Chapter 5 5

The following morning dawned gray and heavy, the sky blanketed with thick clouds that promised rain. Isolde woke to the sound of the wind battering against her window, the chill seeping through the stone walls of the castle. Sleep had not come easily, her dreams plagued by visions of the Campbell scout and the glint of her dagger as it found its mark.

Maeve entered her chamber, carrying a tray of bread, cheese, and a steaming cup of tea. Her usual cheer was tempered by a hint of concern as she set the tray on the table near the fire.

"You've been quiet since you returned," Maeve said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Is something troubling you?"

"I don't know how to reconcile what happened yesterday," Isolde admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I acted without thinking, and now I can't stop wondering what it says about me."

Maeve's expression softened. "You did what you had to do, milady. In the Highlands, survival often demands more from us than we think we can give. You showed courage, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

Isolde nodded, though the weight in her chest remained. She sipped her tea in silence, letting the warmth soothe her frayed nerves.

Lachlan's summons came shortly after breakfast. One of his guards appeared at her door, his expression unreadable as he relayed the laird's request. Maeve helped Isolde prepare, and soon she found herself walking the familiar halls toward Lachlan's solar.

The room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth doing little to chase away the gloom. Lachlan stood by the window, his arms crossed as he gazed out at the stormy landscape. When she entered, he turned, his expression as guarded as ever.

"Thank you for coming," he said, motioning for her to sit.

Isolde took the offered chair, her heart pounding. "You wished to speak with me?"

"I did," he replied, taking the seat opposite her. "The events of yesterday have raised questions-not about you, but about the state of our borders. The Campbells' movements are growing bolder, and I need someone I can trust to help me understand their motivations."

"I don't see how I can be of help," she said, her brows knitting in confusion.

"You've shown a clear mind under pressure," he said, his tone measured. "And you're an outsider. Your perspective is different from mine, unclouded by the history that binds our clans. Perhaps you'll see something I've missed."

The request caught her off guard. She had expected more training or another task to prove her worth, not an invitation to assist with something so vital.

"I'll do my best," she said at last, meeting his gaze. "What do you need from me?"

Lachlan leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "The scout you captured yesterday-he remains defiant, refusing to answer our questions. I need you to speak with him."

Her stomach twisted at the thought, but she nodded. "I'll try."

The dungeon was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of mildew. Torches lined the walls, casting flickering light over the rough stone. The Campbell scout sat chained to a wooden chair in the center of the room, his face pale but defiant.

When he saw her, his lips curled into a sneer. "So, they send the lady to do their dirty work now? How quaint."

Isolde ignored the remark, stepping closer until she stood just out of his reach. "What is your name?"

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. "Why does it matter?"

"Because I prefer not to speak to strangers," she said simply.

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "Fergus," he said at last. "Not that it'll make a difference to what happens next."

"Fergus, tell me this-why risk crossing into MacRae territory when you know the consequences? What could possibly be worth the danger?"

He laughed bitterly. "You think this is about territory? The Campbells don't want your barren hills or your crumbling castle. This is about justice."

"Justice for what?" she asked, her voice steady despite the unease coiling in her chest.

"For the blood spilled by your laird and his men," Fergus spat. "He's not as noble as he'd like you to believe."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Isolde felt the weight of his words pressing down on her, but she refused to let it show.

"Every clan has its reasons for war," she said carefully. "But endless bloodshed benefits no one. What will it take to end this?"

Fergus shook his head, his expression hardening. "There's no end to it, not until Lachlan MacRae pays for what he's done."

The conversation yielded little else, and Isolde left the dungeon feeling more conflicted than ever. Fergus's words echoed in her mind as she made her way back to Lachlan's solar, where she found him pacing by the fire.

"He won't talk," she said, her voice heavy with frustration. "At least, not in a way that helps us."

Lachlan paused, his expression darkening. "What did he say?"

"That this is about justice," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "He claims you've wronged his clan, though he didn't say how."

Lachlan's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't respond. "The Campbells see every skirmish as a personal slight, every death as a vendetta to be avenged. They've been our enemies for generations, and that won't change overnight."

"But is there truth to what he said?" she pressed. "Have you wronged them in some way?"

His gaze snapped to hers, and she saw a flicker of something-anger, perhaps, or regret. "I've done what was necessary to protect my people. Nothing more."

The conversation ended there, leaving Isolde with more questions than answers. That evening, she stood on the battlements, staring out at the storm that raged over the hills. The wind whipped her hair around her face, but she barely noticed.

Lachlan joined her after a time, his presence a quiet comfort. For a long while, neither of them spoke, the silence filled only by the howl of the wind.

"Do you believe him?" Lachlan asked at last, his voice low.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I believe he believes it. And that's enough to fuel the fire."

Lachlan nodded, his expression pensive. "You're right. Perception can be as dangerous as truth in matters of war."

The storm raged on through the night, and Isolde found herself wondering how much longer she could balance the weight of two worlds-her loyalty to Lachlan and the questions Fergus had planted in her mind. The path ahead was more uncertain than ever, but she knew one thing for certain: the storm within her was far from over.