Chapter 38 Dunallan

Dunallan stood at the edge of the moor, the wind slapping at his face. Smoke rose in the distance from the barn they had set ablaze—a final trace of their raid, a bloody mark carved into the heart of English land. But the smoke didn't stir him. It wasn't the spoils or the plunder that weighed on his mind. It was the man kneeling before him.

Sir Tyrone Lancaster, an English knight, was bound like a captured beast. His fine tunic was bloodied, his sword taken, and yet his eyes still held the same arrogance, the same unyielding pride. He was a man who wasn't used to being brought low. The rage and disbelief in his bloodshot gaze were palpable, but so was the defiance. To Lancaster, this was an insult.

"Damn it, Dunallan," one of his men muttered from behind, "What in hell do we do with him now?"

The men stood around them, their faces full of uncertainty. The raid had been successful, but this was different. An English knight captured on Scottish soil would make tensions. And Dunallan knew that the English would not let such a thing slide.

Lancaster's eyes flicked to his captors, that look of superiority never quite fading. He spoke, his voice thick with contempt. "You have no idea what you've done, scum" he spat, his words biting. "My people will not let this stand. They will have your head on a spike."

Dunallan stood tall, unshaken by the knight's threats. His breath formed small clouds in the air, mixing with the biting wind. His gaze remained steady on Lancaster. "Aye, your precious England," he muttered under his breath. "You're just another pawn in their game. Another man sent to march through lands you've no right to tread."

The knight's face twitched. He knew the truth of it. But his pride was too great for him to admit it. Instead, he fixed Dunallan with a glare, the kind of look only a man who believed his bloodline and title could save him would give. "You don't know what you're dealing with, Highlander. You'll beg for mercy once they come for you."

Dunallan let out a bitter laugh, cold and cutting, the sound echoing in the open moor. "Mercy? Ha. Let them come, send their fucking armies. I've had enough of their boots on my throat!"

His men muttered amongst themselves, some eager for gold, but Dunallan wasn't interested in coin. Gold wouldn't buy his dignity. Gold wouldn't fill the empty spaces inside him.

Lancaster sneered up at him, blood dripping from his split lip. "Do your worst, Highland dog!"

Dunallan stepped forward, close enough to feel the fear radiating off Lancaster's skin. "Do you know why I'm not afraid of men like you?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Because your bloody crown, doesn't know what it means to bleed for something. You sit in your castles, sending men to die for land you'll never see. But me?" He leaned in closer, his voice a growl. "I've bled for this land. I've watched my people suffer."

Lancaster's lips curled into a half-smile, blood staining his teeth. "You're nothing but a rebel. A low-born thief," He spat.

The men dragged Lancaster away, Dunallan paused for a moment, his gaze on the man who had once been an untouchable knight. He felt the wind whip through his hair, the weight of the choice heavy in his chest. Was this the right path? The doubt flitted through his mind, but just as quickly, it passed. There was no turning back now.

This was his land. And he would be damned if anyone—be it the Stewarts, the English, or any man with a title—took it from him.

-----

Murdoch Stewart stood by the fire, a tall figure silhouetted against the flickering flames. His hands were clasped tightly behind him, and his broad shoulders stiffened as he listened to his father's words. Robert Stewart, Duke of Albany, sat across from him, his posture just as rigid, his eyes sharp.

"Dunallan," Robert's voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, a quiet fury that had been building. "This raid, this kidnapping—it's beyond the pale. A chieftain daring to cross the border and capture an English noble. He's asking for war, Murdoch."

Murdoch's jaw clenched, and his gaze fell to the map spread across the table. His father's words were as cold as steel, but Murdoch could feel the fire beneath them. The raid was bold, too bold, and it had thrown a stone into the still waters of English politics. They wouldn't ignore this. They couldn't afford to.

"I've heard the reports, father," Murdoch replied, his voice calm, though there was a hard edge to it. "This isn't just a raid. Dunallan's got more than that in mind. He's made himself a symbol—a rallying point for those who feel forgotten by your rule."

Robert's lips tightened into a thin line. "I don't care about symbols. He's a criminal, not a king. And I won't let him think he can challenge my authority."

Murdoch stepped closer to the map, his fingers brushing the borders of Scotland and England. His father's kingdom, his responsibilities, his rules. But Dunallan was a different kind of man. He'd made himself a target for more than just the Duke's wrath. The English would be looking for retribution, and Murdoch knew that all too well.

"What do you want me to do?" Murdoch asked, his tone steady but laced with an unspoken challenge.

Robert's eyes were cold, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair in a rhythm that matched the pulse of his frustration. "Crush him," he said, each word like a blow. "Now. Before this becomes something bigger."

Murdoch turned his back to the map, facing his father. He could feel the weight of those words settling deep in his chest.

"I will march on him directly..." Murdoch said, his mind already working through the strategy.

Robert shook his head, the movement sharp, dismissive. "Not yet. We need to see how far he'll push. But don't waste time. His capture of that English noble—" He paused, his voice dropping to a low growl. "That's not just a raid."

"Understood," Murdoch said, a tightness in his voice.

He turned to leave but paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. A thought lingered in the back of his mind, something that hadn't fully taken shape.