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Agnes looked at Tav. Really looked at him. He didn’t look proud, he looked pained. As if the weight of the name itself hurt.

Then Tav said, softer, "But I’ll give it up. All o' it. I dinnae care about bein’ a laird. I dinnae care about the name. I just want ye."

Her heart squeezed at his words. He was so humble. So good . The very reason he didn’t want to be laird was exactly why he deserved to be.

Her father stepped in, clearing his throat. "That may nae be an option."

Tav turned. "What?"

Kerr’s face was serious. "If ye want tae marry me daughter, ye’ll need tae be a laird. The clans need a leader. I’m a laird meself, and I could barely keep her safe."

Silence fell again. Agnes stared at him, wide-eyed.

Tav didn’t blink. Didn’t falter. He nodded once. "Then I’ll dae it. I’ll take the name. The land. The weight. Whatever it costs."

And she knew. Whatever lay ahead, he would carry it for her. And she would never let him carry it alone.

The wind coming off the Caithness hills was softer that day.

Clean and brisk, but not sharp. Tav sat tall in the saddle, the early summer sun warming his shoulders as he looked down at the quiet sprawl of tents below.

The camp was still busy with the final sweep.

Soldiers were moving gear, laughing, calling to one another like men who knew they’d won and were finally allowed to breathe again after the rule of a tyrant.

Agnes rode beside him.

Her hair was tucked beneath her hood, her cheeks still pink from the cool air, and her smile, small but real, was all he could look at for a moment. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to seeing her like that. Free. Herself again. But every time he did, the knot in his chest eased a little more.

“Ye’ve been starin’ fer a full minute,” she teased, nudging her horse gently toward his. “Ye alright, me laird?”

He groaned. “Dinnae start with that.”

“Oh, but it suits ye.”

He laughed—properly, deeply—for the first time in what felt like weeks. “I’ll never get used tae that.”

“Ye will,” she said, her hand brushing his. “And ye’ll be good at it. Because ye never wanted it.”

They let him enter the camp without hesitation. No swords drawn. No questions asked. Just a quiet ripple of recognition as he and Agnes passed through the edge of the camp. Soldiers straightened, some bowed their heads. Others touched fingers to brows in silent salute.

Tav walked beside her, not ahead. The ground beneath them was the same dirt they’d bled on, but it felt different now.

The fires had long burned out, the wounded had been tended, the dead honored and buried.

The tents stood neater now. The air held something lighter. Like peace beginning to take shape.

They moved through the path between tents, men and women stepping aside, not out of fear, but respect. His people now.

And Agnes, at his side, unflinching, was every bit their match.

Lady Armstrong waited for him in one of the tents.

She looked different than he’d imagined.

She sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, a swaddled bundle in her arms. Her hair had gone pale at the temples.

Her mouth was a stern line. But her eyes were the same as those stories: blue, sharp, distant.

“Me lady,” Tav said, bowing slightly.

“Tav,” she returned, voice level.

“I heard about the child,” he said. His voice came out softer than he meant it to.

She nodded and lifted the bundle slightly, adjusting the blanket to reveal the baby’s face.

“A girl,” she said.

The child was tiny. Dark-haired. Her mouth moved in soft sleep-suckling motions. Her skin was pale and perfect.

A girl. Tav exhaled, the breath leaving him slower than he expected.

It was over. The line, the blood-soaked legacy of Laird Armstrong, continued with him—an unwanted bastard.

And strangely, the knowledge didn’t sting.

Not the way he thought it might. It felt more like the slow settling of dust after a storm.

The final breath of a ghost that had haunted him all his life.

“They say I’m tae be the heir,” he said after a moment.

He glanced down at the sleeping baby wrapped in linen, her chest rising and falling with soft, steady breaths. “But… what about her?”

Lady Armstrong’s mouth pressed into a line. “She’s a girl,” she said, not unkindly. “The clan willnae follow her. Nae yet time fer women tae rule. Maybe one day. But fer now, they need a man tae lead them. Ye can give them that.”

Tav nodded slowly, eyes still on the infant. “Aye,” he said again. “I can.”

Agnes stepped forward and, after silently asking, gently lifted the child into her arms. She cradled her for a moment, then bounced her lightly, smiling as the babe stirred. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered, then looked up. “What’s her name?”

Lady Armstrong hesitated for a beat. Then, “Isolde.”

Agnes smiled, the name soft on her lips as she repeated it. “Isolde.” She tucked a stray lock of hair from the baby’s brow. “Hello, wee one.”

Tav watched them, Agnes holding the child like she was born to it, with ease and affection and quiet joy, and something tugged deep in his chest. He saw it then, clearer than anything. She’d be a wonderful mother. Fierce, gentle and full of love.

He turned back to Lady Armstrong. “What will happen tae the two o’ ye?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I dinnae ken. I might marry again, I suppose. I’m still young. And a widow makes some men bold.”

Tav gave a slow nod. “If ye ever wish it… if ye plan tae remarry, I can take her in. Raise her at Armstrong Castle. As one of mine.”

Lady Armstrong blinked at him, brows lifting slightly, surprised. But then her gaze slid to Agnes, who was now sitting with Isolde in her arms, cooing softly. The baby let out a gurgled laugh.

Lady Armstrong stared for a long moment. Then she turned back to Tav. “Will she be yer wife?”

Tav didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” he said, quiet and sure.

Agnes looked up, her cheeks pink but her eyes steady. “I’d be more than happy tae care fer yer daughter,” she said. “Truly.”

Something in Lady Armstrong softened. Her shoulders lowered, a sigh escaping her lips like something unspoken had been carried too long. “Then… aye,” she said at last. “Let her grow up where she’ll be safe. Where she’ll be loved.”

Agnes smiled down at the babe in her arms. “She already is.”

After speaking with Lady Armstrong, Tav and Agnes stepped out into the crisp afternoon light. The camp stretched wide before them, tents flapping in the breeze, the last embers of the fire still curling toward the sky. Word had already spread.

As they walked between the rows of tents, the soldiers rose to their feet, one by one, until the whole line stood. Then came the chant, low but certain.

“Laird Armstrong, at yer service.”

Tav blinked, stunned by the sound of it. Dozens of voices, rough and loyal, speaking his name not with fear, but with trust. With hope.

He felt Agnes slip her hand into his. She gave it a squeeze and lifted her chin with pride.

Later, they found a quiet hill beyond the edge of the camp, overlooking the glen. Just the two of them. The wind tugged at Agnes’ hair as she leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Is it mad,” she said softly, “but I can see it now, the future. A real one. Nay war. Nay blood. Just... gardens. Babies. Morning bread and midwinter feasts.”

Tav smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “That sounds like heaven.”

She turned to look at him. “We’ll build it together, aye?”

“Aye,” he said, eyes shining. “Day by day. I’ll never let it fall.”

And in that moment, surrounded by light and wind and the quiet promise of peace, they knew. They had made it home.