One month earlier, Constantine’s mercenary hut

The blade whistled past Constantine’s ear, close enough to feel the wind of its passing. He rolled sideways and came up in a crouch with his own sword already in hand, dark eyes scanning the treeline around his stone hut for the source of the attack.

Three men emerged from the shadows between the pines, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

These are MacLean colors…

Constantine’s jaw tightened as he recognized the tartan. He had never worn it himself, never been given the right, but he had studied it well enough over his thirty-two years of life. When he was old enough to wield a blade, he had made it his business to learn every thread of the clan that had cast him and his mother aside. The MacLean pattern was burned into his memory, a constant reminder of the laird who had made him a bastard and turned them out into the wilderness.

“Constantine MacLean,” the leader called, his voice carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “By order of Laird Niall MacLean, ye’re tae come with us tae Duart Castle.”

Constantine’s smile was cold. “Am I, now?”

The leader’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Aye. And ye’ll come willing, or we’ll drag ye there in chains.”

“Bold words,” Constantine observed, his voice carrying the deadly calm that had made him legendary among mercenaries across the country. “Let’s see if ye can make them true.”

They rushed him then, three trained warriors moving in practiced coordination. It should have been enough to overwhelm any single opponent. Should have been. But not for Constantine. He moved and an air of menace wrapped around him as his blade sung, parrying the first strike, countering with precision.

The leftmost attacker dropped with a cry, clutching a wounded shoulder. The leader pressed forward, trying to use his reach advantage, but Constantine was already inside his guard, elbow driving up into the man’s ribs with bone-crushing force.

The third man hesitated, seeing his companions fall, and that moment of doubt cost him everything. Constantine’s pommel strike caught him behind the ear, dropping him unconscious to the forest floor.

Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the groaning of the wounded and the steady drip of blood on fallen leaves. Constantine walked and stood over the leader, who was struggling to breathe through what were likely cracked ribs.

He placed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat. “Now then,” Constantine said, “let’s discuss this summons properly.”

The leader’s eyes blazed with pain and fury, but he managed to speak. “Yer faither… needs ye.”

“What fer?” Constantine’s voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout.

“The clan needs ye.”

Constantine studied the man’s face, reading the desperation beneath the bravado. Whatever had driven Niall to seek out his abandoned son, it wasn’t sentiment or belated paternal feeling. It could only be born out of necessity.

“Interesting,” Constantine murmured, removing his sword from the man’s throat. “And what daes the great Laird MacLean offer in exchange fer me… cooperation?”

“Everything,” the leader wheezed. “The clan, the lands, the title. All of it, if ye’ll come.”

He’s offering power.

Real, tangible power, not just the temporary authority that came from being the best swordsman in any given conflict.

Constantine had spent his years building his reputation with steel and blood, earning coin and respect through violence and skill. But this was something different. Something that could outlast his sword arm and his willingness to risk death for gold.

“Bind yer wounds,” Constantine commanded, stepping back. “We ride fer Duart within the hour.”

The leader struggled to sit up, confusion written across his battered features. “Ye’ll come?”

“I’ll hear what he has tae say,” Constantine corrected. “Whether I stay depends on what he’s truly offering.”

The ride to Duart Castle took two days, and Constantine used every mile to gather information from his reluctant escorts. The story that emerged was one of pride brought low by circumstance and mortality.

Niall’s legitimate heir, Fergus, had died in a battle. His daughter Lilias was intelligent and capable but far too young to rule a Highland clan in those turbulent times. With no male heirs and enemies pressing at the borders, Niall faced the collapse of everything he’d built.

Hence the summons to the bastard son he’d pretended didn’t exist for three decades.

Now he’ll taste the bitter draught he once poured fer me…

Constantine rode with his own men flanking him. Theo at his right hand as always, solid and dependable as stone, while Finlay ghosted through the forest with a half-dozen handpicked mercenaries. If this was a trap, Niall would learn that his bastard son hadn’t survived this long by trusting easily.

