Chapter Twenty-One

Cole Carter gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the leather-bound steel. The pre-dawn air was crisp, biting against his cheeks, but the warmth of his chainmail and gambeson smothered him. Around him, men moved into position, silent shadows against the gray light.

They’d been briefed on the layout of the enemy’s encampments and the decision to move now. The English force, far too large to settle in one area, had divided into three separate camps, a strategic necessity for both space and foraging. This division made it easier for the Scots to finally target smaller, isolated groups, rather than confronting the full might of Segrave’s army at once. The camp they meant to surprise now was the furthest out, distanced from Segrave’s other contingents. Though he understood the advantage this provided, the enormity of the task ahead still settled heavily on Cole. This was just one piece of the enemy, one camp of three, and they were vastly outnumbered overall.

They’d marched through the night to enact this surprise attack. From their position on the hill, the enemy's tents looked like small, pale dots against the frozen earth—and still too many for the heavily outnumbered Scots. Tavis and other lairds moved among their men, their voices low but steady as they gave orders. Cole stayed close to Tank, whose anxious humor kept them both from unraveling.

"Would’ve been nice if they’d invented guns just a little sooner?" Tank murmured, hefting his axe onto his shoulder.

Cole forced a grin, though dread weighed him down. "You’d still find a way to miss."

“Not with my M4 Carbine,” Tank boasted. “And damn, what I wouldn’t give for a grenade launcher.”

Their quiet exchange was interrupted by Tavis’s sharp whisper. “Eyes forward. It’s time.”

It’s time meant another fifteen minutes, waiting, worrying.

Without the customary horn blast to signal the advance, as Cole had been told would normally be expected, the Scots surged silently down the hill, a unified force intent on delivering a surprise attack on the sleeping enemy.

As they gathered speed, the sound of thousands of horses barreling down could neither hidden nor mistaken, and soon, war cries sounded out, ripping through the quiet valley, rousing the sleeping camp to life. With Tavis having advised that neither Cole nor Tank were ready to fight atop horses, they ran among the foot soldiers. Cole’s heart thundered in his chest, louder than the clash of steel that soon engulfed the camp, coming from the mounted cavalry forerunners.

Chaos erupted as the Scots descended upon the unsuspecting English soldiers.

Just as Cole reached the encampment, wondering if any Englishman would still be standing by the time he got there, if he’d need to fight at all, he came upon his first opponent, a man groggy and barely armored but still wielding a blade, which already dripped with blood, aiming it at Cole. They locked swords, the jarring force of the impact rattling through Cole’s arms. The Englishman swung again, but instinct took over; Cole sidestepped and slashed downward. The strike connected.

For a moment, everything froze. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Cole stared, his mind blank with shock. He felt the sudden urge to vomit as he saw the man’s life extinguished at his feet and his own sword now red with blood.

The moment shattered as another enemy lunged at him. There was no time to process the horror of what he’d done. Cole blocked the coming blow, barely raising his shield in time to deflect the blow aimed at his head, saved by his lacrosse-honed reflexes kicking in. The force of it drove him to one knee, but he twisted and lashed out with his sword, catching the man’s leg. The enemy stumbled, and Cole surged up, grimacing as he delivered a clumsy but effective blow that ended the fight.

His heart pounded in his ears, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Christ, it was madness. He’d just killed a man. And then another.

The battlefield was a frenzy of sound and fury. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced, yet he found himself having no choice but to adapt, his focus narrowing to the immediate threats around him.

Turning, Cole spotted an Englishman crouching over a Sinclair soldier who lay on his back. He was too late to save the young man—the enemy’s thin, lethal blade had already been driven into the boy’s chest, piercing his heart. A cold clarity overtook Cole as he watched the murder unfold. Without hesitation, he drove his own blade into the Englishman’s back. The man lurched forward, impaling his weapon further before he collapsed heavily onto the lifeless body beneath him.

Cole's gaze fell on the fallen Sinclair soldier and his breath caught—Domhnall. Shit.

