The Kilsyth Summit

POV: Jarrah

The air in the High Keep of Kilsyth was thick with the reek of damp wool, spilled ale, and the cold, sharp scent of iron. Outside the tall arched windows, a relentless highland rain hammered against the stained glass, blurring the pine-covered cliffs into dark, weeping silhouettes.

Down in the Great Hall, two dozen lords and chieftains were shouting over one another, debating border lines and grain quotas like dogs fighting over a bone. But I wasn't listening to them anymore. My attention was fixed on the man standing by the hearth at the far end of the long gallery Lord Alastair.

He hadn't raised his voice once all morning. He didn't need to. He simply stood there, his heavy fur mantle draped over his broad shoulders, watching the room with the quiet, terrifying patience of a hawk waiting for a field mouse to make a wrong step.

When his grey eyes finally cut through the crowd and locked onto mine, a cold knot twisted deep in my gut. He didn't smile. He merely raised two fingers and tilted his head toward the side chamber, the inner sanctum where real blood was spilled in Kilsyth, far away from the bluster of the lower lords.

"He wants you alone," whispered Rhys, leaning close enough for his warm breath to brush my ear. His hand hovered nervously near the hilt of his dagger. "Jarrah, don't do it. The man hasn't spoken an honest word since the war started. Whatever he has to say, he can say in front of Malia."

"Malia isn't here," I said softly, my voice tight. "She’s down at the lower stables inspecting the vanguard. If I refuse him now in front of his bannermen, he’ll take it as an insult, and we will lose the northern alliance before the ink on the treaty is even wet."

"He’s setting a trap," Rhys insisted, his knuckles turning white over his sheath.

"I know," I muttered, flexing my bruised fingers inside my leather gloves. "Which means I’d better walk into it with my eyes open."

I pulled away from the gallery rail and cut across the flagstone floor, my heavy boots echoing hollowly against the vaulted ceiling. Every step felt heavy, as if the castle itself were trying to drag me down into its stone foundations.

As I reached the carved oak doors of the private solar, Alastair’s personal guards, two towering men clad in blackened steel, stepped aside without a word. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The silence hit me like a physical blow. The roaring din of the Great Hall instantly vanished as the heavy oak door thudded shut behind me. The solar was small, suffocatingly warm, and lit only by the low, dying embers of a stone fireplace. A decanter of dark red wine sat on a heavy mahogany desk, flanked by two pewter goblets.

Alastair was already sitting behind the desk, unbuttoning his riding gloves with slow, methodical precision.

"Close the latch, Jarrah," he said without looking up. His voice was deep, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth. "We have a business that cannot afford ears behind the tapestry."

I turned and slipped the iron bar into place. "If this is about the grain taxes for the winter garrison, Alastair, Malia has already drawn up the ledgers. You’ll receive your quarter share by the full moon."

Alastair let out a dry, breathy chuckle that sounded like dead leaves dragging across frost. He poured wine into both goblets, the dark liquid gurgling softly in the quiet room.

"Malia," he repeated, saying her name like a bitter seed he wanted to spit out. He pushed one of the goblets across the polished wood toward me. "Always Malia. You speak of her as if she were the voice of the realm itself, Jarrah. Tell me... does she allow you to hold your own thoughts, or do you hand those over to her at night as well?"

I didn't reach for the glass. "I came here to secure your troops for the eastern march, my lord. Not to discuss my loyalty."

"Loyalty?" Alastair leaned back, crossing his heavy legs. He picked up his own goblet and swirled the dark wine against the pewter. "A fine word. A noble word. But loyalty to what? A ghost line? A girl who carries the title of Commander only because her father died before he could prove how incompetent he truly was?"

My blood ran hot, a sudden, sharp prickle of fury flaring behind my ribs. My hand twitched toward my belt before I could stop myself. "Watch your tongue, Alastair. You’re talking about the woman who pulled Kilsyth out of the ashes three winters ago."

