1637 (10 years earlier)

 
The screaming woke Elena from dreams of dancing.

She jolted upright in her bed, heart hammering against her ribs as shouts echoed through the stone corridors of Castle MacRae. Not the usual sounds of guards changing shifts or servants starting their morning routines. These were different. Panicked. Terrified.

Metal clashed against metal somewhere below. A woman’s scream cut off abruptly.

Elena’s hands shook as she fumbled for her robe in the darkness. Seventeen years old and she’d never heard sounds like those in her home. Never felt fear coil tight in her belly while fire-glow flickered orange across her chamber walls.

The door burst open.

Tristan stood there, nineteen and wild-eyed, still wearing his nightclothes with a sword gripped in his white-knuckled hands. Blood splattered his chest, whether his own or someone else’s Elena couldn’t tell in the dim light.

“Get dressed. Now.” His voice was hard, clipped. The voice of a laird giving orders despite being barely more than a boy himself. “We’re under attack.”

“What?” Elena’s mind couldn’t process the words. Attack. There. In their home where nothing bad was supposed to happen because Tristan was supposed to keep them safe. “Who would dare—”

“I dinnae ken and it daesnae matter. Just move.” He crossed to her wardrobe, yanking out her riding dress and throwing it at her. “Put this on. We need tae get ye tae the boats.”

Elena’s fingers fumbled with the laces of her nightdress, too slow, too clumsy. Fear made her stupid. Made her movements jerky and useless while somewhere below people were dying and her brother looked at her like she was already lost.

“I’m trying,” she said, hating how her voice shook.

“Try faster.” But Tristan’s hands were gentler when he helped with the laces, his fingers steadier than hers despite the blood. “I need ye tae listen very carefully, Elena. Whatever happens, ye run. Ye dinnae stop. Ye dinnae look back. Ye get tae the boats and ye sail fer the mainland. Understand?”

“Where will ye be?”

“Fighting. Keeping them away from ye.” His storm-gray eyes met hers, and Elena saw fear there beneath the determination. Her invincible brother was afraid. The realization made everything worse. “I’ll find ye after. I promise.”

Another scream, closer now. Footsteps thundered in the corridor outside. Tristan spun toward the door, his sword rising automatically. His whole body had gone taut, coiled like a spring about to release.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

The door exploded inward.

***

Tristan’s sword met the first attacker’s blade with a screech of metal that made Elena’s ears ring. She pressed herself against the wall, watching her brother fight with a skill she’d always known he possessed but had never seen unleashed like that. Brutal. Efficient. Desperate.

He killed the first man with a thrust through the throat. The second took longer, their swords clashing in the confined space while Elena tried not to look at the body bleeding out on her floor. Tried not to see how the dead man’s eyes stared at nothing, how his mouth hung open in permanent surprise.

Tristan dispatched the second attacker and grabbed Elena’s wrist, his grip bruising in its intensity. “Now. We go now.”

They ran.

The corridors of Castle MacRae had become a nightmare. Bodies littered the floor, some in MacRae colors and some in dark leathers she didn’t recognize. Smoke choked the air, making her eyes water and her lungs burn. Somewhere a child was crying, the sound thin and hopeless.

Tristan pulled her through the chaos, his sword arm never stopping. He cut down anyone who got in their way, his face set in hard lines that made him look like a stranger. Not her brother who teased her about suitors and stole sweets from the kitchen. A warrior. A killer.

They burst into the courtyard and Elena’s stomach dropped.

The boats were burning.

Every single vessel that might have carried her to safety was engulfed in flames, their masts collapsing into the water with hisses of steam and ash. The docks where she’d played as a child were gone, reduced to floating debris and impossible escape.

“Nay.” Tristan’s voice was raw, broken. “Nay, nay, nay.”

A hand clamped over Elena’s mouth from behind.

She tried to scream but the grip was iron, dragging her backward while Tristan spun too late. His sword slashed through empty air where she’d been standing a heartbeat before. His face contorted with rage and fear as more attackers poured into the courtyard, surrounding him, forcing him to choose between fighting them or saving her.

