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Gavan’s gaze moved once more to Sorcha. Something flickered there briefly, concern perhaps, or reluctance, before duty smothered it beneath command.

“You will remain here,” he said quietly.

Not harshly. Simply with certainty.

She wanted to protest. Wanted absurdly to follow him into the cold and smoke simply because the thought of him walking back towards danger tightened something painfully inside her chest. But the men outside needed water lines, horses calmed, wounded seen to. They needed their laird.

And Gavan already carried enough burdens without adding her defiance to them.

Sorcha gave a small nod. “Be careful.”

The words escaped more softly than she intended.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly at hearing them. Warmth touched the severity of his face for the briefest moment.

“As should you,” he replied.

Then he turned and strode towards the courtyard, gathering men to him almost instantly as he passed through the hall doors into the smoke-dark night.

*

By the time Gavan returned to the hall, the fire had been extinguished. Smoke still clung to him, sharp and bitter in the wool of his coat, and ash streaked one sleeve, where he had clearly worked beside the others rather than merely issuing orders.

“The roof of the storage shed is gone,” Gavan reported to those still gathered in the chamber. “But the flames did not spread to the stables or lower stores.”

A murmur of relief moved through the hall. Water mattered more than fodder or timber. Had the fire reached the well itself, Lemlair’s vulnerability would have deepened dangerously with winter settling hard upon them.

“And the riders?” someone asked from the back of the room.

“Gone before our men reached the ridge,” Gavan replied.

Sorcha watched the tension shift through Gavan’s expression; not relief, exactly, but calculation. The immediate threat had passed. Calder’s men had failed to spread panic or cripple the estate. Yet the attack itself remained unanswered, its architects still hidden somewhere beyond the dark hills.

Gavan’s gaze swept the hall. “The well still stands,” he said evenly. “And so do we.”

The steadiness of his voice settled something inside the room. Men resumed speaking quietly. Someone barred the outer doors more firmly against the cold. Fear remained, but it no longer ruled the air.

Then, beneath the distant sounds from the courtyard, another noise rose through the night.

Hoofbeats. Fast. Hard.

Several heads turned at once. A moment later, boots struck stone as another rider entered the hall, mud splattered nearly to his shoulders, breath ragged from hard travel.

“My laird . . .” The rider bent briefly, struggling to recover enough breath to continue. “From Dingwall.”

Gavan did not move from where he stood. “Speak.”

“The bailies have set William Sutherland’s trial for tomorrow.”

Sorcha’s pulse roared suddenly in her ears.

“Before whom?” Gavan asked, his expression remaining unreadable.

The rider hesitated. “As the senior magistrate, that would be before you, Provost.”

Sorcha saw the change settle over Gavan then; not outwardly, for his posture remained straight and controlled, but something quieter beneath it, the mantle of duty descending fully once more. Until now he had stood as laird, defending his people and home. By morning, he would sit in judgement over her brother’s life.

“We ride for Dingwall at first light,” he said at last to the guards nearby. “See the horses ready and double the watch before dawn.”