Page 9

Sorcha nodded, her throat thickening. “They mean to execute him.”

Destiny’s face drained of colour. She sank slowly onto the bench beside the hearth, one hand pressed tightly against her middle as though trying to steady herself.

“I heard whispers,” she said softly. “Servants speaking after riders passed through. But Cameron has been away from Foulis so often these past weeks, dealing with matters in Dingwall and the Crown’s demands, that I have scarcely had a moment alone with him long enough to ask plainly.” Guilt flickered across her features. “And . . .” Destiny’s voice faltered. “I feared the answer.”

Sorcha looked at her then. Truly looked. Destiny was not indifferent. She was frightened. Frightened of what William’s arrest meant for the fragile peace surrounding Foulis. Frightened of what questions Cameron might ask if she pressed too hard in defence of a Sutherland already suspected of treachery.

Destiny swallowed. “I kept telling myself there would be time to speak with him properly. Time to understand what was rumour and what was truth.” Pain tightened her expression. “But if they are truly speaking of execution . . .” The words died in her throat.

Sorcha’s chest tightened so sharply she thought she might be sick. “I did not know what William intended,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Not until it was too late.” She pressed trembling fingers to her brow. “I knew he was angry. I knew he believed the Munros had wronged our clan, but I never imagined he would forge letters or drag innocent people into danger.”

Destiny’s lips parted. “Sorcha—”

“I do not believe he meant for matters to go this far,” Sorcha rushed on, grief and confusion tangling together inside her. “William can be proud and reckless and blind in his loyalty, but he is not a monster.” Her breath caught painfully. “Yet no one cares for the difference now.” Tears burned behind her eyes. “They say because I am his twin, I must share his guilt. That I must have known. That there is no difference between us.” Her voice cracked. “And my clan . . .” She looked away, shame hollowing her chest. “They cast me out as though his sins were already mine.”

Destiny’s eyes glistened.

Sorcha forced herself onward, because if she stopped, she would never speak again. “They will not shelter me. They will not speak for him. They have disowned him, and by doing so, they disowned me as well.”

Destiny made a small sound, anguished.

Sorcha clenched her hands. “I came to you because I have nowhere else to go. And because Cameron and Gavan may be the only ones with enough power to stop this from becoming a hasty killing. I know I have no right to ask Gavan anything. He hates me.”

Destiny’s voice softened until it was nearly a whisper. “But Gavan is not without honour.”

Sorcha visualised Gavan Munro standing somewhere within these walls, upright, authoritative, cold as iron. If she wanted to save her brother, she would have to kneel before that iron. “I need to see him,” she said.

Destiny flinched. “Sorcha—”

“I must.” Sorcha stood, her legs unsteady. “If there is even a chance, even a sliver, I must ask him.”

Destiny rose, too, stepping into her path. “Cameron will speak for you first.”

Sorcha shook her head. “Nay.”

Destiny’s brows drew together.

Sorcha swallowed. Her throat ached with humiliation. “If Cameron speaks first, Gavan will believe I have sent another to bargain for me,” Sorcha whispered. “I cannot hide behind your husband. Not after what happened.”

Destiny’s eyes shimmered with tears. “You should not have to do this alone.”

Sorcha’s mouth trembled. “I am alone.” It was not an accusation. It was not self-pity. It was simply the truth.

Destiny reached up and cupped Sorcha’s cheek gently, avoiding the scraped skin. “Then I will walk with you.”

Sorcha closed her eyes for a heartbeat, letting herself lean into the touch, letting herself be held by kindness one last time before she stepped into judgement. Then she opened her eyes and nodded.

Destiny took Sorcha’s hand, and together they walked towards the door beneath garlands of pine and holly draped along the lintel. Towards Cameron. Towards Gavan. Towards the moment Sorcha would have to strip away the last scrap of pride and beg for her brother’s life.

The corridors of Foulis were warm, bright with firelight and the soft gleam of polished wood, but Sorcha could not take comfort in them. The heat made her bruises throb. Her skin flushed hot and raw beneath the returning warmth, loosening something inside her, and with it came fear, memory, and the crushing certainty of what awaited her.

She could still feel the forest on her, the damp mud, the snap of the chain at her throat, the moment her mother’s emerald was torn away as if it had never belonged to her. She could still hear the men’s laughter fading into the trees. And beneath all of it pulsed the deeper dread.

Gavan is here. Each time the thought surfaced, her stomach tightened until she could hardly breathe. Sorcha kept her back straight. Not out of pride. Out of necessity.

Destiny moved beside her with a quiet steadiness, her grip firm, as if she meant to lend Sorcha her courage and her place in this castle by sheer will. Sorcha wanted to be worthy of that friendship and once more be the woman Destiny remembered. Someone who was capable, clever, and unbroken. But she was not that woman anymore. She was the twin sister of a traitor.

They stopped before a carved oak door. Destiny’s fingers tightened.