Ciaran sat huddled in the corner of his cell, his head buried in his hands, the memory of Tavish's hate-filled eyes filling his thoughts. He didn’t regret confessing his guilt; it was true. While he’d not killed his brother by his own hand, he was guilty of not protecting him. He had failed his family. And for that he deserved his punishment.

“Ye damned fool.”

He looked up. Lachaid stood by the door to his cell with a fierce scowl, clutching a sack at his side. Ciaran turned away from him, closing his eyes.

“Leave me be, Lachaid.”

“If ye think I’m going tae let ye die and leave that murderous brother of yers in charge, ye’re a fool.”

Ciaran flinched at Lachaid's words. Though he knew it was true, it pained him to think of Tavish as a murderer.

He turned back around, startled, at the clinking sound of a key unlocking the cell door. Lachaid swung open the door, pocketing the key.

“What are ye doing?” Ciaran demanded, stumbling to his feet. He braced himself for Angus to enter the cell at any moment, his sword drawn.

“I’m freeing ye,” Lachaid said calmly, his thick eyebrows raised. “There’s a horse and a bag of supplies waiting by the stables for ye, but we doonae have much time.”

“No,” Ciaran said swiftly. “I'll nae have ye hang on account of me.”

“Yer guard Angus respects ye. He agreed tae look the other way, tae make it look like an outsider rescued ye. He kens ye didnae kill yer brother. Now if ye doonae leave this cell, I’ll go tell the nobles I helped ye kill Eoin.”

“Lachaid—"

“I speak the truth, Ciaran,” Lachaid said, holding his gaze.

Ciaran studied his friend; he knew he was serious. As the son of a clan noble, Lachaid and Ciaran had grown up together; he was as close to him as any brother. Lachaid was fiercely loyal—and he never backed down from his word.

"Ye're a stubborn bastard,” Ciaran muttered, though he gave him a grudging smile as he stepped out of the cell.

"As are ye," Lachaid said. He reached into his sack, taking out a cloak. "Put this on. Keep yer head low."

Ciaran obliged, placing the cloak around his head and body, following Lachaid out of the dungeons. His heart thundered in his chest as they moved, expecting them to be caught at any moment, but he kept his gaze trained on the ground.

There were a few servants milling around the corridor as they emerged from the dungeons and into the castle, but no one looked their way. Ciaran held his breath until they were clear of the castle and had reached the rear of the stables. There, a horse was waiting for him, a sheathed sword and a bag of supplies slung over its flank.

“Get off of Aitharne lands," Lachaid said, as Ciaran took off his cloak and mounted the horse. “The nobles in power are mostly loyal tae yer brother, but there are a few on yer side. Try tae get messages tae me if ye can; I have some trusted messengers in the castle. I’m going tae do everything I can tae clear yer name while ye’re gone. Doonae come back unless ye have an army riding with ye. Tavish is determined tae see ye hang.”

Ciaran looked down at Lachaid, gripping the reins of the horse, a surge of emotion coursing through him. He wanted to thank his friend, to express his gratitude for standing by him when so many others had turned their backs, but no words came.

Lachaid knew him well and seemed to understand the words he couldn’t say.

“Ye would do the same for me,” Lachaid said gruffly, stepping back. “Now go—before the stable boys return.”

Ciaran gave Lachaid a nod and turned to ride away from the castle, keeping his head ducked low. He resisted the urge to turn and look back at the turreted stone castle he’d called home his entire life. Instead, he kept his gaze trained on the road ahead.

Now that he’d escaped, he was officially an outlaw. Anger filled his chest, replacing the lingering guilt and despair he’d felt in his cell. He couldn’t let Tavish get away with this. Eoin’s death would not go unavenged. He would somehow clear his name and return to his castle to confront his brother and make him answer for what he’d done.

For the first time since his arrest, determination swelled within him. Ciaran kicked the sides of his horse, urging him to go faster. The sooner he found somewhere safe to shelter, the sooner he could make his plan to return.

Ciaran heeded Lachaid’s advice, riding until he was clear of Aitharne lands. He soon entered the lands of a neighboring clan, Clan McCrosain. They were a friendly clan, allies to Clan Aitharne, but he still needed to stay out of sight. He didn’t want them to bear the responsibility of harboring a fugitive.

Ciaran guided his horse into a forest that lined the edge of the sprawling green moors, bringing him to a stop when they reached a clearing. He would have to make camp for the night until he determined where to go.

It had been some time since he'd spent the night outdoors; his hunting trips only took him away from the castle for a few hours at a time. He tied his horse to a tree, and a sense of calm settled over him as he set up camp. He'd spent the past few days in a cramped and dirty cell. It felt good to be outdoors, with its crisp air scented with damp earth and pine. A stream wound through the clearing, and the sound of its trickling water over rocks soothed him.

Lachaid had included provisions of food in his bag; bread and ale. He tore into the bread though it only partially satisfied the hunger that gnawed at his gut. He'd taken for granted the sumptuous feasts he had in the great hall on a daily basis, with the cooks preparing his favorite meals of sumptuous stews and roasted meats.

A sudden sadness filled him, not over the everyday comforts of the castle, but over the sense of isolation that settled over him. He loved Aitharne Castle, from its myriad of chambers and winding corridors, to the great hall where he’d enjoyed many a feast. The castle was filled to the brim with workers and servants who’d worked in the castle since before he was a bairn, many of whom were like family to him. Aitharne Castle had been in his family and clan for several generations. But Tavish had desecrated his home with Eoin’s murder.

He finished his bread, taking a swig of ale. It would do no good to mull over Tavish's treachery. He needed to focus on what he'd do next.

His thoughts wandered to a close friend of his: Gabhran. He lived not far from these lands with his wife and young daughter. Ciaran was reluctant to put him and his family at risk by hiding out with them, but Gabhran was his closest ally—and he had the resources and men to help him.

It was beginning to grow dark. Ciaran put aside thoughts of Gabhran as he used his cloak as a makeshift bed, lying down and allowing his heavy fatigue to claim him.

* * *

Ciaran awoke to the sound of a splash and a muffled curse. He was instantly on his feet, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

In the near distance, he heard more splashing. Gripping his sword, he moved out of the clearing, following the stream south.

He went still when he arrived at the source of the splashing, astonishment rendering him still.

A bonnie lass in breeches stood on the banks of the stream, as wet as a drowned rodent, her blue eyes wild with fear.