Chapter Seven: The Halls of Cu Sith
The courtyard stretched wide under a grey sky, its ancient stones cracked and moss-veined, but solid as ever. Talon stood for a long while, boots still, as if the ground itself was listening. Wind moved through the space with a mournful voice, curling up the walls of the keep like a sigh.
He looked around.
This was where he had trained with his brother—sword in hand, teeth gritted, laughter between bruises. The echo of their youth still clung to the yard like ghosts in the fog. Swordsmanship in the rain. Wrestling barefoot in the dirt. Archery competitions that always ended in an argument and a thrown boot. Falconry lessons, the birds shrieking above, one of them always diving toward his brother’s head.
And high above, carved into the outer keep wall, the weather-worn heads of Cu Sith watched—guardians of the clan, their stone eyes narrowed and eternal. The emblem of the house. The emblem of the pact.
A scent drifted from memory—spiced stew, honey-oats, smoked venison. His mother, humming. A fire crackling. Gone now.
He passed beneath the ancient arched corridor, hand brushing the wall where generations had left their mark—scratches, dents, notches for forgotten purposes. He crossed through the shadow of the old oaken arch and entered the great hall.
The smell of ash and damp wool greeted him.
“Master Talon,” came a familiar voice, rough with age and smoke.
Brannoc, the houseman, stood near the hearth, eyes wide with cautious hope. His beard was longer now, gone to streaks of white, but his posture still carried a servant’s poise. He bowed slightly—not out of habit, but respect.
“You’ve returned. Safe. We’ve heard whispers from the lowlands, but word comes so slow up here. I feared you had…” He trailed off.
Talon shook his hand, gripped his forearm.
“I’m here. The gods weren’t done with me.”
“And… your brother?”
Talon’s jaw tightened. Brannoc lowered his gaze.
“He left but half a moon ago. Took a small party—six housemen. Said they were summoned by the king’s riders. Strange thing… those men came all the way up here, not wearing their southern banners proper. No word since. We’ve heard from hunters that they made camp…” Brannoc hesitated. “By the loch.”
Talon blinked.
“The southern shore?”
“Aye. Downriver, beyond the cairn rise. They say the red cloaks camp there now, keeping to the waterside, tents up against the fog.”
Talon’s eyes narrowed.
“Only fools sleep that close to the loch.”
Brannoc nodded grimly.
“Or men with no sense of where they are.”
Talon stepped forward, surveying the long hall.
“I’ll rest tonight. Tomorrow I’ll visit the cairn. And if the camp is still there, I’ll go take a look.”
Brannoc stirred the hearth’s flames.
“I’ll see a fire lit. Bring out the frost-cellar ale. Sit, lad—we’ve much to speak on.”
Talon sat at the long table, shoulders heavy with memory. The carved wolves above the mantle seemed to lean forward in the firelight.
Meanwhile, Down by the Loch…
Screams echoed off the stone walls of the old outpost turned prison.
A tent snapped in the wind. Torches flickered along the shoreline where the king’s men had made their camp—right on the southern edge of the O’Coyle loch, where the water turned deepest and strangest. A ruined stone dock jutted out, long rotted and slick with moss. Nothing else stirred.
Within the largest tent, Talon’s brother was chained to a rusted chair, arms limp, shirt torn. One eye was nearly swollen shut. Three southern agents moved around him like jackals around a dying stag.
A dagger twisted slowly into the side of his gut.
“Now then, Lordling,” hissed the commander, wiping blood from the blade. “Sign the deeds. Yield your little kingdom to the king. Or what’s left of you gets thrown in that black water.”
“He offered gold,” said another. “You refused. Spat in our faces. For what? For wolves and wind and mist?”
The third one, younger, stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Your brother's home, isn’t he? Word is he made it past the Barrier. I wonder… would he scream like you?”
Talon’s brother forced a laugh through clenched teeth.
“You mock what you don’t understand. He’s not like other men. None of us are.”