“On yer left!” someone shouted, spinning Cole around, just in time to ward off another menacing swing of a blade. Just barely though, the enemy’s blade slicing shallowly across the side of his neck before Cole could respond, lifting his shield to push off the blow, keeping it from becoming fatal. Again, he swung out wildly, with more a mind toward defense, keeping himself alive. Like a lightbulb going off, he realized in an instant that trying not to die meant, as had been proven already, that he would and did have to strike out against the aggressor. He did so now, not having any use for parts of Dersey’s teaching, how to aim for vulnerable places in the thicker English chainmail, since this guy wore no armor. His blow was easily thwarted and so was the next. And while Cole managed to block the strikes aimed at him, he realized this guy was not going down easy. Despite his best efforts, Cole felt himself beginning to falter, his opponent’s proficiency with the sword becoming overwhelming. Desperation clawed at him. For a moment, doubt crept into his mind—he was no match for this man.

He thought of Ailsa, being told he’d been killed in battle, that he hadn’t lasted long. With every strike and parry, he thought of never seeing her again, never knowing another kiss, thought of Tank’s words, how they should fight for what was behind them. He felt a surge of purpose and his grip tightened on the sword. With a roar of determination, Cole forced the momentum in his favor, his want of a life with Ailsa greater than even wanting only to survive. His next strike was cunning and swift, coming on a backhand, catching the enemy off-guard. With a final, decisive blow, Cole dropped the man, emerging victorious.

He paused to catch his breath.

Nearby, Tank was locked in his own fight, his massive frame working to his advantage as he deflected blows with sheer brute force. He carried no shield, but a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. He was bleeding from a cut on his forearm but showed no signs of slowing. Cole caught a glimpse of him swinging his axe in a wide arc, taking down an opponent with grim determination.

And on it went, Cole progressing, meeting one combatant after another.

Just as in fighting the big, raging fires, where smoke, heat, and noise flood his senses, the battlefield churned with a storm of sounds and sights. Steel clanged, warriors shouted, grunted, and roared, and the raw smell of blood and earth overwhelmed him, much like the smell of burning materials or the roar of flames. In lacrosse, he was used to moving quickly through a crowded, noisy field, where every second mattered, and any distraction could mean getting hit, losing the ball, or failing to make a play. Cole drew on this ability to focus amidst the deafening sounds and chaotic movements surrounding him. Though he was used to body checks, fast hits, and falls on the field, and he’d learned to take hits and keep moving, this was different—these strikes were lethal, and he worked harder to avoid them.

The fighting field shifted, men moving forward after each kill— gaining ground , Cole reasoned, assuming the term must have originated in war—which put Cole and Tank somewhere in the middle of the decimated English camp by the time it stopped, slowly becoming quieter, clangs and groans growing fewer and farther between.

In the eerie quiet that followed, Cole stood amidst the wreckage of a conflict barely begun, his breath ragged, chest heaving as the first light of dawn began to spill over the hill. The bodies of fallen men—both Scots and English—lay scattered like broken toys, their twisted forms half-hidden by the morning mist that curled like ghostly fingers along blood-soaked earth that glistened where it caught the dull light.

Though there hadn’t really been any doubt of the outcome, that the Scots would prevail over the sleepy enemy camp, Cole felt no sense of victory, only gladness that he’d survived.

He did not have long to savor the fact that he still lived while the English force retreated in disarray. Within minutes, calls to regroup shouted all around the scattered battlefield.

Nearby, Tavis repeated the call.

“Regroup! Regroup!” he shouted as he rode through the Sinclairs on his massive warhorse. Red life dripped from his sword, one drop splattering against Cole’s boot as Tavis passed.

“More coming!” Tavis continued to shout. “Come to avenge these dead men, they do!”

Cole watched nearby Sinclairs rearm themselves with weapons confiscated from dead men before he and Tank exchanged startled glances.

“I just killed a man,” Cole breathed raggedly, still not having come to grips with it. “A lot of men,” he bemoaned. “Jesus, the one wasn’t more than—”

Tank grabbed him by the shirt front, his fist taking hold of tunic, mail, and gambeson. He drew Cole close to him.

“Yeah, me too. And we’re gonna talk about it—we’re gonna deal with that, but right now, we’ve got to fight, man. We gotta get through this. Keep going, man. Don’t leave me.”

