1

Brenna did her best to keep running, trying to ignore the stitch in her side. It had been with her for at least several miles, and she was aware of her pace slowing, so she focused for a moment and tried to infuse some of her magic into stamina. It didn’t seem to work, and she wasn’t really surprised. She had one main gift, and that was the gift of Sight. Some witches had a multitude of talents, but many were like her, with just one area of expertise.

How she had cursed her Sight over these many years. It had led to permanent separation from her family when she was just nine years old, after Sir Frederick Walstone had heard rumors of her talents. He’d taken her from her family, and he’d held her captive eleven years now.

At first, he hadn’t trusted her at all, and she’d made several escape attempts. Only as the years passed, and she learned to temper her impulse to flee, had he started to take fewer precautions. By this point, he believed her to be a well-heeled pet.

She grinned in savage satisfaction that she had proven him wrong, though the feeling of victory was short-lived. She had fled from the English encampment near the border of the main conflict, and by now, she must be in the Highlands. While she considered Walstone her greatest enemy, the Highlanders would have no use for her either if they caught her. She’d escaped one fire just to enter another inferno, but she was still more afraid of returning to Walstone’s camp than she was of risking the possibility of running into dragon-shifting Highlanders.

She ran as far as she could for another half-hour, until the stitch in her side overwhelmed her. Breathing heavily, Brenna leaned against a gnarled old tree, looking around the darkness as she fought fear and confusion. The moon was barely visible this evening, and though the stars shone brightly at this elevation in the Highlands, they weren’t sufficient to provide true elimination for navigation.

The smart thing to do would be to stop for the night, but where? If she kept running blindly, she had no idea where she would end up, but if she stopped and tried to resume in the morning, she was far more likely to run into a Highlander during the daylight hours. The best she could hope for would be a kindly farmer’s wife who might understand her plight to some extent and not turn her over to the nearest laird—and she had no idea who that might be.

She’d seen the map of the Highlands that rested on Frederick’s table in his tent, and she could picture it in her mind, but that didn’t lead to her knowing where she was exactly. It was perhaps one advantage to her that most of the Highlanders were involved in personal conflicts between clans in addition to waging war against the English, so perhaps they wouldn’t all unite against her.

Maybe she could make it to a disinterested clan. She closed her eyes, struggling to recall the map in its entirety. There were two areas that were tinted yellow on the aging paper to indicate they were no threat to the English, either by treaty or by remaining neutral to the entire fight.

Try as she might, she couldn’t recall the names of them though, and she remembered with a sinking feeling in her chest that they were quite far up on the map. She’d come many miles since her escape, but she was nowhere close to either one of those clans, and there was no guarantee either would accept her or offer her sanctuary from Walstone or the Highlanders who would like to kill her.

That was a grim reality. As soon as they realized she was Sir Frederick Walstone’s infamous Seer, any Highlander with an ounce of common sense would immediately kill her. It wouldn’t matter to him that she been held captive and forced to provide the visions she’d given over the years, for she was a risk to his people. She understood that, but it didn’t have her eager to line up to meet the broadside of an angry Highlander’s sword.

The darkness seemed to be growing, and it had a malevolent tinge to it. She shivered as she wondered if it were her imagination, or if there was witchcraft involved in the darkening fog. She wasn’t the only witch Walstone kept as a prisoner, but she didn’t think they had caught up with her yet.

With luck, they wouldn’t discover her escape until morning, for when she had knocked out the guard who was only paying her cursory attention, she had used some of her limited power to ensure he would remain sleeping for at least a full day. Then she had dragged him over to her sleeping pallet and covered him with the blanket to make it seem like her form. If anyone glanced in, she hoped it would be enough to fool them until morning, when everyone rose.

She wondered if there was a witch among the Highlanders, one who was protecting her territory. Brenna shuddered at the idea of ending up in conflict with another witch, especially since she had no personal stake in fighting the Scottish. She thought they were entitled to their freedom, just as she was, but she wasn’t certain any of them would listen to her long enough to allow her to share that opinion.

When she felt like she could breathe again, Brenna made the reluctant decision to press on despite the darkness and the malevolent cloyingness of the fog surrounding her. If she were in the midst of a spell, she wouldn’t be doing herself any favors by remaining in it. The right spell could sap all of her powers before she realized what was happening, and she couldn’t afford to be completely defenseless.

