"You should drink," he said, nodding toward the untouched cup beside her. "It'll calm your nerves."
She eyed the cup with suspicion. "I would rather you tell me where I am."
He gave a slight nod as if he had expected that question. "I am Ewan Macleod. And you, Lady Isabelle, are in my keep, far from the reach of your enemies."
"Enemies," she whispered. Her mind reeled, still struggling to make sense of the bloodshed at the ball, the men who had stormed in, cutting down people without mercy.
Ewan's jaw tightened. "The men who had attacked the ball were Glunn. A rival clan, sworn enemies to mine and to yours. They mean to destroy your type. That includes you."
She flinched, the truth pressing down on her like a weight. "But why? We have done nothing to them."
He exhaled. "Nothing? Your people are rotting to the core. Your way of life alone are enough. The Gunn clan has long despised the rich. You're a symbol of everything they seek to burn to the ground."
A lump formed in her throat. "Then, we aren't safe."
"Not yet," he admitted. "But here, under my protection, you stand a chance. If you leave now, they'll find you before you reach the other side. And they will not be kind."
"What would you have me do?"
Ewan stepped closer, his voice low, but firm. "Stay. At least, until the storm had passed. But understand that the Glunn are relentless, they'll keep coming until they have your kind. When the time comes, you'll have to decide whether to run...or to fight."
His words sent a chill through her, but beneath the fear, something else stirred. A flicker of resolve.
She met his gaze, and for the first time since the attack, she felt something close to certainty.
"I will stay."
The cold morning air bit at Isabelle's skin as she threw off the heavy furs covering her. She sat up quickly, her heart pounding with nervous energy. Today is the day. She tugged on a loose tunic and trousers from the small chest, securing her belt with steady hands.
As she stepped into the corridor, hushed giggles greeted her.
Anabel leaned lazily against the stone wall, a smirk playing on her lips. "Up before the sun? How unlike you. Are you going to help us escape?"
Charlotte twirled a golden lock around her finger. "Where could she be going dressed like a stable boy?"
Anabel laughed. "Oh, I know, the training field."
She pushed past them, walking toward the wide field.
The sound of clashing swords and shouting commands welcomed her. Sweet and damp earth mingled in the air, the scent of hard work and discipline.
She stepped forward, but the laughter began before she could take another breath.
"Look at this!" a warrior called, leaning on his wooden practice sword. "The noble lass has come to fight!"
The men roared with laughter. Isabelle's face burned.
A woman stood among them, gripping a sword with practice ease. Freya Fraser. She was breathtaking, her red hair was pulled into a long braid, her figure lean but strong. She wiped a sweat from her brow and laughed.
"Oh, lads, let the poor girl try." she teased. "Perhaps she'll make a fine practice dummy."
Before she could step back, a voice cut through the mockery.
"Enough."
The warriors fell silent, parting as Ewan strode forward. His eyes swept over them before settling on Isabelle.
She swallowed hard. He was a force to behold. Tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him exuding strength.
"She came here to train." He said, his voice firm. "And if she has the courage to stand before warriors and demand a place, then, she deserves one."
Freya crossed her arms. "A noble lass with spirit? That's rare."
His gaze didn't waver. "It's valuable." Then he turned to Isabelle, voice gentler but still commanding. "Pick up a sword."
She stepped forward, grasping a practice blade. The weight was unfamiliar, but she steadied her grip.
He studied her, then motioned her toward him. "Come."
The training field seemed to disappear as he moved behind her, adjusting her grip with strong steady hands.
"Too stiff." he murmured, his voice low. "Loosen your shoulders. A blade must be an extension of your arm."
She obeyed, heart hammering.
He stepped back, eyes meeting hers. "Again."
She swung, clumsy but determined. He nodded approvingly.
"You've got fire. Let's see how bright it burns."
As their training began, she realized she was no longer proving them wrong. She was proving herself right.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the grassy clearing behind the small cottage. Isabelle swung her wooden practice sword in steady, measured strikes, the rhythmic sound of wood slicing through the air and filling the quiet space. Sweat clung to her brow, her arms burning from the effort, but she did not stop. She could not stop.
Not after what had happened at the training field.
She had just adjusted her stance when a voice interrupted her concentration. "You handled that well enough."
Isabelle spun around, gripping the practice sword tightly. A woman stood at the edge of the clearing, her age, wrapped in a deep green cloak, auburn curls spilling from beneath her hood.
"I didn't mean to startle you," the woman continued, stepping forward. "I'm Moira."
"What do you want?"
"I brought something for you and your sisters," Moira said, nodding towards the boy standing a few paces back, holding a large woven basket and a bundle of thick blankets.
She folded her arms. "And what do you want in return?"
Moira laughed and sat on the nearby bench. "Only conversations and to ask you what you think of our laird."
Isabelle stiffened. "Ewan?"
"Aye. Half of the women in the village seem ready to throw themselves at his handsome feet."
She knew he had the presence of a man born to lead. And yet, he had never looked at her that way.
"He is a strong leader," she said.
"Aye. And always remember to stay alert."
Isabelle said nothing, but as she handed a piece of bread to her sisters, she found herself wondering if Moira was right.
She jolted awake at the sound of scream. The scent of smoke thickened in the air, curling through the small stone cottage like a warning. She scrambled up from her straw mattress, her heart slamming against her ribs.
The night outside was alive with chaos. The clan guards clashing steel with invading warriors, flames licking at the thatched roofs, the battle cries of men and the terrified wails of women and children.
"Charlotte! Anabel!" She spurned toward the corner where her sisters slept. Charlotte was already awake, clutching her blanket.
"Isabelle," Charlotte whispered, "What's happening?"
She had never seen these warriors before. Their tartans were unfamiliar, their faces twisted with fury as they tore through the village. Another clan had come, one she had never heard of, and they wanted war.
There was no time to question why.
Three of them rushed out into the night, the bitter wind stinging against their skin. Around them, people fought desperately. A guard fell near Anabel's feet, blood spilling across the ground. A group of women and children ran past, herding the young toward a hidden cave in the hillside.
Isabelle turned to her sisters. "Go with them. Stay there until I come for you."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "You're not coming with us?"
"No. I have to fight."
"You'll die!"
She forced a weak smile. "Not tonight."
She pushed them forward, waiting only until they disappeared into the dark before she turned back toward the battle.