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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T he fog clung to the lowlands, blurring the shapes of men and hills alike.

Dawn had barely broken, the sun no more than a whisper behind the thick clouds, casting a cold pallor over the fields.

Tav knelt in the mud at the base of the rise, the damp earth soaking into his knees, seeping into his bones.

It was a solemn sort of stillness, the kind that came before storms.

Chains looped around his wrists, bound but not tight.

Just enough to make the image convincing.

His head was bowed, shoulders squared, breath slow and measured.

The pain in his lip had dulled into a throb, but it kept him present.

As did the pain from his more serious wound, which had still not fully recovered.

He silently hoped it would not impair him too much.

Behind him, the hill crested where Caithness and Ewan waited silently, watching with their hidden forces.

The plan was already in motion. Tav had one job: play the role.

Make Armstrong believe it was surrender.

He could hear it all. The snort of a horse, distant but sharp.

The creak of leather. The shuffling footfalls of Armstrong’s approach.

He tried to slow his pulse, but his thoughts tangled.

His mind spun through all the worst possibilities.

She was somewhere in there, locked away.

Cold, maybe hurt. Maybe worse. The last time he’d seen her, she’d looked at him like he’d broken something in her.

He’d meant to protect her, to shield her from his past. But in doing so, he’d made her feel alone.

Again. He carried that guilt like a second chain.

“Look up.”

Tav raised his head. A soldier stood over him. It was one of Armstrong’s men. Rough leather, weathered face, a long scar curling from temple to jaw. He didn’t look pleased to see Tav, but he didn’t look surprised either. Just… detached.

Behind him, the small envoy had begun to assemble. Flags snapping in the breeze, dull colors of Armstrong’s line dragging low in the damp air.

Armstrong.

He looked the same. Maybe a little greyer at the temples, but everything else was just as Tav remembered. Sharp, like a blade that had never known rest. His bearing was proud, his eyes sharp with disdain.

Laird Armstrong dismounted slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

His boots hit the earth with a thud, stirring dust into the air as if the land itself was bracing for blood.

Each motion was precise, performed with the arrogance of a man who believed the world was still watching him with reverence.

He brushed invisible specks of dust from his sleeves, flicking them off like lesser men. Then he strode forward with a theatrical calm, his heavy cloak trailing behind like a shadow with its own agenda. Armstrong walked as if this was a play staged in his honor.

"So," he drawled, his voice all gravel and disdain. "The bastard finally comes home."

Tav didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He knelt, mud caking his knees, but his stare didn’t waver. He’d spent his whole life believing another man was his father. And it had turned out just fine, because he had been the best father he could have ever hoped for, until the day he had died.

And now here he was. In front of the man who’d shaped his blood.

And all he felt was disgust. Not recognition or fear, but just a deep, marrow-level revulsion at the truth.

That that was where he came from. That rot like that lived in him too.

But ultimately, in his heart, he knew who his real father was, the one who had raised him, cared for him and taught him to be the man he was.

This man’s words would not sway him, they would not make a difference.

Armstrong crouched beside him, moving with the casual menace of a viper uncoiling. Close enough now that Tav could smell the wine on his breath, sharp and acidic. His face was lined, cruel, and too calm.

"Dae ye even ken why ye’re here?" Armstrong asked, his tone mocking, amused.

Tav’s jaw tensed. "I ken exactly why."

A thin, mocking smile curled across the man’s mouth. "Good. Then ye ken it ends with yer blood in the dirt."

Tav met his eyes, cold as a storm tide. "Then dae it. But let her go."

That smile faded. "Her?"

"Agnes," Tav said, voice low and sharp, like steel dragged across whetstone. "The lass ye took. Where is she?"

Armstrong gave a short, amused breath. “She’s here.”

He turned and barked something to the guard behind him. Moments later, boots scraped over dirt, and Tav’s breath hitched despite himself.

They brought her out like a prisoner of war. Wrists bound, hair tangled, a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. She looked thinner, pale with fury, but unbroken. Her eyes found Tav’s instantly, and something in him cracked.

“Let her go,” Tav said again, rising to his feet, mud sliding off his knees. His voice trembled with fury now, no less sharp. “Ye’ve got me. That’s what ye wanted.”

