Thirteen years earlier

 
The shout cut across the clang of steel and the steady rhythm of his breath. Tristan swung his practice blade up into guard, feeling the sweat stinging his eyes, and then, he turned. Brian was running across the castle grounds, his chest heaving from the effort.

Tristan’s stomach dropped at once, for Brian was not a man given to panic.

“What is it?” he demanded, lowering the sword.

Brian doubled over for a heartbeat, dragging breath into his lungs before the words came. “The slavers—they came in the night. They’ve taken women from the village… and yer sister among them.”

For a moment, the world tilted. Tristan’s grip slackened, the sword clattering to the earth.

“Elena?” The name escaped him raw, disbelieving. His sister’s laughter still rang in his memory from the evening before. He could not make sense of it. “Nay… it cannae be.”

Brian’s eyes burned with grim certainty. “It is. Me cousin as well. The folk at the docks saw it all.” He straightened, his jaw set hard. “Ye ken what this means, Tristan. Yer faither struck bargains with devils, and now the devils take their due.”

Tristan’s chest heaved, his blood surging hot with rage. His father’s whispered dealings, his blind eye to the filth that stained their coasts, Tristan had heard the rumors, felt the shame coil tight in his gut. But to touch Elena, his sister…

“Nay,” he spat, fury sparking through the shock. “Nae bargain could ever give them leave tae take her, tae take any of them.”

Brian seized his arm urgently. “Deals with evil men are never fair, Tristan. Ye ken that better than most.

“Aye,” Tristan nodded. “If we’re tae stop them, we must move now.”

The words struck like steel striking flint, sparking purpose through Tristan’s grief. He snatched up his sword, his hand steady once more.

“Then to the docks,” he said. “And may the devil help any man who stands in our way.”

The air grew harsher the closer they came to the sea, while the gulls were wheeling overhead in ragged cries that seemed more omen than song. Tristan’s boots struck hard against the worn planks as he burst onto the docks.

But the ships were gone.

The great black sails that had haunted his nightmares were now only smudges upon the horizon, their hulking shadows swallowed by distance and waves. The harbor was chaos left behind: villagers were stumbling, some were weeping, some were staring blank-eyed at the water as though they had left their very souls in its depths. Ropes and crates lay scattered, broken barrels leaking across the boards, as if the world had been torn open in haste.

“Elena!” Tristan’s voice split the air, raw and desperate. He darted down the length of the docks, shoving through the huddled figures. “Elena!”

But there was no answering voice, only the sound of waves lapping against the timbers.

He seized the nearest man by the collar, a fisherman whose clothes were torn and his face ashen. “Tell me!” Tristan snarled. “Did ye see her? Me sister—Elena—where did they take her?”

The man flinched, shaking his head with trembling lips. “I dinnae ken, I swear! They… they took a group of women. Some screamed, some fought…” His eyes flicked toward the water, looking haunted. “Those who resisted too much… they didnae make it.”

A sickness coiled deep in Tristan’s gut, but he released the man with a shove and staggered to the edge of the dock. The sea lay restless before him, carrying with it the cruelest truths. He saw them then, shapes drifting among the waves, limp forms caught in the tide. His heart pounded as he searched each face that surfaced, praying and dreading.

But none were Elena.

He gripped the rail until his knuckles blanched, the salt wind stinging his eyes. Fury and despair warred within him, and he could not quell it. She was gone, stolen from him, and the sea itself mocked his helplessness. His heart hammered with the urge to leap into the sea itself, to swim until his arms gave out if it meant reaching her.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something pale caught against the rough timber of the dock.

He moved toward it slowly at first, then with gathering urgency. A strip of fabric fluttered in the salt wind, snagged on a splintered post. His chest tightened as he reached for it, feeling dread already coiling cold and sharp inside him.

It was her scarf.

It was the same soft weave their mother had once worn, passed down to Elena with care. She never parted from it, not even in the summer, for it was her one tether to the woman they had lost too soon. Tristan knew every thread of it, every fray at the edge from years of wear.

But now the scarf was torn.

Worse yet, it was stained. A blotch of darkened red marred the pale fabric, dried and ugly against the cloth that had once been so cherished.

Tristan’s hand shook as he lifted it, the weight of it unbearable in its lightness. His throat closed, the air searing as he tried to draw breath. For the first time since Brian had spoken the words, the truth struck with brutal clarity: Elena was gone, dragged from him, leaving behind only this broken remnant.

His knees nearly buckled, but rage stiffened his spine. He clutched the scarf in his fist, holding it as though by sheer will he could bind her to him, keep her safe across the miles of sea.

Behind him, Brian’s voice came quiet and heavy with sorrow. “Tristan…”

Tristan’s grip tightened around the bloodstained scarf until his knuckles whitened. His chest heaved, overwhelmed by grief and rage.

“This is his daeing,” he spat, his voice rough as gravel. “All of it. Me faither let them in. He turned his back while devils prowled our shores. Elena would still be here if nae fer his cursed bargains.”

