Chapter 3 3

The crisp Highland air stung Isolde's cheeks as she stepped into the courtyard. Activity bustled all around her-clan members carrying wood for the fires, tending to livestock, and sharpening weapons. There was a rhythm to their work, a unity born from shared purpose and survival. She watched in silence for a moment, trying to find her place in this world so unlike her own.

Maeve appeared at her side, her expression bright. "The laird suggested I show you around, milady. It'll do you good to see how we live."

Isolde nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Lead the way."

Maeve guided her through the grounds, pointing out the different areas of the castle and the surrounding village. The people they passed regarded Isolde with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Some offered polite nods; others avoided her gaze entirely.

The smithy was their first stop, the clang of hammer on metal ringing out in steady rhythm. A burly blacksmith looked up from his work, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Milady," he greeted, his tone gruff but not unkind. "You'll find the Highland steel here is unmatched."

Isolde offered a small smile. "I've no doubt. Your skill is evident."

He grunted, returning to his work, and Maeve led her onward. They visited the granary, the stables, and the small chapel tucked against the castle's outer wall. Each place revealed more of the clan's resilience and resourcefulness.

In the village, children darted between the cottages, their laughter echoing through the air. Women worked together to weave cloth or tend to the communal gardens. Isolde felt a pang of longing for the structured yet familiar life she had left behind. Here, everything felt raw and unrefined, driven by necessity rather than comfort.

A sudden commotion near the training grounds drew their attention. Men gathered in a loose circle, cheering and shouting encouragement. Lachlan's tall frame was unmistakable in the center, locked in combat with another man.

Isolde stopped, her curiosity piqued. The two warriors moved with calculated precision, their swords clashing in a flurry of strikes and parries. Lachlan's opponent was skilled, but it was clear who held the advantage. Lachlan's movements were fluid, each strike delivered with deadly intent.

The fight ended abruptly when Lachlan disarmed the other man with a swift twist of his blade. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Lachlan stepped back, extending a hand to help his opponent to his feet.

He caught sight of Isolde then, his gaze sharp and assessing. "Enjoying the tour?" he called out, his voice carrying over the noise.

"I am," she replied, stepping closer. "Your people are... impressive."

A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. "The MacRae are warriors first and foremost. Strength is our shield against the world."

One of the younger men in the group spoke up, his tone teasing. "Does milady know how to fight? Or is she more accustomed to embroidery and poetry?"

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Isolde felt heat rise to her cheeks. She refused to be cowed, however, and raised her chin. "I may not wield a sword, but I've fought my share of battles. Not all wars are fought on the battlefield."

The man grinned, though his expression softened. "Fair enough, milady. But perhaps you'd like to learn? A lady of the Highlands should know how to defend herself."

The challenge hung in the air, and Isolde considered her options. Accepting would mean stepping further into this unfamiliar world, but refusing might reinforce the perception that she didn't belong.

Lachlan's voice cut through the tension. "If she's willing, she'll learn from me. No MacRae will teach her half-measures."

The group murmured in approval, and Isolde met Lachlan's gaze. There was no mockery in his expression, only a quiet determination.

"I accept," she said firmly, her pulse quickening. "If I am to live among you, I should learn your ways."

The crowd dispersed, though a few lingered to watch. Lachlan retrieved a wooden practice sword and handed it to her. The weight surprised her, heavier than she had expected.

"Let's see your stance," Lachlan said, his tone matter-of-fact.

She held the sword awkwardly, trying to mimic what she had seen earlier. He stepped closer, adjusting her grip and repositioning her feet. His hands were rough but steady, his movements efficient.

"You'll need balance," he instructed. "Without it, you'll fall before your opponent even strikes."

The first exercise was simple enough: holding the sword steady while shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Despite the ease of the movement, her arms quickly began to ache.

"Again," Lachlan said when she faltered, his voice calm but insistent.

Determined not to show weakness, she pushed through the discomfort. The next drill involved blocking strikes. Lachlan demonstrated, his movements precise, before stepping back to let her try.

The first swing caught her off guard, and she barely raised the sword in time to deflect it. The impact reverberated through her arms, and she stumbled.

"Focus," Lachlan said, his gaze intent. "Don't just react. Anticipate."

The second attempt was better, and by the third, she managed to hold her ground. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she refused to give up. The onlookers murmured their approval, and Lachlan nodded.

"You've potential," he said, lowering his practice sword. "But it'll take time and effort."

"I'm willing to learn," she replied, her breath coming in short gasps.

A rare smile touched his lips, brief but genuine. "Good. You'll need it."

Later, in the quiet of her chamber, Isolde reflected on the day. Her body ached from the unfamiliar exertion, but there was a sense of accomplishment in the fatigue. She had taken the first step toward earning the respect of the MacRae clan, and while the road ahead would be long, she felt more determined than ever.

Lachlan remained a mystery, his emotions tightly guarded, but she sensed a shift in their dynamic. He had given her a chance, and she intended to prove she was worthy of it.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and she let its warmth soothe her tired muscles. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the wild, untamed spirit of the Highlands. She was beginning to understand why Lachlan and his people fought so fiercely for this land. It was harsh and unyielding, yet it held a beauty that could not be denied.

Sleep came slowly, her thoughts lingering on the battles yet to come-not with swords, but with trust, loyalty, and the fragile hope that she might carve out a place for herself in this rugged world.