Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 5 days earlier

Rain lashed against the narrow arrow slits of Castle Inveraray, carried sideways by the wind that screamed across the battlements. The storm was loud enough to drown footfalls, loud enough to mask the sound of fear.

Perfect.

If she was going to attempt this—if she was going to do something so reckless that her father would thrash her bloody if he found out—that storm was the only blessing she was likely to get.

She moved quietly through the keep’s lower corridors, her hood drawn low, her skirts gathered so they wouldn’t whisper along the stone floor. The walls were cold, slick with damp. Torches flickered weakly in front of iron cages, their flames thin and trembling in the drafts. Few people passed that way unless ordered; fewer still lingered.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Each beat felt like a drum calling out her treason.

If faither learns I’m here…

But she thought of Alyson—pale, exhausted, barely more than a frightened girl thrust into a war she had nothing to do with—and her steps only quickened.

Isabeau had seen mistreated prisoners before. Her father made certain his daughter witnessed the consequences of disobedience and felt them on her own skin. But there had been something different in the way Alyson MacDonald had looked at her that first time—something that had burrowed into Isabeau’s ribs and refused to let go.

Not defiance, not hatred, but a quiet, shaking plea.

Two guards stood at the end of the dungeon corridor. They sat slumped on wooden stools, playing at dice on an upturned crate, arguing drunkenly over whose roll was rigged. They hardly looked her way when she approached, a tray of slop in her hands.

“Evenin’, me lady,” one drawled. “Yer faither sendin’ scraps fer the prisoner again, eh?”

Isabeau smiled politely, the practiced gesture she had perfected over years of pretending not to be afraid. “Aye. He wants her alive tae fetch better bargains.”

That made the guards laugh. “That daes work. How come ye didnae send a maid?”

Assuming a conspiratorial tone, Isabeau leaned closer to the two men, whispering. “If I’m tae be honest, I wanted tae see the prisoner. Och, I’m curious an’ I wanted tae see her.”

One of the guards chuckled, nodding along. “Och aye, we’re all a wee curious, me lady. Go on, then. Take a look.”

They speak o’ her as if she’s a wild animal on display.

They waved her past without further interest, and Isabeau pushed down her rage, her disgust towards the two men who viewed all this as little more than a game. Alyson’s cell lay in the far corner, half swallowed by shadow. Isabeau glanced over her shoulder—still the clatter of dice, still drunken laughter—then forced herself deeper into the gloom.

Alyson sat curled on the straw-strewn floor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked up at the sound of footsteps, her eyes wide and hollowed by fear.

“Isabeau.” It was barely a whisper.

Isabeau knelt, setting the basket quietly beside her. “I’ve come tae see ye and tae offer somethin’ better than scraps.” She pulled aside the cloth lining the basket to reveal a small waterskin, a handful of hard cheese pilfered from the kitchens, some coin, and under them—hidden as well as she could manage—a crude sketch of the land near the castle.

Alyson blinked rapidly, her gaze snapping up in disbelief. “What is this? What are ye daein’?”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau said. “This should get ye back home.”

“Isabeau—”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau insisted, and the firm look she gave Alyson was enough to convince her. She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin, firm line, her eyes wide with as much fear as hope.

Alyson squeezed her hand through the bars, small and fragile but fiercely grateful. “Thank ye…”

For a moment they were silent, listening to the storm batter the castle around them. Two women—one a prisoner, the other a caged daughter—raw in their shared fear.

Then footsteps echoed from the stairway.

I took too long.

She looked over her shoulder at the darkness that stretched behind her, nothing but a singular, flickering torch lighting up the passage.

“A guard,” Alyson whispered, panic rising.

But that was no guard; Isabeau knew those footsteps well, the thudding of them over the stone.

Isabeau snapped the cloth back over the map, shoved the basket toward Alyson. “Hide it, quickly!”

But there was no time.

A tall figure strode into view, hovering over her like a looming shadow, like death itself. Isabeau’s breath stopped, and she rose too fast, nearly stumbling, falling right into her father.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “What are ye daeing down here, Isabeau?”

Rain dripped from his cloak, the storm raging outside seeming mild compared to the fury she saw gathering in his face.

“I… I only—”

Alyson scurried back into the shadows, trying to hide the basket, but the movement caught her eye. With a nod, he called over the guards, who hurried to open the door for him, and Isabeau’s blood ran cold in her veins. With two long strides, he reached Alyson and kicked the basket aside, the cloth falling away.

The map lay bare.

Her father turned slowly toward Isabeau, and the cold in his eyes froze the marrow in her bones.

“What is this?” he asked, though Isabeau knew he already had the answer. He gave her no chance to respond before he spoke again. “Ye dare,” he growled, “tae meddle in me affairs? Ye dare betray yer own clan?”

“I wasnae—” But her voice fractured under the weight of his fury.

He seized her arm, fingers digging so hard into her flesh that she cried out. “Ye’ve always been a foolish, defiant girl,” he spat. “But this…”

Alyson flinched at the venom in his tone.

“ … this will not happen again.”

He dragged Isabeau toward the stair, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick stones. Alyson cried out, begging him to let Isabeau go, but her voice was swallowed by the clang of the dungeon door slamming shut.

The storm howled as her father hauled her back into the keep, his grip bruising, his rage merciless. Isabeau’s old wounds ached with the memory of pain, with the knowledge of what was to come. But her mind drifted back to Alyson, to that dark, damp cell.

To the fate that awaited her.

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