Chapter Four: The Highland Road

Talon woke with a dull ache in his spine and a heaviness behind the eyes. He sat on the edge of the narrow tavern bed, rubbing sleep from his face as the early sun pushed pale streaks of gold through the warped shutters. Somewhere below, the day had already begun.

As he descended the timber stairwell, the scent of woodsmoke and frying fat rose to meet him — oats thick with butter, spiced blood pudding, sour wine warmed by the fire. The air was thick with laughter, the low rumble of conversation bouncing off the stone hearth and timber beams. It was a tavern alive with the sounds of morning — a rough blend of Highland traders, Lowland guards, and road-weary merchants, each huddled over steaming bowls and sloshing mugs.

He stepped into the common room, letting the door swing shut behind him. A fire hissed and popped in the hearth, flames dancing over split pine and blackened logs. He found a seat in the back corner, close to the stonework, where the warmth touched his bones but the shadows still gave him space.

A barmaid passed, sharp-eyed and quick-footed.

“Oatmeal, haggis, oatcakes, and wine?” she asked, without needing to.

Talon gave a small nod.

“And wrap some for the road.”

She winked, disappearing into the bustle.

The flagon came first — dark, sour, rough on the tongue. Then came the bowl, steaming with oats and butter, and the crisp oatcakes stacked like folded parchment. Haggis, still warm and wrapped in its own spice, sat heavy in a small clay dish. Talon didn’t realize how hungry he was until the first mouthful landed in his stomach.

As he ate, he listened — not by choice, but by instinct. At a nearby table, three Lowland soldiers, already deep into drink despite the hour, leaned over their meals.

“They say the winter’s going to be cruel this year,” one said through a mouthful of bread. “Good. Flush the bastards from the hills. They’ll pay double just to keep their children fed.” “Aye. Need to fatten the King’s stores before the next march. And more lads heading south soon. Highland boys, mostly.”

Talon kept his face calm, but his grip on the spoon tightened.

Same talk. Same disdain in their voices, like the Highlands were some wild frontier to be tamed. They didn't understand the land. They didn’t care to. And yet they were here, pressing taxes from clans who’d stood long before their King's flag was stitched.

He finished the meal, placed Edrin’s coppers on the table — dirty coins earned with blood, but still coin — and slung the parcel of food over his shoulder.

As he passed the soldiers’ table, one stuck out a boot, quick and low.

Talon’s foot caught, and he staggered, shoulder knocking against a support beam.

Laughter erupted behind him.

“Watch it, tree-foot,” the man snorted. “Bloody Highlanders can’t walk straight.”

Talon turned. Not fast, not loud. But slow and deliberate.

He stepped to the man’s side, eyes like ice over granite. Without a word, he grabbed the soldier by the collar, lifting him half out of his seat with one hand.

The laughter died.

“You tripped me,” Talon said softly. “Say it again.”

The man’s bravado faltered. His companions rose, hands drifting to the hilts of their short swords. Talon’s grip tightened, his other hand balled into a fist — but then, like mist cooling hot stone, he let go.

The man dropped hard onto the bench, coughing.

“Not today,” Talon muttered, turning away.

“Watch yourself, Highlander!” one of them barked. “Know your place!”

Talon didn’t answer.

He stepped out into the crisp morning, mist still clinging to the cobbles and the sky a sheet of pale blue and pearl. Around him, the road was waking. Traders loaded carts, villagers herded goats through the streets, and the Highland Road stretched northward like a beckoning thread into fog and shadow.

He joined a small crowd leaving town — merchants, pilgrims, hopefuls — but he knew they’d all fall away before the wilds. Before the O'Coyle lands. Before Grimreach.

None would follow him there.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3