Cole nodded, grim but resolute, though his arms felt like lead and his legs threatened to buckle. He tightened his grip on his sword and the handle of his shield, the leather warm, nearly comforting.

“Close in!” Tavis barked, bringing the Sinclairs around him.

Tavis didn’t wait to be met but charged forward, taking the offensive, his men following, once again with robust war cries.

The second clash was fiercer. These English soldiers were fresh while the Scots were still breathless from the first skirmish, and the fighting grew more brutal. Cole took a hard blow to the shoulder, the impact knocking him to the ground. His opponent loomed over him, sword raised for a killing strike. Panic surged through Cole, but he rolled to the side, onto his back again, driving his sword upward into the man’s side. The English soldier fell with a guttural cry, and Cole scrambled to his feet, gasping.

Alarmingly—impossibly—they were not done, even as more English bodies and blood littered the cold earth. They hadn’t yet gained a decisive victory when a third division of the enemy arrived, likely from the furthest of the three English camps.

Though exhaustion weighed on every Scot, they fought on, desperation fueling their strength. Do or die , Cole thought. His movements became automatic, his mind focused solely on survival, which meant putting down as many of the enemy as he could. His body ached—his heart ached for what he was doing, for what he was part of—but he kept going, the roar of battle drowning out everything else.

Hours later, when the final English force was routed and the battlefield fell eerily silent once more, Cole stood amid the carnage, his chest heaving. Blood smeared his face and arms, his sword hung heavy in his hand. Blood oozed from a glancing blow he’d taken to his shin, and more flowed from what he hoped was only a superficial hole in his side. A moment later, the surviving Scots raised triumphant cries, but Cole felt no victory, only a hollow exhaustion.

Tank, who had embraced the idea of fighting from the beginning, his hulking frame a natural advantage on the battlefield, now stood frozen, his eyes wide as he scanned the aftermath. His fists, still clenched from the previous moments of combat, trembled ever so slightly, betraying the shock that rattled him. He was good—damn good—at this. His years in the Marines had honed his physical strength, his reactions, had prepared him better for war than Cole had been. But this was different. This wasn’t structured training or even the sharp—distant—conflict of war zones he was familiar with. The look in his eyes, glassy and remote, told Cole everything he needed to know. The fight was over, but the reality was settling in—this wasn’t a movie, not a dream, this was real life.

“Hey,” Cole called his attention.

Slowly, Tank turned, giving himself a shake as if to dispel whatever gripped him right now.

“You good?” Cole asked.

Tank swallowed, dropping one arm until the head of the axe rested on the ground. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Cole managed a weary smile, though the weight of what he’d done—and survived—pressed heavily on him as well. He turned to find Tavis, twenty yards away, already being tended by the Sinclair surgeon, who sliced the fabric of Tavis’s breeches to assess the damage done to his bloody thigh. The laird grimaced and lifted his gaze from his wound. His blue eyes met Cole’s. He wore the look of a man in desperate pain but clenched his teeth, making appoint to nod solemnly at Cole.

Respect, Cole assumed, or at the very least, reluctant admiration that Cole was still standing.

Cole returned the nod across the distance.

The battlefield stretched all around him, a grim tableau of bodies and broken weapons. Cole swallowed hard, forcing himself to look, to take it in. His nose wrinkled as heat gathered behind it. He swallowed thickly and his mouth twisted against the rising tide of emotions. Tears welled in his eyes.

This was war, something he’d never thought he’d know, not in his wildest dreams. Or nightmares.

And he had, somehow—by the grace of God, he assumed—survived it.

***

A shout from the battlements pierced the stillness of the late afternoon, a sharp cry that sent Ailsa bolting from the storeroom where she’d been sorting linens. Gathering her skirts in her fist, she dashed through the keep and out into the bailey, just in time to hear the order given for the gate to be opened.

A familiar figure on horseback, the Sinclair scout, a lad named Anndra, galloped toward the gate, his plaid flaring behind him in the brisk wind.

Ailsa’s breath came fast, not from exertion but from the tightening knot of worry in her chest.

The scout pulled his horse to a halt just inside the gates, the animal’s flanks heaving with exertion. Dirt streaked his face and clothes, and the grim set of his mouth made her stomach churn.