Brian stepped closer, his face shadowed with his own sorrow. “Tristan…” He hesitated, then said quietly, “ye’re nae the only one who lost someone this night. Me cousin was among them. Others are grieving. But now is nae the time fer rash decisions. Rage will nae bring them back.”

Tristan wheeled on him with blazing eyes. “Rash?” His voice cut sharp and bitter. “I’ve listened tae him fer the last time, Brian. He told us nae tae worry when the danger was raised yesternight. He said it was naething but rumor. We should have acted… and now they are gone.”

Brian’s mouth opened, but no words came. The truth in Tristan’s voice hung heavy and undeniable, and the silence between them stretched like a wound.

Tristan shoved past him, with the scarf clenched in his fist. He could feel fury burning through his every step. “I’ll nae waste another moment here. If me faither’s word gave those monsters their foothold, then he’ll answer tae me fer it.”

He strode to where his horse was tethered, vaulted into the saddle, and wheeled the beast toward the rising slope that led back to the castle. Brian stood torn and rooted on the dock, but he did not call after him. He knew better than to do that.

The wind tore at Tristan’s hair as he drove the horse forward, the thundering hooves echoing his heartbeat. His mind burned with the thought of Elena and his father’s careless dismissal the night before.

The castle gates loomed high, but Tristan did not slow. He thundered through the courtyard, scattering startled servants, and flung himself from the saddle before the horse had even stilled. He barged in through the carved doors of the great hall.

At the high table, draped in furs and drinking from a silver cup, sat Laird MacRae. His expression was not one of grief, but of irritation at the interruption.

“Tristan,” he said with a sigh, as though his son had come to complain of some petty slight. “Must ye storm in like some wild clansman? Have ye nae respect fer—”

“Respect?” Tristan’s voice cracked like a whip through the hall. His hand trembled as he held aloft the torn, bloodstained scarf. “Ye speak of respect when Elena, yer own daughter, is stolen by slavers ye allowed upon Jura’s shores?”

The laird’s gaze flicked to the scarf, then back to Tristan, cruelly unflinching. “Was she taken alone?”

Tristan frowned. “Why daes that matter?”

His father shrugged, and Tristan had to force himself not to grab his own father by the throat and extinguish his existence right then and there.

“Aye… some people were taken. But we’ve coin in our coffers, and coin feeds men, buys peace. Such sacrifices are… regrettable, but necessary.”

The words struck Tristan like a blade. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, feeling his ears ringing. “Sacrifices?” he echoed emptily. “Ye call Elena, yer blood, a sacrifice fer yer greed?”

His father’s lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “Ye’re young yet, lad. Ye dinnae ken what it takes tae keep power. Women are plentiful, but gold… gold can get scarce.”

A roar broke from Tristan’s throat, the sound so raw it startled even the laird’s guards posted by the door. He strode forward, slamming his fists upon the high table so the silver cup toppled and spilled wine across the furs.

“Damn yer gold!” he thundered. “Damn every coin that bought their chains! Elena is gone because of ye! Our people suffer because of ye! And I’ll nae stand silent another day.”

The laird rose slowly, his height still commanding though his belly hung heavy with indulgence. His sharp and cold eyes narrowed.

“Mind yer tongue, lad. Ye forget yerself. I am laird here. Ye are but me son and ye’ll obey me.”

Tristan’s chest heaved, as fury burnt like fire in his veins. He clenched Elena’s scarf in his fist and felt the last shred of loyalty crumble away.

“Nay,” he growled. “I’ve obeyed ye fer the last time. The laird who trades his own kin fer gold is nae laird of mine.”

The laird’s face darkened, his jaw tightening until the veins stood out along his temples. With a sudden snarl, he raised his hand to strike, the same hand that had once cuffed Tristan in childhood for the smallest disobedience.

But this time, Tristan’s arm shot up. His fingers closed like iron around his father’s wrist, stopping the blow mid-air.

The hall froze. The guards at the doors shifted uneasily, yet none dared intervene. The great hearth roared, casting wild light across the two men locked in their struggle: one with brute will, the other with a lifetime of pent fury.

Tristan’s chest heaved, his eyes blazing into his father’s. “For nineteen years,” he said, his voice low but carrying like thunder across stone, “I have obeyed ye. I have bent me head, played the dutiful son, and borne yer commands without question.” He twisted his father’s wrist slightly, forcing the older man to grimace in pain. “But nay longer.”

His grip tightened on Elena’s scarf in his other hand, the bloodied fabric trembling with the force of his rage. “Ye speak of coin while yer daughter is torn from us. Ye bargain with devils and call it wisdom. All that remains tae ye is your gold. May it keep ye warm.”

The words rang through the hall, final as a death knell.

His father’s eyes widened, shocked not by the loss of a child but by the defiance in one who had always yielded. For the first time, the great Laird MacRae looked less like a ruler and more like an old man who was caught unprepared.

Tristan released him with a shove, and the laird stumbled back a pace, clutching his wrist. The scarf slipped against Tristan’s palm, a reminder of everything shattered.

Silence fell upon everything, like a heavy death shroud, until Tristan spat his final words. “From this day forth, ye have nay son, just as ye have nay daughter.”

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