Leah✰

In the year of our Lord 1688, your life was torn apart.

You had been sent away to England, leaving behind the quiet French countryside where you had spent your childhood. It was no surprise—your entire life had been a preparation for this, molded by lessons in English manners and language. You were born into an era of war between England and the United Provinces of the Netherlands, with your homeland standing beside its allies. Yet, in a fleeting moment of peace, destiny was sealed: a French princess was to wed an English prince.

Leaving France had been heartbreaking. Under the reign of Louis XIV, royalty had flourished like never before. You had visited the Great King many times with your family—at the Louvre or in the gardens of Versailles—dreaming of a life of splendor for yourself. And such splendor could never be found across the sea. 

Your family held enough power for you to be chosen as a token of peace between the realms. Jacques II, the cousin of your king, saw fit to unite the nations. His pro-French policies unsettled his people, making your arrival unwelcome. You had arrived with maids and knights, all there to serve you. This was seen as an insult, as if your family—and by extension, France—did not trust England to provide assistance and protection. 

Furthermore, you were a Catholic princess. Even with a Catholic king on the throne and the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience proclaimed just a year prior, you could still feel the deep-seated resentment of the Anglicans. Anti-Catholic sentiment ran high, and despite King James II’s efforts to promote religious tolerance, many viewed Catholicism as a threat to England’s Protestant identity. Your future husband was also Catholic, and your impending marriage was denounced as unholy by most Anglican clergy, further fueling the unrest. 

All of it had been a mess from the beginning. 

As your maids placed the last pin in your hair, you gazed into the mirror. You wore a simple white dress—nothing too extravagant, for fear of being accused of bringing French excess and debauchery to England. Had you been married in your homeland, you were certain your mother would have insisted on finding the finest tailors and the richest fabrics for your gown. It would have surely been crafted by the royal family's own tailors, and you would have had a true princess’s wedding. But England was different. The threat of war loomed once more, leaving little room—and little money—for luxury. 

Watching the lively city through the window of the carriage, anxiety gnawed at you. All your life, you had dreamed of your wedding day. In those dreams, your mother and sisters were by your side, their presence a constant comfort—one that was lost to you today. Instead of an English ceremony, you had envisioned marrying a French nobleman in the royal chapel, with your king himself blessing your union. But reality had rewritten your fate.

Quiet tears ran freely down your cheeks, your only comfort the necklace clasped around your neck—a token from your mother, a symbol of her love. You were the only one of her children to be sent away. All your sisters had married noblemen from your province, and your brothers served as knights for the King, never more than an hour’s ride from your family’s lands. But you, the youngest—though already older than most brides—had been saved for the Brits. Their kings had to be bound by blood to yours, and so, duty had torn you from home.

You were pulled from your thoughts by your knight, Ser John, as he silently handed you a handkerchief. He was another source of comfort. From the moment you were old enough to venture outside alone, he had been your personal knight—an unwavering presence throughout your childhood. Always near, never overbearing. A quiet protector. Learning he would accompany you on this journey had eased your nerves, if only slightly. In a world of uncertainty, you had longed for something familiar, and in this, God had answered.

Now, as you waited in front of the chapel, something felt off. Ser John stood by your side, the father figure entrusted with giving you away. At a glance, he appeared composed, but you knew where to look. His grip on the hilt of his sword was tight—too tight—betraying his unease. His sharp eyes swept over the room again and again, scanning for unseen threats. His posture was rigid, more so than usual, and a single bead of sweat traced its way down his temple.

If one looked closely, everything about the knight spoke of discomfort. He was tense, coiled like a hunting dog straining against the leash, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

September was a dull month for a wedding, yet here you were. Your hand rested inside your knight’s arm as he guided you down the aisle. It was a small ceremony in the royal chapel—you still deserved the finest location, just not the finest funding. As you glanced around, you noticed unease etched onto some of the guests' faces, mirroring your own anxiety. The tension in the air was palpable, unnatural. Guests were never meant to look this nervous—unless…

Stopping in front of your future husband, Ser John bowed respectfully before stepping aside to join the other knights. The king stood before you, prepared to bless the union before the priest began the ceremony.

As the king spoke, you stole a glance at your betrothed. He was… acceptable, you supposed. Not to your taste, but that hardly mattered—this marriage was a means to an end, not a matter of personal desire. His hair was cropped short, though his hairline was already receding despite his youth. His beard had been trimmed neatly, yet it still looked rough, as if he hadn't put much effort into grooming. His reputation preceded him—not unclean, but undeniably careless.