“Speak!” Ailsa demanded as she stepped forward, barely waiting for the gate to close behind him. Her hand clenched over her chest. “What news?”

“The laird comes, lass, along with the wounded of our force,” confirmed Anndra. “Many stayed behind with the Nicholsons, under Fraser and Comyn’s banner, but the wounded Sinclairs come home, lass, battered but victorious.”

“And my husband?” She asked desperately, her voice edged with panic. “Cole? Is he—”

“Aye, lass,” the scout said quickly, eager to appease her distress. “He comes as well, injured but nae gravely.”

Relief struck as if she’d been wobbled by a fierce gust of wind, so sudden and forceful that Ailsa staggered. Her knees knocked, but she steadied herself, reaching out to the horse’s shoulder to remain on her feet. The burn of tears stung her eyes, and she knew no shame when they fell.

“Thank ye,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Praise God.” A hand touched her arm. She turned to find Anwen there. Ailsa’s lips quivered as she tried to smile.

Anwen, always practical, attempted to steer Ailsa toward the keep, her voice calm and grounding. “Come now, lass. Wounded, but nae gravely , he said. We’ve plenty to do before they arrive.”

Ailsa nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Though her heart raced with relief and hope, she forced herself into action.

Straightening, she squared her shoulders and walked with strength into the hall, giving orders to the milling servants, those who’d come to see who the gate had been opened for. “Margaret, send a lad to fetch the healer from the Todrick keep, and then summon Father Gilbert. We must ready the hall to receive the wounded. Mary, we’ll need boiled water, linens, salves. Bearnas, fetch the small tools, the pliers and scalpels, the irons for heating. Anwen, we’ll need needle and thread, plenty of it, and pallets and blankets—move quickly, all of ye!”

As the women and girls scattered, Ailsa moved to the hearth and crouched, feeding the low flames until they leapt higher, casting warm light over the long tables. She lit candles around the room, illuminating every shadowed corner. The faint scent of tallow mingled with the rich aroma of the crackling fire.

She busied her hands with tasks, but her mind wandered, unbidden, to Cole—wounded, on his way home. Relief mingled with trepidation. He was alive. That alone was an answered prayer.

By the time the sound of hoofbeats echoed through Torr Cinnteag, rhythmic and steady, the hall was prepared. The gates were flung wide once more, and Ailsa gathered her skirts, striding outside.

She stood at the courtyard's edge, her heart hammering as the first figures came into view. It was not the triumphant return of a victorious army but the weary march of wounded survivors. Two dozen men, bloodied and battered, rode at a slow pace, some leaning heavily against their saddles.

Her eyes scanned the group frantically, searching, happily taking note of her brother’s presence before she noticed Cole, a few paces behind the laird, coming into view as they drew closer.

Both men rode their horses, both upright despite the visible strain it cost them. Tavis would never allow himself the indignity of a litter, and it seemed Cole shared the same stubborn pride.

But Cole looked... changed. His skin was pale, his face leaner than when he’d left, his shoulders weighed down by exhaustion. To Ailsa’s mind, it seemed a miracle that he hadn’t slid out of the saddle altogether. His usual fire—his energy—was dimmed. Her chest tightened painfully.

Still, as his gaze met hers, something flickered in his eyes. He straightened in the saddle with visible effort, a faint smile pulling at his lips. It was for her. She knew it. Just as she would not falter in front of him, he would not allow himself to look weak before her.

The moment their eyes met, the weight of her worry lifted just slightly. The battered soldiers who trailed him seemed to blur at the edges of her vision as she stepped forward, her focus narrowing to the man she loved.

"Welcome home," she whispered, the words catching in her throat, though she knew he couldn’t hear her over the shuffle of hooves and murmurs around them.

She ducked sideways near the gate, allowing room for the horses to pass. She reached up her hand to Tavis as he entered the yard. Her brother clasped her hand briefly and met her teary gaze. “Home we are, Ailsa. For a spell at any rate.”

“And blessed we are to have ye,” she smiled with genuine affection at him.

When he released her hand, she angled between the slow-moving horses, going next directly to Cole. A larger cry of greater relief burst from her as she touched him for the first time in months, her hands latching on to his boots and his cold breeches. In the next moment, he’d slid from the saddle, and Ailsa was in his arms.

