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*

The yard did not fall silent all at once. Though the clash had ended, its echo lingered in the scrape of boots against frozen ground, in the low voices of men calling to one another, and in the measured breaths of those still finding their footing after the fight. Night had fully settled over Lemlair, the darkness broken only by torchlight spilling across the yard and the wavering glow from the hall windows beyond. Snow drifted steadily through the cold air, softening the churned ground and half concealing what the battle had left behind.

The cost of it.

Gavan remained where he stood for several seconds. His breath steadied, and the reality of what had passed settled into him. Around him, the Munros began to move through the yard, checking one another, binding wounds, taking quiet account of who still stood.

No Munro had fallen. There were injuries, aye, but none that had taken a life. The knowledge did not strike him sharply, but settled instead, deep and quiet, threading through him alongside something heavier.

Three of Calder’s men lay dead. And Calder among them.

Gavan let out a slow breath, not in triumph, but in acknowledgment of what that meant.

“When we Munros fight together, we are strong. Let’s keep it that way, brothers,” Cameron said as he came to stand beside him, his voice low and steady with quiet resolve.

“Aye,” Gavan replied.

Yet even as he said it, the word did not carry the weight of victory so much as the weight of necessity.

He turned then, his attention shifting from what had been fought to what must now be done. “See to the wounded,” he said, his voice carrying across the yard with quiet authority. “All of them.”

There was no hesitation in the command, and no distinction made in it. Munro or Calder. Men moved at once, Colin directing where needed, Kenzie already kneeling beside one of the injured, binding a wound with steady hands. Cameron did not wait for instruction, but moved through the yard with the same purpose, his presence reinforcing Gavan’s own.

Gavan crossed to where one of Calder’s men lay, his breath shallow but present, blood soaking through the sleeve of his coat. Without a word, Gavan knelt and tore a strip from his own shirt, pressing it firmly against the wound.

The man looked up at him, confusion flickering in his gaze.

Gavan held it without flinching. “This is done,” he said simply.

The man’s breath hitched, then steadied, and he gave the faintest nod.

Around them, the work continued. Water was brought. Wounds were bound. The living were steadied, and the dead were not left where they had fallen. They were gathered, lifted carefully, and given the dignity owed even in enmity.

When the wounded had been seen to, Gavan turned to Colin. “Could you arrange a contingent of men to escort Calder’s wounded men back to their homes?”

Colin nodded. “I will see it is done.”

Satisfied, Gavan moved to the far edge of the yard, where the fallen had been laid side by side. Calder lay among them, his expression stilled, the sharp calculation that had once defined him now gone entirely.

For a long moment, Gavan said nothing. This had not been how he had intended to end it. He had sought resolution through law, through the trial, through the careful unravelling of lies and manipulation. He had believed that once the facts were laid bare, they might hold where pride had threatened to tear everything apart.

But Calder had not dealt in honesty. He had dealt in division, in the quiet turning of clan against clan, in the disruption of trade and trust, in the careful creation of conflict where none need have existed.

The law could not have contained him, not fully. This had been the only end he would accept. Clan to clan. Might to might.

Gavan drew in a slow breath, the cold air settling deep in his lungs as his gaze lifted beyond Lemlair’s walls, towards the hills that stretched outward to lands held by others who would soon hear what had happened here. Word would spread quickly that Calder was dead.

The hand that had worked in shadow was gone. Trade would steady. Tensions would ease. Those who had been manipulated would begin to see clearly again, and peace would follow. Not forever, but for a time. And for now, that would be enough.

“Shall we bury them here?” Kenzie asked as he came to stand beside him.

Gavan nodded. “Aye. They will not be left to the crows.”

The ground was hard with frost, but the men set to work without complaint, breaking earth where they could, labouring together in the darkness with the same steadiness they had shown in battle. Gavan did not stand apart from them. He took up a spade and worked alongside his brothers and his men, not to prove anything, but because it was his place to do so.

When the graves were ready, the bodies were laid to rest without ceremony, but not without respect. Even Calder, for all he had done, was not denied that final dignity. The earth was returned, the ground levelled, and when it was finished, the yard felt changed.

Gavan stood still, letting the silence settle around him at last. The fight was over. Lemlair still stood. His people were still alive. And somewhere inside the warmth of the hall, Sorcha waited.