Your mind drifted back to the noblemen of France—all the gentlemen you had met throughout your life, each more handsome than the man you were now bound to. You could only hope that your future children would take after you and your family, rather than him.

Just as the king stepped aside, a commotion erupted outside the chapel doors. It was not unusual for crowds to gather during a royal wedding, but this sounded different. The distant hum of voices grew sharper—screams and insults echoing all the way to the altar, sending a chill down your spine.

This was no celebration. It was anger. Hatred.

A revolution.

Without warning, something warm and wet splashed across your face. Was the priest already blessing you? Confused, you turned—just in time to see a sword slicing through your groom. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze dropped to your dress, now speckled with red.

A chilling scream pierced the chapel, and only then did the horror truly sink in.

Traitors among the guests had turned on the true attendees, clashing violently as they fought to strike down the royal family. Chaos engulfed the chapel, swords clashing, bodies falling, and desperate cries echoing through the sacred halls.

Amid the turmoil, a man with fury burning in his eyes spotted you, frozen at the altar—too shocked to move. To him, you were not a bystander, nor a foreign princess. You were simply a Catholic woman, an enemy, a symbol of everything he despised. And to serve his cause, you were a sacrifice worth making.

Bolting straight toward you, dagger poised to strike, the attacker was met with Ser John—one of the finest swordsmen in the entire French kingdom. The heathen never stood a chance. The moment he lunged, your knight intercepted him with ruthless precision. Without hesitation, Ser John seized your hand and led you swiftly toward the back rooms of the chapel—the passage that granted access to the royal castle.

Escaping through the main doors was impossible. The chaos outside had already breached the chapel, and the royal guards lay lifeless on the ground, their duty fulfilled in death.

Scanning the room frantically, you searched for the king—but he was nowhere to be seen. Panic tightened around your chest as your gaze dropped to the lifeless bodies before you.

Your betrothed lay in a pool of his own blood, his once-sloppy appearance now eerily still, frozen in death. Not far from him, the priest had collapsed, his lips parted in an unfinished prayer, his glassy eyes staring at the heavens he had tried to reach in his final moments.

Your maids had been slaughtered as well, and when you turned your head to where they had once stood, you were met with a sight so vile it made your stomach churn. Men were upon them, defiling their lifeless bodies as if they were nothing more than common whores. The sacred walls of the chapel echoed with your screams—of agony, of terror, of suffering beyond words. The horror of it all burned itself into your mind, a nightmare you would carry for the rest of your days.

The air reeked of iron and incense, an unsettling blend of the sacred and the profane. The chapel, once a place of holy union, had become a slaughterhouse.

Blasphemy. Savages—the lot of them—desecrating the house of God.

You had heard tales of war, of the cruelty that consumed men when they felt threatened—but you had never imagined witnessing it with your own eyes.

Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, showing no sign of stopping, as you let your knight—your only chance of survival—lead you through the twisting corridors of the royal castle. He moved with purpose, unwavering, cutting down anyone who stood in his path. In this moment, everyone was a potential threat to your safety, and by extension, to him.

His only goal was to reach the stables, find a horse, and ride north—far from the fallen city, now in the hands of the enemy. Ser John had heard of clans in the distant north, ones who owed allegiance to neither king nor queen. They would help you return to France. And if they refused—he would find a way to make them.

The task at hand was far more difficult than expected—the savages had planned well. They had attacked the chapel and the castle simultaneously, using the fury of the masses to swell their numbers, making it easy to breach the palace doors. Now, they were everywhere. And in your white wedding gown, slipping by unnoticed was nearly impossible.

But Ser John didn’t care. He was better than any of them—better than any royal guard this country had to offer. One by one, those who dared to face him fell, slaughtered with ease, their blades barely leaving a scratch on his skin. And even if they did, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that your skin remained untouched. 

As you let your knight drag you wherever he willed, your numb body was in stark contrast to the frantic pace of your mind. Thoughts raced, but all you could see was death—everywhere. Screams filled the air, women wept, children ran aimlessly, only to be struck down without mercy. The castle was burning. You couldn’t see the flames, but the acrid scent of smoke and ash told you enough—they were erasing every trace of the Catholics.