“Oh, Cole,” she wept with joy into his shoulder. Though his embrace was not fierce, Ailsa reveled in it, lost herself in it.

“Ailsa,” he breathed into her hair, kissing her temple. “Thank God.”

She lifted her face and stood on her toes, raining kisses over his cheeks and his mouth, her hands holding his face.

She felt his weakness and somehow restrained herself from leaping all over him. “Come now, directly inside, out of this cold.” She slid her arm around him and walked with him toward the door to the keep. “Everyone,” she called, “inside.”

It was then she noticed that Cole was limping, and that he was far weaker than she’d assumed. He winced with each step and at the same time Ailsa pulled back to scan her gaze over her, he put his hand to his side.

“It’s minor, I’m sure,” he said, “but it sure does hurt.”

“Sweet Jesus,” she whimpered, “and here I am, throwing myself at ye—”

“Ailsa, it’s fine,” he insisted, though his voice was more weary than firm. “I wanted you to throw yourself at me, so thank you for that.”

A strangled laugh erupted, and she shook her head to clear it, and again, she steered him toward the keep.

As soon as they stepped inside, Ailsa turned to Cole, her hands going to his arm. “We’ll go straight to our chamber.”

Cole shook his head, the movement slow but resolute. “This’ll be a hospital ward now?” He asked, glancing around the hall, where straw-stuffed pallets were laid out on all the trestle tables and along one wall, and half a dozen maids, and Anwen assisted the soldiers as they entered, directing them to lie down and await the healer, or Father Gilbert’s attendance.

“Aye,” said Ailsa. “But this is nae for ye, husband. Ye’ll heal better in peace, away from all this. It is expected that ye and Tavis will take to your chambers to recover.”

“That’s not right, Ailsa,” Cole objected weakly. “I need to be here, with them.”

“Cole, it is nae—”

“Lass, he speaks true,” a voice interrupted.

Ailsa turned, finding Father Gilbert had come.

He smiled warmly at Cole. “Welcome home, lad. God has blessed you.”

“He has,” Cole agreed.

The priest then addressed Ailsa. “His place is here, lass, beside the men with whom he fought.”

Ailsa’s throat tightened, her frustration warring with the truth in the priest’s words. She looked up at Cole, at the exhaustion etched into his features, the pale cast of his skin, and the stubborn set of his jaw. She had some suspicion that he wouldn’t yield, not on this.

“I only want what’s best for ye,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion.

“I’ll be fine, Ailsa. I promise,” Cole replied, his tone softening. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over hers. “But I need to be here.”

Father Gilbert offered Ailsa a reassuring nod before gesturing toward an empty pallet nearby. “Come along, lad. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Cole moved carefully, each step measured, as he approached the makeshift bed. He began to climb onto the pallet but paused, his sharp gaze cutting to Father Gilbert. “Check on Davey and Somerled first,” he said firmly. “They’re in worse shape than I am. I can wait.”

The priest nodded and turned toward the other injured men, leaving Ailsa to guide Cole as he eased onto the board. She fussed over him as he lay back, her fingers hovering nervously above him, reluctant to touch. Her eyes caught on the blood-stained linen wrapped around his neck, and her stomach churned.

“God’s bones, Cole,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What happened—”

“It’s just a scratch,” he interjected quickly, offering a crooked grin. “I swear to you.”

“But there’s more,” she guessed, her voice growing sharper with worry. Her hands fluttered helplessly over his chest as though afraid to uncover the full extent of his injuries.

“There is,” he admitted, the grin strengthening slightly, “but nothing that can’t wait.”

His easy confidence eased some of her panic, but another thought struck her suddenly, making her breath catch. She raised a hand to her lips and frantically scanned the hall, her heart tightening. “Where is—” She stopped mid-sentence and turned to him, dread darkening her eyes. “Where is Tank?”

Cole’s hand closed over hers, his grip warm and comforting. “He’s fine,” he said gently. “He remained with the larger army. Dersey’s looking after him. He promised me he’d keep him alive. Tank’s fine, Ailsa. I promise that too. Hardly a scratch on him.”