Armstrong’s gaze flicked between them, amused again. “Nae while ye’re still breathin’.” He stepped toward Tav. “See, I want ye tae feel it. I want ye tae watch her suffer—because o’ ye . The same way I watched me bloodline rot the moment ye were born intae it.”

Agnes struggled against her guard, but he held fast.

“Tav!” she cried.

Tav lunged forward, but two soldiers yanked him back, forcing him to his knees again. Armstrong leaned in, voice low.

“This is what happens tae bastards who think they deserve anything more than dirt.”

Tav’s hands curled into fists within the chains. "We had a deal."

"I dinnae deal with bastards," Armstrong spat. His voice rang out across the courtyard, bold enough for every man nearby to hear.

But something shifted. Behind him, one of his soldiers moved, just slightly, with a twitch of unease. Tav saw it. Another man looked away. The rest still clutched weapons, but their eyes weren’t as sure. Doubt was seeping in, like cracks forming under the weight of the lie.

"If ye dinnae let her go," Tav said, his tone calm and cutting, "then what happens next willnae be a siege. It’ll be a reckoning."

Armstrong scoffed and turned away, but it was a show now, not confidence. He flicked his fingers as if to dismiss a stray dog. "Big words fer a kneelin’ man."

Tav’s eyes flicked to the ridgeline.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But it was enough. The signal had been sent. Armstrong didn’t notice.

He turned to his men. "Take him. Lock him below. I’ll deal with him after."

Two guards stepped forward. Tav let them grab him, let them believe.

As they hauled him toward the keep, boots sinking into the wet soil, Tav whispered a prayer, not for himself, but for the army hidden in the hills, for the strike waiting in the shadows.

And for her. Always for her. The air changed.

Birds lifted in a rush from the trees. Even the fog seemed to still.

Tension snapped taut. From across the yard, he saw Agnes twist in the grip of her captor, eyes wild, wrists raw from the rope.

She didn’t look afraid. She looked ready to fight.

Then—

An arrow split the quiet. It buried itself in the throat of the guard beside Tav. The man collapsed, blood spurting, lifeless before he hit the ground.

Chaos.

From the hills, the cry of battle erupted. Caithness’s men poured over the ridge like a storm. Kerr’s followed from the eastern tree line. Soldiers thundered forward, their cries fierce and wild.

Tav yanked the chain free and dove, snatching up a fallen sword. The second guard lunged. Tav twisted, parried, drove the blade through his gut. The man let out a choked gasp, crumpling to the mud.

All around him, war bloomed.

The clang of steel roared to life, shattering the eerie calm like glass underfoot.

Tav turned as more soldiers surged down, shouting and brandishing weapons.

He didn’t wait. There was no time for strategy, no space for hesitation.

Blood was already in the air—thick, metallic, and cloying—mixing with the fog and the smoke that coiled like ghosts around the battlefield.

His boots slipped in the muck as he lunged forward, catching the first man across the jaw with the hilt of his sword.

The crack of bone vibrated through his arm.

Another soldier came fast, a short blade raised.

Tav ducked the swing and drove his shoulder hard into the man's gut, sending them both sprawling into the churned-up mud. They wrestled viciously, grunting, snarling, mud splattering up their faces and chests. Tav twisted his body, rolled on top, and with a grunt of effort, shoved the tip of his sword up under the man’s ribs.

He felt the resistance of flesh and bone—then the yielding.

The soldier gave a short, sharp gasp and went limp.

Tav shoved him off and stood, chest heaving.

The mud soaked through to his bones. Blood painted his arms. His knuckles were raw.

He scanned the battlefield. Caithness’s men had broken through the outer ranks.

Armstrong’s soldiers were splintering, falling back toward the stone courtyard.

Bodies littered the field. Shouts echoed.

Arrows hissed overhead. Horses screamed.

The fog, once thick and quiet, was now ripped apart by fire and iron.

But Tav didn’t care about the battle. Not really. Only Agnes mattered. He didn’t care who fell or who triumphed. He had to reach her. Had to get to her first , before any blade, any hand, any shadow found her again.

He stalked across the battlefield like a man possessed, breath loud in his ears, heart pounding with a rhythm not quite his own.

He shoved through knots of soldiers, ducked under swinging blades, dodged the slash of an axe that barely missed his jaw.

His sword felt like an extension of his body now, one that knew that the only direction was forward.