Her side still ached, so it limited her to a fast walk more than a run, but she pressed on for at least another hour, finding the darkness thickening the farther she went. It had to be a spell of some sort, and she finally tapped into her own powers again to provide a little illumination. She had barely produced a flare of light in her palm when she heard shouting in the distance. “This way.”

She immediately realized her mistake. The flare of light had betrayed her presence. Likely, whomever hunted her had already known she was there anyway, but now she had made it easy for them. Brenna focused on extinguishing the light and started running, though she had no idea to where she was fleeing. She had only the goal of escaping the voices that were moving toward her, coordinating together via shouts.

Though running away from them seemed like a smart solution, Brenna froze abruptly, no longer able to move as tendrils of the dark fog wrapped around her, and she shuddered at the feel of magic binding her. Somehow, she managed to tear herself loose, but she only made a few more feet of progress before several large warriors wearing belted red and gold plaids stepped out the darkness to surround her. Light glowed from their torches.

As soon as they approached, the darkness that had been creeping over her receded, and she realized the power must come from one of the warriors. Her gaze moved to the one in the middle, whose bright green eyes seemed to glow with malice, and she realized it was him. She shuddered at the angry look he sent her way, and she wanted to collapse to the ground, though she thought that was more from fear than magic.

“What are you doing here, Maclaren lass?” asked the one on his left. He was a slightly older man with a scarred visage and long brown hair. He didn’t seem particularly concerned on her behalf, but at least he wasn’t reacting with rage or fear.

She looked down, recalling her impulsive gesture of stealing what she’d thought was a blanket from a laundry line earlier in the evening when she had first reached what she was certain was Scottish-held territory. Eyeing it now in contrast to how they wore their plaids, she realized tucked around herself wasn’t quite the proper way, but it was giving her camouflage and hiding her English dress.

“Well, lass, what is a Maclaren doing on Balfour land? Do you not know of the feud between us?”

She looked down, not saying anything. He spoke in thick Gaelic, or perhaps even Dragonish. She couldn’t be certain, but her power allowed her to understand what he was saying even if she didn’t know what language he spoke. It was one of the few benefits of being a witch that was innate in nearly every magical being she had ever met. They knew how to speak languages they had never heard, likely able to read the intent behind the communication more than the words themselves.

“Perhaps she is daft,” said the warrior standing on the right side of the one with the bright green eyes.

“Mayhap she is mute?” said another warrior as he stepped forward. He had long black hair, thick eyebrows, and a rough countenance that spoke to years of battle and deprivation. He could’ve been the age of the other men, or he could’ve been the father of the men standing nearby, or at least the right age group. He had a little hint of concern in his gaze when he looked at her.

She forced herself to look up and nod at him, afraid to reveal her accent when she spoke. She could understand them, but there was no guarantee they would understand her. Unless they had the same innate talent, it would sound like she was speaking a foreign language to them if they didn’t speak English. If they did, they would recognize it as the language of the enemy, and that would probably be the end of her anyway.

“I am certain Cameron will want to talk to her. Perhaps she brings news about the Maclarens. They might be enemies, but they’re are also enemies of the English, and if they require assistance, we shall provide it,” said the one with the glowing green eyes.

“Aye, Ian, that we shall,” said the warrior on his left.

“Come along, lass,” said the one on the right, who had posited she was daft.

With no other alternative, not certain how to extract herself from the situation, Brenna made no effort to fight their efforts to get her to walk along with them. She quivered as she was soon surrounded by at least twenty warriors, all of similar size.

They were muscled and massive, and it didn’t seem so outlandish to imagine any of them shifting into a dragon at any moment. She knew that was their talent, and she had heard Walstone curse it a number of times in the past, but she’d never seen a dragon-shifter before, and it still seemed like a remote possibility.

Even now, magical as she was herself, she had a difficult time envisioning a man with the power to do so—but not these men, oddly enough. If ever there were men who were perfect specimens for dragon-shifting, she had no doubt it was the twenty or so surrounding her.

