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For a long moment, Gavan stood watching the place where they had vanished. Then Sorcha stepped quietly beside him. Behind them, warmth and candlelight waited inside Lemlair.

Yule had not been lost after all.

Chapter Twenty

The cold followed them to the threshold, clinging to Sorcha’s skin even as the door of Lemlair closed behind them, shutting out the sharp edge of evening and the memory of battle. For a moment, she remained where she was, her breath uneven, her thoughts still caught in the clash she had witnessed, while the warmth of the house pressed gently around her.

The change was immediate, though not overwhelming. Voices drifted from deeper within the house, low and steady, accompanied by the quiet movement of those preparing for something long anticipated. The scent of pine lingered in the air, fresh and clean, woven together with the richer warmth of roasting meat and hearth smoke. Candlelight softened the old stone walls and timbered beams, turning the once austere hall into something gentler, something unmistakably lived in.

Yule.

The realisation came almost painfully.

They had faced so many large things these past days—treason, bloodshed, judgement, survival—that she had nearly forgotten the smaller things entirely. The things that steadied people when the world threatened to fracture around them. A fire lit against the longest night. Bread shared at a crowded table. Voices raised in song while snow fell beyond the walls. The simple comfort of knowing those held dear still lived to stand beside the hearth another year.

Perhaps that was why such rituals endured. Not because life was untouched by hardship, but because hardship made these moments matter more.

Mrs Jacoby appeared almost immediately from the direction of the kitchens, her skirts swaying briskly as she crossed the hall. Though she carried herself with practical purpose, as always, unmistakable relief softened her face when she looked first at Gavan and then at Sorcha.

“Then you’ve both come back tae me in one piece,” she declared, satisfaction warming her voice. “Very good, m’laird.” Her gaze shifted meaningfully towards the great hearth beyond the hall. “Ye’ve no time tae linger here.”

Sorcha blinked, still half caught between battle and bewilderment. “No time?”

Mrs Jacoby fixed her with a look that carried equal parts affection and command. “’Tis Yule night,” she said firmly. “And the fire has waited long enough.”

“Very well,” Gavan said. “Then it is time to celebrate.”

Mrs Jacoby clapped her hands once, satisfied. “Good. Then come along. Everyone’s already gathered.”

Sorcha allowed Gavan to lead her into the main hall, and she felt the difference at once. The space was not large, but it was full, and that fullness gave it a warmth no grand room could have matched. Perhaps twenty people had gathered, those who lived and worked in and around Lemlair—the washerwomen; the gardener; a hunter and a fisherman; even some of the stableboys, standing in small clusters near the long table or along the walls, tankards in hand, their conversations softening as she entered.

Candles lined the table, their light steady and warm, while evergreen garlands hung along the beams overhead, their scent grounding and familiar. Near the hearth, the Yule log rested in its iron cradle, thick and waiting, its presence both simple and significant.

This was not spectacle; this was a moment shared.

Sorcha felt the attention turn towards her, aware of the quiet measure in their gazes. At one time, she would have lowered her eyes beneath it, would have made herself smaller in the face of it. Tonight, she did not. She walked forward beside Gavan with quiet assurance, aware of the green wool at her shoulders and the way it moved with her, not against her, as though it belonged there as naturally as she did.

She saw the subtle shift in the faces around her as she passed. There was no sharpness in it, no open judgement; only curiosity giving way to approval.

Gavan’s presence beside her anchored the moment. He did not distance himself or move ahead of her. He remained at her side, and that decision alone carried weight. When they reached the hearth, the room settled without being commanded to do so.

Gavan’s voice flowed with quiet authority when he spoke, not raised, but certain. “This winter, we were tested.”

The silence deepened, and Sorcha listened, aware not only of his words but of the steadiness beneath them. When he spoke of strained trust and near division, she saw acknowledgment in the faces around them.

“We were used,” he said.

A murmur followed, not sharp, but accepting.

“Yet we stand here without fracture,” he continued, and as he spoke, his hand brushed hers, the contact light but deliberate. “We chose not to let suspicion rule us, and we did not cast out those who stood in the storm.”

He did not name her. He did not need to. She felt the meaning move through the room and settle. When he turned towards her and placed the torch in her hand, the gesture was simple, but it carried more than words. She looked at him once, searching, and found no hesitation there, only trust.

Sorcha stepped forward, the torch steady in her hand as the hall quieted around her. She could feel their attention, not pressing, not judging, but watching what she would do. The Yule log rested in the cradle, solid and unlit, its rough bark catching the flicker of torchlight.

For a moment, she simply stood there.

Then she drew a breath. “May this fire burn away what has threatened to divide us,” she said, her voice clear, though soft enough to feel personal. “May it carry away the weight of fear and mistrust and leave in its place something stronger.”