The night carried the scent of rain and iron, the kind that warns of storm and blood before either truly arrives.
I had learned to read such omens in the Highlands: how the air thickened before danger, how the forest itself seemed to still when men hunted more than game.
And tonight, the forest was utterly silent.
From the ridge where I crouched, the fires of Castle Leoch flickered like dying stars below. The air carried faint echoes, laughter, the jangle of bridles, the heavy murmur of men returning late from The Gathering.
Dougal MacKenzie's men, their spirits drenched with ale and pride.
But beneath their laughter ran a different tone, low, sharp, dangerous. The sound of suspicion.
I had heard enough in the kitchens earlier that day to sense what was coming.
A whisper.
A rumor.
A secret too large for this century to swallow.
Claire's secret.
She had tried to hide it, of course. The strange knowledge of herbs that worked faster than any known to the healers of Leoch. The way she looked at wounds as a surgeon would, not a midwife. Her tone, her bearing, the way she questioned men who were not used to being questioned.
To them, she was brilliant. Useful. But unnatural.
To men like Dougal, that line between miracle and witchcraft was thin as a blade's edge.
And I, who knew how easily rumor could become a pyre, felt the chill before the first torch was even lit.
By moonrise, the men gathered near the lower glen, the place where the forest opened into wild heather and stone. I followed from the ridge, silent as the mist. My boots left no mark; the forest had long since learned my step.
Dougal stood at the center, his torch painting his face in shades of gold and shadow. His men were restless, whispering, exchanging glances.
"The Sassenach kens too much," one muttered.
"Aye," said another, "I saw her mend a wound clean through the bone. No priest's prayer could do that."
Dougal raised a hand for silence. "Mind your tongues," he said, though his tone carried no true rebuke. "I've seen her work with my own eyes. But a thing can be both useful and dangerous."
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the dark trail that led toward the healer's hut — Claire's hut.
"Colum protects her," someone said.
Dougal's mouth curved. "Aye. But I ken well how long his mercy lasts."
The men chuckled softly, cruelly.
And then, the one word that split the air like lightning.
"Witch."
It was whispered first, but the forest heard it.
Even the owls stilled.
I moved before I could think, years of silence breaking in the smallest sound: a step.
A crack of a twig.
Dougal's head snapped up.
"Who's there?"
The torches flared as men turned, muskets half-drawn.
I pressed my back against the nearest tree, holding my breath. Shadows stretched and flickered, chasing one another across the bark.
One of the men, Angus, broad-shouldered, quick-tempered, started forward.
"Mayhap it's her," he muttered. "The healer. Spyin', is she?"
"No," Dougal said slowly. "She's cleverer than that."
He stepped forward, scanning the dark.
"I ken that feel," he said softly. "The woods watch us tonight."
He wasn't wrong.
Because I was watching.
And so was the forest.
The mist rolled in, thicker now, curling between the trees like breath.
I whispered beneath it, words old as the stones themselves. Not spells, not truly. Just remembrance.
"Be seen as shadow. Be known as nothing."
The torches sputtered. Their flames flickered green-blue for a heartbeat before dimming. The men cursed, stumbling back as a cold wind slithered through the clearing.
"Christ's bones," one hissed.
"It's her," another cried. "The witch of the stones!"
The legend. The Huntress of Shadows. The name I had never chosen but could now wield.
Let them fear that story, if it kept them from Claire.
Dougal's voice cut through the panic. "Hold, ye fools! It's naught but wind!"
But his tone shook, and I knew he saw what they could not, the faint shimmer of light where my hands had brushed the air, the echo of power he couldn't explain.
He looked into the darkness, straight at me, though he could not truly see.
"You again," he said quietly. "The spirit they whisper of."
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
For a moment, he stood there, torch in hand, a man weighing reason against fear. Then, slowly, he lowered it.
"Let her be," he said. "If the Huntress walks the glen tonight, we'll not cross her path."
The men obeyed, muttering prayers as they retreated toward the path. Their torches flared once more, then disappeared into the mist.
Only Dougal lingered a moment longer, staring into the shadowed trees.
"I dinna ken what you are," he murmured, "but ye've chosen strange company to guard."
He turned and followed his men.
And when the last echo of their steps faded, the forest exhaled again.
I stepped from the shadows, breath ragged. My hands still trembled faintly with the residue of energy. The air smelled of smoke and earth, and something older.
From the direction of the healer's hut, a faint light flickered. Claire.
I made my way down the slope, careful not to disturb the undergrowth. When I reached the edge of her clearing, I stopped.
Through the window, I could see her, sitting by the fire, her hair unbound, her eyes fixed on the flame. She looked weary, but her shoulders remained squared, her will unbroken.
She did not know how close she had come to ruin tonight.
And she never would.
Because that was my burden to bear.
The unseen guardian. The keeper of her secret.
The oath I had sworn under the ancient tree was no longer a vow, it was a way of being.
I lingered until dawn. The rain began again, soft and silver. The smoke from her chimney rose into the pale sky, and the forest seemed to sigh in relief.
But I could not rest.
Dougal's eyes haunted me. His suspicion had not vanished, only been delayed. And worse still, the ripple I felt beneath the air tonight was not only his.
Someone else had noticed Claire's difference. Someone whose gaze lingered longer, sharper.
Father Bain.
The priest who saw devils in every cure, who called reason a sin and science a heresy. His sermons had grown louder since Geillis's pyre, his eyes hungrier.
He would come for her next. I knew it.
And when he did, not even Colum's walls would hold back the tide of fire.
That night, I returned to the great tree in the heart of the glen. The lanterns within flickered faintly, their light reflected in pools of rainwater along the floor. I sat by the roots and spread out the map I had taken from Roslin's archives, the one marked with circles and lines of prophecy.
At its center: Craigh na Dun.
Around it, threads of names and symbols, some I recognized, some I did not. And near the edge, faintly inked, a new symbol had appeared, one that hadn't been there before.
A circle intersected by a flame.
A warning.
The timeline was shifting.
I had interfered again, just enough to save her, but not enough to leave the weave untouched. And now, the world was already rewriting itself around that choice.
The Gathering Hunt had not merely been a threat. It was a test.
One I had barely passed.
By dawn, I wrapped the map again and stood beneath the arching roots.
The forest stirred, restless. It had felt the tension too, the balance between love and ruin tightening with each passing day.
"Not yet," I whispered to the dawn. "You will not take her yet."
The wind answered, a low, mournful sound that carried through the glen like a voice.
And beneath it, I thought I heard something else.
Claire's laughter, faint but clear, carried from the distant hills.
For now, she was safe.
And as long as I breathed, she would remain so.
Even if it meant becoming nothing more than a shadow among legends, the Huntress who haunted the Highlands, the ghost who walked beside destiny unseen.
Because this was the truth I had come to accept:
Some stories are meant to be lived.
Others are meant to be protected.
And I, bound by blood and time, was made to guard theirs.