Elena bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth, tasting blood. Her captor cursed but didn’t release her, just tightened his grip until black spots danced in her vision. She kicked backward, connected with something soft, heard a grunt of pain.

“Feisty one,” a voice said in her ear, amused and cold. “The Vulture will like that.”

Tristan was fighting through the attackers, trying to reach her, but there were too many. She watched him take a slash across his ribs that made him stagger. Watched blood bloom across his nightshirt in a spreading stain. Watched her brother’s face twist with the knowledge that he was failing her.

“Elena!” His voice cracked on her name. “Fight them! I’ll come fer ye! I swear it!”

The promise was the last thing she heard before something hard connected with her skull and the world went dark.

***

Elena woke to the rocking of a ship and the smell of unwashed bodies.

Her head pounded with each movement, nausea churning in her stomach. When she tried to move her hands, metal bit into her wrists. Chains. She was chained like an animal in a space so dark she couldn’t see her own hands.

Around her, she heard breathing. Crying. The shuffle of other bodies pressed too close together in too small a space. How many? Ten? Twenty? All of them stolen, all of them bound, all of them being carried away from everything they’d known.

“Where are we?” Elena’s voice came out hoarse, her throat raw from smoke inhalation or screaming or both.

“I dinnae ken.” The voice that answered was young, maybe younger than Elena. A girl crying in the darkness. “They took me from me village three days ago. Said we’re being sold.”

Sold. The word settled over Elena like a shroud.

She wasn’t going home. Tristan wasn’t going to save her because Tristan probably thought she was dead. They all did. The sister who’d been stolen in the night, never to be seen again.

Time lost meaning in the darkness. Hours or days passed, Elena couldn’t tell. They were given water that tasted like rust and moldy bread that she forced herself to eat because starving wouldn’t help anything. The girl who’d spoken to her stopped responding after a while. Elena didn’t know if she’d died or just given up.

When light finally came, it was blinding.

Rough hands dragged Elena up onto the deck where wind whipped her hair and salt spray stung her eyes. She blinked against the brightness, trying to orient herself. Other captives were being hauled up too, blinking and stumbling like newborn animals.

A man stood at the ship’s rail. He watched them with the cold assessment of someone evaluating livestock. He was older, maybe forty, with a face that might have been handsome if not for the cruelty carved into every line. His eyes were flat and dark, holding no warmth or mercy.

“Line them up,” he said. His voice was cultured, educated. Nothing like the rough accent of the men who’d attacked. “Let me see what we’ve caught.”

They were forced into a row. Elena stood with her spine straight despite the chains, despite the fear, despite everything screaming at her to collapse. She wouldn’t give them that. Wouldn’t give them anything she didn’t have to.

The man walked down the line slowly, examining each captive with detached interest. When he reached Elena, he paused. His hand came up to grip her chin, tilting her face toward the light. She jerked away but his grip tightened, nails digging into her skin.

“This one’s got spirit.” His smile was terrible. “Strip her. I want tae see what we’re working with.”

“Nay.” Elena’s voice was steady even as panic clawed up her throat. “Ye cannae—”

The slap sent her reeling, the chains tangling as she hit the deck hard. Pain exploded through her cheek and jaw, her vision blurring with tears she refused to let fall. Rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright.

“Let me make something very clear.” The man crouched before her, his face level with hers. “Ye belong tae me now. Yer name, yer family, yer past, all of it is gone. Ye’re property. And if ye dinnae learn tae obey, I’ll make sure ye suffer in ways ye cannae even imagine.”

Elena spat blood at his feet.

His fist connected with her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She doubled over, gasping, the world tilting sideways. When she could breathe again, could see again, the man was standing over her with that terrible smile still in place.

“I like the spirited ones,” he said. “They break so much more beautifully.”

The ship sailed on toward whatever hell awaited them. Elena lay on the deck with chains cutting into her wrists and her brother’s promise echoing uselessly in her head.

I’ll come fer ye. I swear it.

But Tristan wasn’t coming. No one was. And the girl she’d been, the one who’d dreamed of dancing and falling in love and having a future, died somewhere between the burning boats and that moment.

What remained was something harder. Something that would learn to survive whatever came next.

Even if survival was all she had left.

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