You had no idea if the king and his family had escaped. Surely, if they had, Ser John would have taken you to them. But he hadn’t. And that could only mean one thing.

Little did you know, your knight had no intention of rejoining the royal family. He had assessed the risks, and staying with them was far more dangerous than fleeing north in search of foreign allies.

As you reached the stables, you were met with yet another horrific sight—men slitting the horses’ throats. Surely, it was to ensure no one could escape the castle grounds. The gruesome scene startled you so much that a sharp gasp escaped your lips. At once, the men froze, then turned, their eyes locking onto you and your knight.

As gently as the situation allowed, Ser John pushed you behind him with the hand that wasn’t gripping his sword. Five against one—an unfair fight, but one he could handle.

He had the advantage of age, his enemies often mistook him for an old, weary soldier. But here, they didn’t know his reputation. In France, these men would have fled the moment they saw him, unwilling to cross swords with Ser John Price.

Good. John had missed the thrill of battle.

His exploits on the battlefield were the very reason he had been chosen to protect you, the princess. Nearly twenty years had passed since he first swore his oath, and though he had come to appreciate the quiet days spent as your knight, the rush of combat was something he had missed—more than he had ever realized.

The smirks on the men's faces told John everything he needed to know—cocky bastards, convinced he was just an old man. A smirk of his own crept onto his lips. He would enjoy this. The only thing that soured the moment was knowing you had to witness this side of him—the side that craved violence, that thrived in the chaos of death.

To you, he had always been the gentle knight, the steadfast protector shielding you from harm. But now, you were beginning to understand—the dangers back home had been nothing but illusions, fleeting worries of a sheltered life.

This was real danger. Life-threatening. Merciless.

You didn’t know what you had done to deserve Ser John, but never in your life had you been more grateful for him.

There were no soldiers like him, no men with his unwavering loyalty. Most knights would have fled, abandoning their oaths the moment the battle turned dire. But not Ser John. He lived by a code—one he would uphold until his dying breath.

As you watched the men close in on your knight, you could see the wicked intentions flickering in their eyes—the vile things they dreamed of doing to you once your protector lay dead at their feet.

You knew, without a doubt, that John could take on all five of them. He was stronger, faster, deadlier. But a shadow of fear crept into your heart nonetheless. What if, by some cruel twist of fate, he lost? 

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, for you knew that if Ser John fell, the fate awaiting you would be far darker than death itself.

The first man who lunged at Ser John lay dead as swiftly as he had attacked. A ripple of shock passed through the remaining four—you saw it in their eyes, the brief flicker of fear. They had realized, far too late, that they had gravely misjudged the man standing before them.

John had moved so quickly, so precisely, that they had barely registered his strike. As their fallen comrade choked on his own blood, the others came to a silent agreement. Four against one.

And they all attacked at once.

Even though the fight was over quickly, with your dear Ser John emerging victorious, the men had not gone down without a struggle. They had managed to land several blows, cutting into John's arms and leaving multiple wounds that would need tending. You were certain he would refuse your help, stubborn as he was, but you had to try—if he didn’t let you tend to him, the blood loss alone could bring him to his knees.

You didn’t know much about medicine or treating injuries, but you knew one thing for certain—blood was meant to stay inside the body.

Just as you had expected, John gently dismissed your attempt to tend to his wounds.

“Nothing I haven’t endured before, Your Highness,” he said softly, guiding you toward the back rooms of the stables.

Inside, the stable boy laid dead, slaughtered like the horses.

As if your body had been waiting for a brief moment of safety, you lurched forward, retching near the boy’s lifeless form. The horror, the blood, the stench—it was all too much. John’s gentle gaze fell upon you, filled with quiet sorrow. He had no way to shield you from the death and destruction surrounding you. He wished he could, but it was far too late for that now.

Letting you have a moment to yourself, John took a linen sheet from the bed and gently draped it over the boy’s lifeless body, offering him a small shred of dignity in his senseless death. He let out a quiet prayer, asking God to guide the boy’s soul safely home. Once finished, he turned away, swiftly searching the cabinets for anything useful for the journey ahead.

He had to be quick—time was not on your side.

Once he had gathered some food, water, and spare clothing, he turned back to you, offering a change of garments. Your wedding dress, once meant to symbolize a new beginning, was now a grim reminder of the massacre. Stained with blood and far too extravagant, it made you an easy target. You needed to disappear, to blend into the shadows. John couldn’t risk you standing out—not when danger lurked around every corner.