Duart Castle rose from the Highland mist like something from a fever dream, its ancient stones weathered by centuries of wind and warfare. Constantine had never seen it before, but something in his blood recognized the place his mother had been cast out from.

The great gates stood open and they rode into the courtyard, where servants and warriors gathered to stare. He dismounted with fluid grace, ignoring the whispers and pointed looks.

Let them stare.

He’d faced worse than curious eyes and survived.

“Ye must be Constantine.”

The voice came from the castle steps, where a young woman stood watching him with dark eyes full of curiosity. She was perhaps seventeen, with the kind of refined beauty that spoke of noble breeding and careful upbringing.

“Lilias, I presume,” Constantine said, inclining his head slightly.

Her smile was wary. “Aye. Faither’s waiting fer ye in his chambers.”

Constantine followed her through corridors that should have felt familiar but remained stubbornly foreign. This place had shaped his mother’s life and his own abandonment, but it held no emotional resonance for him. It was simply another stronghold, another seat of power to be evaluated and potentially claimed.

Niall MacLean was a shadow of whatever he’d once been. The man who sat propped up in the great chair beside his bed was gaunt and gray, his breathing labored and his eyes sunken.

“So,” Niall wheezed, studying Constantine with obvious assessment, “the bastard returns.”

“I never left,” Constantine replied coldly. “I was thrown out. There’s a difference.”

Niall’s laugh turned into a coughing fit that brought flecks of blood to his lips. “Aye, there is. But ye’re nae here fer me tae apologize, lad. Ye’re here because I have an offer tae offer tae make.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“The lairdship’s yers if ye want it. The clan, the lands, the authority tae command hundreds of warriors and rule over territory that stretches from sea tae mountain.” Niall’s eyes glittered with fever and determination. “All of it, if ye’re strong enough tae take it and hold it.”

Constantine remained silent, letting the offer hang in the air between them. Power was seductive, but it was also dangerous. Every throne had a price, and he suspected Niall’s would cost more than most.

“What are yer conditions?” he asked finally.

Niall smiled, the expression ghastly on his wasted features. “So ye are sharp, then. Very well. The clan elders willnae accept a bastard mercenary as their laird, nae matter what I decree. Ye need legitimacy beyond me word.”

“Marriage,” Constantine guessed.

“Tae a woman of noble blood. Someone whose bloodline is beyond question, whose alliance brings strength tae the clan.” Niall leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Dae that, and I’ll name ye me legitimate heir before the entire clan. Refuse and I’ll have tae force a marriage alliance tae ye.”

“I accept,” Constantine said simply. He would choose his own lass before ever letting Niall meddle in his affairs. If he was to rule, it would be on his own terms.

Niall sagged back in his chair, relief written across his features. “Good. I’ve already begun making inquiries among the neighboring clans. There are several suitable candidates—”

“Nay.” Constantine’s voice cut through the older man’s words like a blade. “I’ll choose me own bride. When I find her, ye’ll legitimize the match. Until then, I rule as yer heir apparent and ye’ll nae dae anythin’.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “Agreed. But ye have less than a season. I’ll nae live tae see another winter, and the clan needs stability.”

Constantine left Niall MacLean sitting alone in his chamber. He found Theo and Finlay waiting for him outside the chamber.

“Well?” Theo asked quietly as they descended the castle steps.

“We stay,” Constantine replied. “Fer now. But keep the men ready. If things get too complicated, we need men of our own.”

As they walked toward the quarters they’d been assigned, Constantine found his thoughts turning to the future. He was about to take on responsibilities that would change everything: a clan to lead, enemies to face, and eventually a wife to claim.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The bastard son who’d been cast out as worthless had returned to claim everything his father had built. But Constantine MacLean had learned long ago that life’s greatest victories often came disguised as impossible odds.

He just hoped he was ready for whatever came next.

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