"I am talking about a girl who is leading you straight to the gallows," Alastair snapped, his calm facade cracking just enough for a flash of raw, ruthless intent to show through. He stood up, leaning his thick forearms on the desk, pressing his face into the dim firelight. "Look at yourself, boy. You are a warrior. You survived the Siege of Blackwood. You bled in the trenches while she sat in her silk tents writing letters to councilors who laughed at her behind her back. Why are you hiding in her shadow?"

"I don't hide," I said, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw throbbed. "We fight together."

"Do you?" Alastair sneered. He reached into his leather doublet and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment sealed with heavy black wax. He didn't hand it to me; he simply laid it on the center of the desk between us. "If you are truly partners, Jarrah... tell me why she sent three couriers to the High King’s vanguard at midnight two days ago."

The room seemed to shrink. The crackle of the hearth sounded suddenly loud, sharp, like snapping bones.

I stared at the black seal on the letter. "She wouldn't. The High King is our enemy. We’ve been at war with his house for five years."

"She would, and she did," Alastair murmured, his tone dropping into a soft, poisonous purr. "While you were out scouting the eastern ridges, freezing in the mud to keep her supply lines safe, Malia was negotiating terms. Not for Kilsyth. Not for your men. For herself."

"You're lying," I spat, but the words felt hollow in my mouth. A terrible, gnawing shadow of doubt, a seed that had been planted months ago when she started keeping her private correspondence under lock and key sprouted instantly in my chest.

"Read it," Alastair challenged, gesturing to the paper. "Break the seal yourself. Read her hand. Read the price she set on your head in exchange for a full pardon for her family’s estate."

My breath hitched. My throat felt scraped raw, dry as ash. I stepped closer to the desk, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribcage. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to tear down the door, to find Malia and demand the truth from her own lips. But my fingers moved on their own, hovering inches above the black wax.

"She doesn't care for you, Jarrah," Alastair whispered, leaning closer, his voice wrapping around me like cold smoke. "To her, you are a shield. A blade to throw between herself and the fire when the winter comes. Join me. Stand down your regiment when the vanguard arrives tomorrow. Leave her to face the King alone, and I will give you command of the entire Northern Reach."

I looked from the black wax seal up into Alastair’s cold, calculated eyes. My chest burned with a sickening mixture of rage, disbelief, and a terrifying, creeping fear that everything I had fought for everyone I had bled to protect was built on a lie.

Slowly, my fingers pressed down on the cold wax.

Before I could break the seal, a muffled, frantic commotion burst through the quiet of the corridor outside. Heavy boots slammed against the stone, followed by the wet, sickening crunch of steel tearing through leather.

A sharp, agonized scream cut through the wood of the door, a voice I recognized instantly.

Rhys.

Alastair didn't flinch. He simply smiled at a slow, cruel curve of his lips as the iron latch of the solar door suddenly rattled violently.

THUD.

A heavy body slumped hard against the outside of the door, smearing a dark, crimson streak across the carved wood beneath the gap. Then, the latch gave a loud, metallic click, and the door swung slowly inward.

Standing on the threshold, holding a dripping, blood-stained broadsword, was not one of Alastair’s men.

It was Malia.

Her hair was wild, plastered to her forehead by the rain, and her leather armor was splashed with fresh, hot crimson. Her dark eyes swept the room, skipping past Alastair entirely, and locked onto my hand resting on the sealed parchment.

"Jarrah," she gasped, her chest heaving violently as blood dripped from her blade onto the flagstones. "Don't touch that paper. He didn't bring you here to talk, his men just slaughtered the entire lower guard. The Summit was a trap from the start."

Before I could move, Alastair reached into his cloak, drew a small brass flintlock pistol, and pointed it directly at Malia’s chest.

"You're too late, my lady," Alastair said smoothly, his thumb pulling back the hammer with a deafening click. "He's already made his choice.”