but solid. Lemlair had been reclaimed and was a place he was shaping into something of his own.

“Does it feel different now?” she asked quietly.

“What?”

“This house.”

He was silent for a few steps, then answered, “Aye. It feels lived in.”

They stopped in the courtyard and stableboys hurried forward, eyes bright at the sight of the enormous oak.

“A fine one, m’laird,” the taller boy said.

“It will burn three nights at least!” the boy with a red knitted hat replied with an enormous grin.

Gavan nodded but did not bask in their praise.