Relief flooded her, overwhelming and unstoppable. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, though this time they came from joy. She dropped her face into her hand, trying to regain control, but Cole gave her hand a squeeze.

“God, I love you,” he said, his voice soft but certain.

Ailsa froze, her hand falling from her face as she gaped at him, utterly speechless. Her cheeks flushed, tears streaked her face, and her jaw hung open as she stared at him in disbelief. “What?” she managed to whisper.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeated, his smile growing into a full, dazzling grin that made her heart skip. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I realized it too late.”

Her shoulders sagged, the tension leaving her body. “But I wanted to tell you the same thing,” she said, her tone almost petulant in its frustration.

Cole’s laugh, warm and rich, filled the air just as a familiar voice piped up behind her.

“Ye still can, ye ken. It’s nae proprietary.”

Ailsa whipped around to see Anwen standing nearby, her hands on her hips and a pointed look on her face.

Cole chuckled again, his gaze flicking to Ailsa with amusement. “She’s going to be our children’s nurse, is she?”

Ailsa, her cheeks still pink, managed a nod, her lips curling into a smile despite herself.

“God help us,” Cole muttered, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

Ailsa laughed then, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“Ailsa I know I once hinted that this marriage wasn’t real,” he said, frowning. “I was an ass, or at least unprepared for how important and critical it is—you are—to me.” His blue eyes held her, promises glistening in their depths. “I’m so in love with you. Don’t hold that against me, what I—”

Ailsa silenced him with a kiss. “I love you, Cole Carter,” she whispered against his lips.

***

Ailsa paused outside the laird’s chamber, one hand resting lightly on the wooden doorframe. She had intended to knock but hesitated, listening to the quiet within. It was rare for her brother to be still, but then his wound had made him so in the three days since he’d been home.

She tapped lightly and pushed the door open.

Inside, the chamber was warm, the fire that crackled in the hearth casting long shadows across the room. Tavis sat in a sturdy upholstered chair, his head leaning back against the high backrest, his face lined with weariness. His injured leg was propped up on a low stool, bandaged tightly, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

“Ye look like a soul in need of cheering,” Ailsa teased gently, her voice soft. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Tavis grunted in response, his lips quirking into the ghost of a smile. “Then send me a buxom woman bearing a dram of guid whisky.”

She rolled her eyes as she moved to the small table nearby, pouring a goblet of wine instead. “Ye are stuck with me, brother. And I can fill your ears with tales from below or I can sit quietly in your company, so that ye ken that I care.”

He accepted the goblet but didn’t drink, staring into the fire instead. “We lost guid men, Ailsa,” he said quietly, his voice heavy. “Too many—and this was but a skirmish. Nae even the war. That’ll come again, and soon, I fear. Scotland needs us, everyone blessed one of us.”

She rested a hand on the arm of his chair, leaning closer. “And ye will heed the call, same as ye have, same as ye always do. Ye are a fine man, Tavis. A guid leader of men, of all Torr Cinnteag. Father and Mother would be proud.”

Tavis gave a small nod but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the silence of shared grief, shared reflection. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her, his expression thoughtful.

“He’s a guid man,” he said at last.

Ailsa blinked, caught off guard. Her heart swelled with pride, knowing he was speaking of Cole, and she smiled softly. “He is,” she agreed.

Tavis snorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “His fight needs work— Jesu, does his fight need work—but he’s a guid man.”

Ailsa laughed lightly, the sound breaking through the somber mood.

Her brother’s expression grew serious again, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Do ye believe it, Ailsa? That he comes from some other century?”

She drew in a deep breath, considering her answer carefully. “It’s nearly impossible to believe, is it nae? But... he believes it. And who am I to say what is possible or nae? I ken his heart, Tavis, and that is all that matters to me.”

Tavis leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly, his gaze returning to the fire. “Trial by combat, he just survived,” he murmured. “Made himself a Sinclair out there in the field.”

Ailsa’s chest swelled with warmth and pride. She bent down and kissed her brother’s cheek, wrapping her arms around him in a rare embrace. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, patting her arm awkwardly.

“All is well, brother,” she said softly. “Torr Cinnteag is safe in your hands.”

He didn’t respond, but as she straightened and turned to leave, she thought she caught the faintest flicker of a contented smile on his lips.