You were left alone as Ser John stood guard outside, granting you the dignity of changing in private.

It was a far more difficult task than you had expected—having been dressed by maids your entire life, you struggled with the intricate ties of your wedding gown. Frustration mounting, you finally tore them apart, the delicate fabric ripping under your fingers. You didn’t care. The dress was nothing more than a relic of a life that had been stolen from you. And time was not a luxury you could afford.

The clothes John had gathered felt foreign against your skin. Trousers—something you had never worn before—clung awkwardly to your legs, making you feel strange and exposed. The oversized shirt drowned your figure, erasing every trace of the woman you had once been. If not for your long hair cascading freely down your back, you might have passed for a boy—a poorly dressed, disheveled boy.

You hadn't even realized that the elegant hairstyle your maids had carefully crafted was gone, undone by the chaos of the night. Now, your hair flowed wild and untamed.

Making your way outside the room, you found Ser John tending to the last remaining horse. Despite your misery, fortune—or perhaps divine intervention—had granted you this small mercy, a sign that you were meant to survive.

You noticed that he had also attempted, albeit poorly, to tend to his wounds. He had wrapped them in cotton to stop the bleeding—at least that was one less thing for you to worry about.

One look at you, and John knew he had to do something you would hate him for. Moving slowly so as not to startle you, he acted swiftly.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," he murmured softly, just before you felt him seize your hair. A moment later, long strands lay scattered on the floor, severed by the dagger he had concealed as he approached.

Long hair—a symbol of refinement, a silent testament to your place among the fallen aristocracy. It marked you as someone who once belonged to a world of luxury and status, a world that no longer existed. Now, it was nothing more than a dangerous reminder of who you were—a reminder you could not afford.

As quickly as he had approached, John left your side to tend to the horse once more. You stood frozen, staring down at the strands of hair. It wasn’t the loss itself that saddened you, but what it represented. Your old life was gone. Ahead lay the unknown, and with it, the weight of trust—you were placing your fate in the hands of your loyal knight. 

As he helped you onto the horse and urged it into a sprint toward an uncertain future, you couldn't help but long for the familiar French countryside you knew so well. You wished you were back in your well-kept garden, lying in the soft grass, without a single care in the world.

That life was long gone, but God had a new path laid out for you.

After a long week on the road, you realized that Ser John had no intention of taking you back to the royal family. He had only explained himself when you asked—never before. At first, his secrecy had angered you, but in time, you understood his reasons. You were already reeling from the massacre that had taken place, he had simply wished to spare you further distress.

When he spoke of the clans high in the Scottish mountains, you grew wary. Trading one group of bloodthirsty savages for mountain men, so far removed from civilization that, though they were under the English crown, they answered to no one. You had no idea why they, of all people, would agree to help you. The knight had explained that the Highlanders were also enemies of the English crown, and in a common enemy, one could find an ally. Though you represented another throne, France was once again at war with England.

Those conversations had taken place months ago, yet you had still not reached the fabled Highlands. Months on the road had done nothing to ease your sorrow. Your sleep was plagued with nightmares, and you spent your days in constant paranoia, fearing that someone would recognize you. But there was no way—you were too far from the fallen city, too far from any Frenchmen who could identify you. 

A few weeks after your escape, Ser John had settled in a small town north of the English kingdom, staying long enough to earn some coin for the journey ahead. It was then that you learned you had been declared missing. Rumours said you were killed by the English forces who had taken the castle that day. Furthermore, you learned that the former king had made it safely across the border and had joined his cousin, your king, in France.

Upon learning that the English monarch had made it back to your homeland, a storm of anger and sorrow overtook you. Had your knight taken you to the royal family, you would be home by now—safe in your mother's arms, far from harm and death. But fate had decided otherwise, and you remained on the road, searching for a foreign land that might not even accept you.

By then, it was already too late to turn back. You had wept and screamed at Ser John that day. The moment he stepped into the small room he had rented for the two of you, you confronted him with everything you had learned from the villagers. Of course, he had known all along. One of his greatest regrets was taking the road north that day. But the damage was done, and there was no use longing for a path God had not chosen for you.

Something awaited you in the north—something that would lead you back home. You felt it deep within you, you were destined for something greater. And so, you forgave your knight. It was easy—he had been a constant presence in your life, a father figure in all but name. At the very least, you loved him as one.

