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“And if they are not?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “Then we will not see the blade until it is drawn.”

The town gates loomed closer. The guards tightened formation around them. The murmur of voices swelled. The snow beneath the horses’ hooves turned from white to trampled grey slush.

Gavan straightened in the saddle as he once again became the provost. And somewhere in the crowd, unseen eyes followed.

The square outside the courthouse churned with restless energy. Market stalls stood half closed, their owners pretending indifference while straining to watch.

Gavan dismounted first. A provost did not hesitate before his own court.

Sorcha followed, boots striking frozen stone. The murmur shifted. Some eyes slid towards her and away again. Some did not.

William was being brought from the holding cell across the square; his wrists were shackled, two guards at his side. He walked upright despite the restraints, his jaw set.

Sorcha’s breath caught. He did not look broken. He looked angry. Good. Anger meant he still intended to speak.

Then a man in Calder colours stepped forward, not the laird himself, but his captain. Tall, pale-eyed, wearing a smile that never reached his gaze. “Provost,” he drawled, dipping his head just enough to remain technically respectful.

Gavan did not pause. “Captain.”

“You’ve drawn quite a crowd today.”

“Justice tends to.”

The captain’s gaze slid towards Sorcha. “Clan disputes always do.”

The insult was deliberate. Measured. Designed to invite doubt.

Gavan stopped. “If you have something to say,” he said evenly, “say it plainly.”

The square quieted.

The captain smiled faintly. “Only that it must weigh heavily, presiding over the trial of a woman’s brother when she stands at your side.”

There it was. The seed planted. Impartiality questioned. Authority undermined.

A murmur rippled outward.

Sorcha felt suspicion being coaxed into the open.

Gavan did not look at her. “The law does not bend because I share a road with someone,” he said calmly. “Nor does it falter because a crowd gathers.”

The captain’s smile thinned. “Nay? And if evidence suggests divided loyalties?”

“Then I will judge evidence,” Gavan replied. “Not insinuation.”

William gave a low, humourless laugh. “Evidence?” he called. “You mean the kind that appears conveniently after a Calder raid?”

The captain’s head snapped towards him. “Careful, Sutherland.”

“I have been careful,” William shot back. “That is why I still breathe.”

The crowd leaned closer. Too close. Sorcha stepped forward before she could stop herself. “My brother will speak in court,” she said clearly. “And he will answer for himself.”

The captain’s gaze shifted to her. “And if he names names?”

The question was soft. Too soft. A threat disguised as curiosity.