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“I think men do not send hired blades after fools.” Gavan’s voice hardened slightly. “Whatever you understand, it frightened someone powerful enough to act quickly.”

William rubbed a hand roughly across his mouth. “I never meant for any of this.”

“Aye.” Gavan studied him steadily. “But meaning and consequence are rarely the same thing.”

The words settled heavily in the chamber.

William’s shoulders slumped slightly, tiredness finally breaking through the pride he had carried into court earlier that day. “I thought I was exposing corruption between clans,” he admitted quietly. “Men spoke constantly about Munro influence growing too strong. About trade being manipulated. About the Crown favouring some while smaller clans struggled.” Shame flickered harshly across his face. “I wanted people to look closer.”

“And instead?”

“I gave them the opening they needed.”

Gavan did not disagree.

William swallowed hard before lifting his gaze again. “If I speak fully tomorrow . . .” His voice roughened. “There may be no walking back from it.”

“There already is not.” Gavan’s answer came without cruelty, which somehow made it heavier. “The question now is whether you leave this court condemned as a traitor or remembered as a man who finally chose truth before others paid further for his mistakes.”

William looked away sharply at that, then nodded once. “What do you need to know?” he asked quietly.

Gavan set his jaw. “Everything.”

Once William was safely guarded again, and the intended assassin was in a cell at the courthouse, Gavan made his way back to the provost’s quarters. His breath curled in the cold air as he looked towards the darkened rooftops of Dingwall.

Gavan entered and shut the door behind him, but not before a flurry of snow followed him inside.

Sorcha waited in a chair by the fire. As he removed his cloak, she rose immediately. “There was blood,” she said in an anxious voice, her gaze shifting to his shoulder.

“Not mine, and not William’s.”

Relief flickered across her face. “They tried to silence him.”

“As I suspected.”

She stepped closer. “Then William spoke the truth.”

Gavan nodded. “So it seems his testimony threatens someone powerful.”

Sorcha reached for him then, not in panic, but in solidarity.

He took her hands, holding them firmly.

“They escalate,” she said.

“So do we.”

He looked at her fully, truly looked at her. The glow of the hearth burnished her red hair and lit her green eyes from within. She was beautiful—fiercely, quietly so. More beautiful than he had allowed himself to admit when resentment had narrowed his sight and pride had hardened his heart.

“They will try again,” she whispered.

“Let them.” He lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles.

He had once believed strength meant striking first and hardest. But Sorcha had stood her ground against him, against his anger, and had not broken. Watching her, he had begun to see that restraint could be its own weapon. The law, wielded without fury, might cut deeper than any sword he had once carried.

“They will find I do not yield easily.” The words settled into the quiet room, but as he spoke them, Gavan realised they no longer meant what they once had.

There had been a time when strength meant only battle to him. The surety of steel in his hand. The ability to ride hardest, strike fastest, force enemies into retreat through sheer will and strength of arm. Losing even part of that after his injury had felt like losing the truest part of himself.