Your own father had played little role in your life, too preoccupied with his sons, leaving his daughters to their mother’s care. In the space your father had neglected, Ser John had taken root, becoming the guiding hand you had always needed.  

Now, sitting by the fire he had prepared, you were pulled from your thoughts by the very knight himself. He was adding more wood to the flames, watching you expectantly. When he realized you hadn’t been listening, he let out a slow chuckle.

"I don’t think we’re far now," John repeated, nodding toward the mountains that loomed around you. "The terrain is getting rougher, the air colder, and the people…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Harsher?"

"Their accent is definitely harsher," you replied, pouting slightly as memories filled your mind.

A few days ago, you had stopped in a small village to buy food and warmer clothing, as the temperatures continued to drop the farther north you traveled. It had been a shock to see how little the villagers had—only a handful of shops remained open, and the markets were nearly empty of anything truly nourishing. The cost of war. When you asked the villagers about it, their thick accents had surprised you, making them difficult to understand. Some even spoke a language you had never heard before—those were the ones who eyed you with suspicion.

Even though you had practiced English for most of your life, your strong French accent easily gave you away as a foreigner. The same went for John, though it was even more noticeable—especially since you had been the one teaching him English. He did his best to make himself understood, and so far, it had worked.

You had always taken pride in your ability to learn English quickly, but as you crossed the borders between England and Scotland, you realized your English had been very much capital-based—suited for understanding royalty and the so-called 'enlightened' people, but not the villagers of the northern kingdom.

They had mocked you in their own tongue, speaking slowly in English as if you were a child. It had been humiliating—no one had ever treated you this way. If they had, your father would have had them imprisoned. But that time was long gone. You were no longer a princess, just a simple Frenchwoman lost on the roads of Scotland. That was how they saw you—nothing more.

Shaking off the embarrassment, you looked up at your companion. His small smile told you he knew exactly what was on your mind. That only made you press your lips together in annoyance. You might have lost your titles while being on the run, but you certainly hadn’t lost the attitude that came with them.

Being on the road, you had grown accustomed to sleeping outside—and, surprisingly, you had come to love it. You took pleasure in admiring the night sky, scattered with countless stars. It was a sight you had once taken for granted back home, but after everything you had endured, you had learned to appreciate the little things. The night skies, the sunrises, the small kindnesses of villagers, the softness of animal furs—every tiny detail that once seemed trivial now felt like a gift from God, a reminder that you were still alive.

And so, without saying a word back to John, you settled for the night. The air was cool, but it was still manageable. You dreaded the first day of winters that approached quickly, you prayed you'd find those clans rather quickly, not really wanting to freeze to death after escaping it all those months ago. 

Once again, your night was plagued by nightmares—dreadful echoes of that day, imprinted in your mind, twisting and distorting your dreams. And like most nights, you woke in the dead of night. 

It had become routine—rising from restless sleep, your heart pounding from lingering nightmares. Most of the time, you would get up, seeking solace in the quiet presence of your horse, Espoir. It meant hope, and you thought it suited her perfectly. Her steady breaths and the warmth of her soft fur soothed your frayed nerves, grounding you in the present. Only then would you settle back down beside her, hoping for a few more hours of peace.

Tonight, however, you were startled to hear a voice as your nightmare jolted you awake. A voice you didn’t recognize, speaking in a language unfamiliar to you.

"That’s a very pretty horse. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?" the stranger murmured.

How had this not woken Ser John? You knew him to be a light sleeper. In the early days of your escape, he had always stirred at your restless nights, waking to soothe you through your panic. After a few weeks, you had told him not to trouble himself—that you could handle it on your own. It wasn’t out of shame, but guilt, you couldn’t bear to deprive him of sleep.

He had listened, though you knew he still watched over you. Sometimes, you would catch him observing from a distance as you stood beside the horse in the moonlight. He still woke when you did, if only to make sure you were all right before allowing himself to drift back to sleep.

Had the man killed him? Was that why Ser John hadn’t woken to attack?

Fear settled deep in your bones, your breathing quickening as you fought to stay silent, not daring to make a sound that might reveal you were awake. If this man had wanted you dead, surely he would have done it already.