They led her up a steep hill, and she was certain they provided some accommodation for her gradual gait, for she doubted any of the warriors normally walked so slowly with their long legs and determined strides. Part of her slowness was continued exhaustion and pain in her side from her bout of running, but part of it was also pure reluctance. Once she was inside the Scottish keep she could see perched on the hilltop, there would be no escape.

Not that she should fool herself into believing there was an escape now. Surrounded by twenty dragon-shifters, and with her main power being Sight, she wasn’t going to be able to escape from them.

Yet she dreaded reaching the castle even more, and not strictly because it was an ugly monstrosity that showed years of construction in a variety of styles. All of it was solid, and she was certain it was reliable in a siege. It would be highly effective at keeping her in just as well as keeping out an enemy.

“We’re here, Maclaren lass,” said the one who believed her to be mute. She looked up at him and nodded briefly before looking down again. Her fingers clenched tighter on the plaid she wore wrapped around like a blanket, hoping it adequately hid her English clothing.

There was no point resisting, so she walked up the long set of stairs when someone prodded her gently in the lower back. She was still surrounded by all the warriors, but as they climbed to the top of the keep, and the massive doors to the Great Hall opened, revealing a man standing there waiting, it was as though the twenty warriors surrounding her no longer existed.

Instead, all she saw was the man before her, with his flowing auburn hair, green eyes, and strong face, matched by an equally strong body. A wave of fear crashed over her, combined strangely enough with a surge of desire that she had never experienced before. She let out a gasp, which caught the attention of the sharp-eyed warrior beside her, who had posited she was mute.

He nudged her forward, reminding her she wasn’t alone with just the man at the top of the keep. Though she knew the twenty warriors who’d escorted her to the keep weren’t her allies, she wanted to beg them not to present her to the man waiting at the top of the stairs. He seemed to dominate all the space, and she had no trouble at all believing he could instantly transform into a dragon.

Judging from his eye color and the faint dusting of scales across his arms, revealed by the belted plaid that he wore, along with a pair of leather boots and nothing else, she imagined he became a vibrant emerald-green. She could picture it in her mind, and even she wasn’t sure if she were having a true vision or just relying on her imagination.

She gulped as she finally reached the top of the stone steps, standing before him. She looked down, certain she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

“What is this?” he asked in a gruff tone to someone over her shoulder.

“We found the Maclaren girl. She’s the one who tripped Dolag’s alarms,” said the gruff older man beside her.

“Maclaren?” The man frowned. “I see that, Valen.” The laird—for who else could he be—turned his full attention on her. Brenna could feel it even though she didn’t have the nerve to look up and meet his gaze. “Why are you here, lass? Is your clan in trouble?”

“I do not believe she speaks,” said the one now identified as Valen. He sounded less certain of that than he had earlier, likely because of her gasp. “Or perhaps she chooses not to speak,” he said ominously.

She slanted a glance at him, strangely moved to ask for his forgiveness for the deception. She sensed having this man on her side would be a big help, but she wasn’t optimistic enough to expect that to actually happen.

“Look at me, lass,” said the laird forcefully.

“You had best listen to Cameron,” said the one who’d surrounded her with the malevolent fog. She realized he had the same eyes as the laird, though she hadn’t looked deeply into the eyes of the leader of the clan’s.

She couldn’t yet summon the nerve to do so. She was certain as soon as she did, it would strip bare all her pretenses, and he would know immediately who and what she was. She wasn’t certain if it was her power telling her that, or just self-preserving instinct.

“Lass,” he said again, more harshly this time. “Look at me and tell me what you know, or I shall be forced to throw you into a cell. For all intents and purposes, the Maclarens are at odds with the Balfours, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If you need something, spit it out.”

Brenna took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and tried to summon every ounce of bravery she had as she looked up to meet the penetrating green eyes of the laird of the Balfour dragons. The moment their gazes locked, colors danced behind her eyes, and a whirlwind of sensation she’d never experienced before swept over her. Her head spun, and she let out a small cry as she stumbled back. There were too many warriors to allow her to escape, and she stumbled into one of them, though she was barely aware of it.

Instead, she could only look at the eyes of the laird, and he seemed equally mesmerized by her. There was a magnetic pull between them, and she was desperate to break it. She tried to blink her eyes, but instead, with a small cry of surrender, she allowed consciousness to flee from her body as she collapsed to the ground.