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The fire crackled behind the grate, throwing restless shadows across the stone floor of her father's study. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air—not only from the fireplace, but from her father’s clay pipe that was perpetually lit in his hand—but it was the silence between them that bit colder than the draft seeping into the room from under the door.

Valora MacNeacail stood tall before her father’s desk, chin lifted, fists clenched at her sides. Across from her, Laird William MacNeacail watched her with the flinty patience of a man who’ had long since stopped seeing his daughter as anything but a political tool.

“Ye’ll attend,” he said, voice measured, like he was discussing grain shipments or the winter feasts. “An’ ye’ll dae so with a smile.”

“Nay,” Valora answered, steady but quiet. “I willnae.”

There was no question in her mind that her father’s plan would only bring her immeasurable pain. Even though women like her, who were born in noble families, rarely married for love, what her father proposed was far from the ordinary.

“This is what everyone daes,” her father said with a shrug. “How else will ye find a husband?”

“Balls are fer courtships tae begin,” Valora pointed out. “What ye’re suggesting’ daesnae sound like that tae me.”

“Because ye’ll have tae secure an alliance that very same night?”

There was a mocking tone to her father’s voice; a scoff.

It was the same tone he used every time he wanted to paint her as unreasonable.

It was the same tone he assumed whenever he wanted to make her doubt herself, and even now, even though she knew precisely what he was doing, it still worked to unnerve her.

Is this normal? Is this how findin’ a husband works?

No, it couldn’t be. Valora was no fool, nor was she that clueless about such matters. Her father was simply trying to make her think so, but this time, she wouldn’t fall for it.

“Aye,” she said. “I wish tae be courted, at the very least. So, I willnae go.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Dae ye fancy ye have a choice?”

Anger swelled inside her, flooding her chest with a familiar ache.

Not for the first time, Valora wished that she was the daughter of a different man—commoner or noble, it didn’t matter.

She only wished that she could have known the love of a father instead of having to face such coldness and cruelty.

But the man before her was her father, and nothing could change that.

She was the one who had to take care of herself.

“I fancy I have a spine,” she said, stepping forward, her soles firm against the stone floor. “I willnae parade meself afore a hall o’ strangers like some prize mare at market. Nae fer ye an’ nae fer anyone.”

“This isnae about pride,” her father snapped. “It’s about survival. The MacNeacail name is fading in strength while our neighbors grow teeth. The Frasers build ships. The MacDonalds arm their sons. And the Gunns,” he scoffed. “They’ve begun courtin’ alliances further south.”

Valora’s jaw tensed. “So ye will simply hand me over tae the man who gives ye the most power?”

“I’ll wed ye where it makes sense,” he said flatly. “Tae a man who can give this clan protection. Or lands. Or peace. If that offends yer sensibilities, best leave them behind with the embroidery ye never finished.”

Valora flinched. Not at the insult, which was mild by his standards, but at the truth beneath it. Her freedom was always conditional. Her will, unimportant next to his. And now, it seemed, her future would be bartered as though it had never been her own.

Valora turned her back to him, looking out the narrow window slit toward the gray horizon where sea met sky. The Isle of Skye was wind-lashed and wild, but it had always been hers.

“I willnae go,” she said again, lower this time.

Behind her, she heard the creak of his chair as he rose, then the footsteps that followed as he approached. He never got close, though. Her father always kept his distance, whether he was being reasonable or threatening.

“Nay?” His voice was quieter now, and more dangerous for it. “Then perhaps Althea will.”

Valora froze.

Of course, that would be the one thing her father would rely on.

Of course, he would resort to this when none of his other tricks or persuasion tactics worked, as he knew that Valora would do anything to protect her sister.

She was too young, too innocent. She was too pure for a deal like this, and Valora feared she wouldn’t be able to handle the weight of it all, the grief that would come with being traded off for power to a man who could very well be cruel to her, too.

He continued, circling toward her, expression calm as if discussing the weather. “She’s younger, but that makes her more… yieldin’. Softer-spoken. She’s nae likely tae argue with every order given tae her by her dear husband, unlike ye.”

“Ye wouldnae dare,” said Valora, but it was weak. She believed he would; she knew he would.

“I would. An’ ye ken it.”

Valora turned, eyes blazing as she pinned her father with her gaze.

“She’s barely nineteen years o’ age!”

“An’ that’s precisely the age when most noble daughters marry. She’ll go tae the ball in yer stead. An’ she’ll smile. She’ll charm them. An’ one o’ them will wed her, I’ll make sure o’ it.”

Valora’s breath was caught in her throat, in that knot that formed there rapidly, making it impossible to talk, to swallow, to draw in any air. The world seemed to narrow down to a point, panic gripping her at the thought that Althea would be the one to endure this.

“She’s nae ready,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Ye cannae dae this tae her.”

“She will be, if ye arenae.”

Silence stretched between them, long and cold and suffocating. He turned from her, already pouring a fresh cup of wine from the pitcher on his desk, dismissing her as easily as he would a gnat.

“I’ll give ye until morning,” he said. “Tae decide which o’ ye will dae her duty.”

Valora’s voice cracked through the air. “She’s nae yers tae trade.”

Her father looked up slowly, bringing the cup to his lips. He took a sip, then another, leaving Valora suspended in the silence between them.

“Och aye, she is,” he said. “An’ so are ye, fer that matter.”

When she left the room moments later, she didn’t slam the door.

She walked calmly, her face a mask, even as her stomach twisted in knots.

That night, she sat on the edge of her sister’s bed, watching Althea sleep by candlelight, the soft rise and fall of her breath the only thing anchoring Valora to reason.

He would do it. She knew her father too well to doubt it. So, when morning came, Valora stood outside his study with her head held high and her answer ready.

“I’ll go,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ll attend the ball. But only if ye promise tae leave Althea in peace fer at least two more years.”

He smiled over his goblet. “Good lass. That is the right thing tae dae, an’ ye ken it. Just make sure ye impress someone at that ball or there will be more balls fer Althea tae attend.”

Valora gritted her teeth to keep herself from responding. She would have to do as her father said or she would risk Althea’s happiness, her safety. That was something she could not allow.

She would attend the ball. She would smile, if she could find it within her. But she wasn’t going to do it for him.

She was doing it for the only soul in that castle who had ever loved her without condition. She would wear the gown. She would bow and exchange pleasantries. She would step into the fire if she had to, because no one would take Althea in her place.

Not while Valora still had breath to fight.