Unless… he was toying with you, waiting for you to awaken to the sight of your knight slaughtered. Your mind raced with the most dreadful possibilities, imagining the vile things the stranger might do to your defenseless body. A wave of nausea rolled over you, and you had to physically restrain yourself from emptying your stomach right then and there.

"Don't bother, Knight. I know you're awake," the stranger’s voice called out, louder this time. It was directed at you. You still didn’t understand the words, but you knew, without a doubt, that this time he was speaking with intent—waiting for you to respond.

As if a flash of lucidity passed over the stranger, he spoke again, this time in words you could understand. "I’ve taken yer sword, and I see ye've gone for yer dagger. But dinnae fool yerself, knight—ye’ll no’ be winnin’ this fight."

His thick accent made it difficult to decipher his words, but one thing was clear—Ser John was still alive. The stranger hadn’t been speaking to you all this time, but to your knight.

Slowly opening your eyes, you were met with the sight of a rough-looking man, crouched by the horse. His hair was oddly cut, with a longer tuft running down the middle while the rest was cropped short. His body was massive—broad like a soldier’s, yet hardened like a laborer’s. He was dressed strangely, his clothing covered in tartan, likely the symbol of his clan. 

John had once told you Highlanders were easy to spot, and he hadn’t been wrong. 

He was wearing a skirt. You were sure that wasn’t the proper name for it, but to you, it looked the same all the way. It exposed his muscular hairy thighs—you had never seen a man like him before. 

He was as fascinating as he was terrifying.

"We 'ave nothing to offer you, Highlander," Ser John said, his French accent thick as he broke the heavy silence surrounding your small camp. His heavy accent was a stark contrast to the stranger's fluent English.

You heard movement behind you—John had sat up. You could almost feel the tension crackling in the air as the two men sized each other up. Watching the Highlander, you couldn't deny the sheer strength he exuded. If he was even half the soldier Ser John was, his sheer size alone might give him the upper hand in a fight.

"Nothin' tae offer me, aye?" the stranger mocked. "Then how come ye’ve been skulkin’ aboot the villages, askin’ after the Highlands?" His tone was edged with caution. His sharp gaze flickered to you, and he raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. It was his way of letting you know he was well aware you were awake.

John had been asking around about the Highlands? He never told you that. So much for being careful and discreet. He had led one of them straight to you, and even though the stranger didn’t seem threatening for now, you wouldn’t put it past him to eliminate anything he perceived as a threat to his people.

Sitting up, you noticed the wary way your knight was watching the stranger. He had told the truth—John's  sword lay beside the horse, just a few centimeters from the intruder. Yet the man seemed unbothered, still gently stroking the sleeping horse as if he had all the time in the world. You had always believed animals sensed things humans could not, and Espoir's calm demeanor eased your nerves—if only slightly.

"We are… how you say… survivors of the Wedding Massacre," John said quietly, his gaze never leaving the stranger. He did not look at you, his focus locked onto the man before him. "We ‘ave come all this way for ‘elp. I was told the Highlanders, they bow to no crown."

Your breath hitched as panic surged through you. He had chosen to reveal the truth. You knew it was part of his code of honor—John saw the stranger as another warrior, a brother forged in battle, and to him, that meant lies had no place here. But why he had placed his trust so quickly, you didn’t know. All you could do was pray he hadn't been wrong.

"We've nae king, that much is true," the stranger said calmly. "But if she is who I think she is, then ye serve a crown we dinnae answer to either."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, no?" John said quickly. When the stranger only shrugged, he pushed on. "The French kingdom... they would owe you much, you and your clan, if you make safe passage for her."

At those words, the stranger let out a scoff. He turned his head toward you once more, his entire body so relaxed it was almost unsettling. The soft glow of the dying fire cast shadows across his rugged features, highlighting the harsh angles of his face—a perfect match for his powerful frame. His beard was well-trimmed, and though he appeared clean, there was something in his eyes, something raw and untamed. A primal edge that sent a shiver down your spine, like a predator watching its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"I dinnae speak for me clan, Knight," he said, his gaze drifting back to the sleeping horse.

You had never been one for politics, but you were quite certain this was not how deals were supposed to be made. Not in the dead of night, and certainly not between a knight and a man who barely looked older than twenty-five.