“That so?” the commander sneered. “Then we’ll gut you here, and when he comes, we’ll do the same. We’ll drown your bloodline in the very loch you love.”
Outside, the wind howled.
The torches flickered again—one blew out. The loch mist thickened around the edges of camp. Something moved between the pines.
And the long night had only just begun.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter Eight: Cairn of the Bloodbound
Talon rose in darkness. The keep slumbered, its halls cold and still. He moved through its bones in silence—boots echoing soft against stone, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. In the kitchen, he scraped together a Highland breakfast: oatcakes, dried meats, a wedge of hard cheese, and thick tea boiled over the hearth's fading coals. He ate at the long hall’s edge, staring into the dying embers, the walls dimly lit by the rising moon beyond the arrow-slit windows. "You visit me still," he muttered. The voice from the dream clung to him—not words but a sensation, low and ancient. Yellow eyes, burning in the dark. The furred shape, never seen in full. That whisper again: “We rest together…” He touched his temple and shook it off.
Talon wandered the halls of the keep, memory rising like morning fog. The great arch of the north stair… where he and his brother used to slide down on old shield-boards. The heavy wooden table near the hearth… where his mother would crush herbs and whisper over soups. A shadow of laughter. A flash of movement—his brother darting through the hall, ten winters old, wooden sword in hand. Gone.
The sky turned pale with dawn. A thin line of gold bled across the mountains, smearing the frost-laced fields. Mist moved along the earth in slow coils, swirling at Talon’s feet like living memory. He stepped out into the crisp cold, breathing deep. Behind him, the black keep loomed, silhouetted and solemn. Before him lay the bridge—to the other side. He crossed it. The ancient stone path curled over frostbitten ground, leading him to the cairn rise, a hump of land swaddled in silence and covered in low-thorn shrubs and towering yews. A black iron gate stood at the top, heavy and cold. Talon paused at the threshold. He whispered the sacred words in Gaelic, crossing himself thrice. “Slàn leibh, mo shinnsire.” (Farewell, my ancestors.) He passed through the gate and began his descent.
The Cairn Below The stone steps wound downward, damp with age and darkness. A single droplet of water fell from the ceiling above, echoing on stone like the heartbeat of the dead. Talon struck flint—snap… spark… whoosh—and the torch leapt to life. Light filled the chamber in waves, licking against carved walls and casting long shadows. The air was heavy with peat and stillness. There, among the ancient dead, lay his bloodline. Sarcophagi carved with swirling Celtic knots and wolf-tooth patterns. On the far wall stood the greatest tomb of all—his father’s. The stone lid was shaped in full relief: a slumbering warrior, clad in his clan’s cloak, hands crossed on a great sword and shield. And the face of the Cu Sith carved above the crown on the figure’s brow. Talon approached slowly. He placed a palm upon the stone, fingers tracing the hilt of the sword. “Father… I came too late. I never heard your last words. I bring no victories, only questions.” He knelt beside the sarcophagus, torch flickering over his face. “The war… it burns the land. The southern pigs wear gold crowns and call it law. And they took him—took your son, your heir. I swear to you by fire and frost, I’ll bring him back. Or I’ll bring vengeance.” He lowered his head. Behind his eyes, the Cu Sith stirred again. The whisper was closer now. “Blood calls to blood.” “We rest together…” Talon exhaled. He stood. And as his hand pressed once more on the cold stone lid, a faint metallic click echoed within the chamber wall—too soft to notice. A mechanism, long dormant, shifted deep behind the cairn. A sigil etched in the back wall pulsed faintly for a breath… then stilled.
Talon ascended the steps. He sealed the gate behind him, not seeing the flicker of light far below—a new path silently revealed. Above, the sun now bled fully across the high peaks, gold-fire burning through icy fog. A breeze caught his cloak. He mounted a Highland steed, packed and ready by the old hitching post. Without another word, he rode off across the wilds—his brother’s last trail fresh on his mind, and vengeance beating like war drums in his chest. The wolf was awake now.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