The stranger's entire demeanor was unusual. Calm and cocky—two words that set your nerves on edge. His relaxed confidence felt almost deliberate, as if he were toying with you both. You stole a glance at your knight, searching for reassurance. Though outwardly composed, you could see the subtle signs of his discomfort—signs only someone who knew him well would notice. To the stranger, however, Ser John likely appeared as if he were merely weighing his next words.

Ser John was about to speak again, when he was interrupted by the stranger. 

"I can take ye to them, if that's truly what ye want," he offered, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes flickered to you once more before settling on the knight beside you.

"Will they hurt us?" your knight asked bluntly. He had realized the stranger was playing a game, but for what purpose, he did not yet know.

The stranger’s only response was a slow, knowing smirk and a casual shrug. He was toying with the knight, taunting him, daring him to take the risk of trusting a stranger. His entire demeanor oozed confidence, as if he held all the power in this exchange—like he was enjoying watching Ser John wrestle with the decision. 

Once again, his eyes landed on you, and that primal glint flickered back to life. There was something unsettling—almost intoxicating—about the way he watched you, sending a shiver down your spine. It made you want to press your thighs together, though you couldn’t quite understand why. It wasn’t just his gaze, it was the way he carried himself, the effortless confidence, the quiet danger in his smirk. He looked at you like a predator sizing up its prey—like he wanted to devour you whole.

No one had ever looked at you this way before—it was utterly improper. And judging by the way Ser John cleared his throat, he didn’t appreciate it either. When the stranger didn’t immediately turn his gaze, your knight had to clear his throat a second time, more forcefully, finally drawing the man’s attention back to him.

It was only then that you realized your palms were damp with sweat. Rubbing them discreetly against your trousers, you tried to steady yourself. He made you nervous—unsettlingly so. You told yourself it was fear, the instinctive wariness of a potential threat. But deep down, a part of you knew there was another reason.

When you looked back at your knight, he was watching you intently, a silent question in his eyes. What other choice did you have? You had spent months on the road searching for exactly what the stranger was now offering.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you gave a small, hesitant nod.

Nodding at the stranger, your knight extended his hand. "Ser John Price," he introduced himself before gesturing toward you and stating your name.

"Johnny Mactavish," the stranger replied, clasping John's hand firmly in his own. "Ye and the bana-phrionnsa best get some more rest—the night's still young for strangers tae be crossin' these lands."

With those words, he settled himself by the fire as if he had always been part of the journey. 

Crossing his legs, the only thing shielding his modesty was the plaid of his skirt. Despite yourself, your eyes were drawn to his thighs—thick, powerful, unlike anything you had ever seen before. Truth be told, you had never truly looked at a man’s thighs in the flesh. But even without comparison, you could say with confidence that Johnny Mactavish was strong—ungodly so. 

Forcing your gaze away, you turned to Ser John. Confusion clouded his face as he watched the stranger warily. There was something unsettling about Johnny’s ease—how he settled in as if he had always been there, as if he knew exactly how much power he held over you both. And in truth, he did. Neither you nor your knight had any idea how to find the clans that could help you. He had appeared like a mirage, not exactly offering help, but rather a passage to an uncertain future.

Nodding discreetly, your knight motioned for you to come closer. You attempted to move subtly, shifting as if merely trying to find a more comfortable position. But the Scot saw right through it, letting out a low chuckle at your feeble attempt. His eyes tracked your every movement, not with suspicion, but with something else entirely.

"What is wrong with him?" you whispered to your knight in French, ensuring the Highlander remained unaware of your words.

John let out a weary sigh, his grip gentle yet firm as he pulled you closer. "He is Scottish, your Highness. I have heard that is simply the way they are." His voice was laced with both exasperation and caution, making it clear he was just as unsettled by the stranger’s demeanor as you were.

"You'd both be lyin' in a pool o' yer own blood if I wanted ye dead, ye ken that?" Johnny said casually, a grin tugging at his lips as he laughed through his words.

You let out a small gasp at his gruesome remark, muttering under your breath, "Savages," as you finally settled down, though the tension in your body remained. Clearly amused, he let out another quiet laugh, the sound low and rough in the stillness of the night.

"Should we thank you, then?" John retorted, clearly growing tired of the Highlander's smug demeanor.

Johnny merely smirked. "Naw, just sayin’." His hands hovered over the fire, strangely close to the flames, as if the heat didn’t bother him in the slightest. 

The flickering light reflected off the rings adorning his fingers, casting glimmers against his rough skin as his fingers danced idly above the flames.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.