Agnes settled beside him on the turf, skirts drawn close against the damp. Her hair was loose now, red fire catching the starlight. She smelled of smoke, salt, and the faint sweetness of kelp ash.
"You fought like a man bent on leaving nothing behind," she said.
"I thought I was," he admitted. "I thought the fire would take me, or Keith's blade." His hand closed reflexively on the claymore's hilt. "It would have been a good ending."
"And yet you're here." She leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. "Why do you think that is?"
"Chance."
"No." She shook her head. "Not chance. You were meant to find us. Meant to fight beside us."
He barked a low laugh. "Prophecy again?"
Her lips curved. "Maybe. Or maybe just the stubborn will of a woman who refuses to lose her pans."
For the first time in years, he smiled without pain.
The quiet stretched, heavy, intimate. Flint felt her warmth at his side, the brush of her sleeve against his cloak. The world shrank to firelight, salt wind, and the woman who had stood unbroken against Colin Keith.
"You have men who'd die for you," he said, voice low. "Yet you fight as hard as they do."
"They need to see me bleed," she answered simply. "Else they'd think I ask more than I'll give."
He nodded, slowly. "You lead like a Gunn."
Her brow arched. "You know the Gunns well, then?"
His eyes darkened. "Too well." He turned his face away, but not before she saw the shadow cross it.
She reached out, bold as ever, and set her hand lightly on his arm. "One day, you'll tell me," she said.
He looked down at her hand. His throat worked. "One day," he said.
A spark passed then—unspoken but undeniable. She felt it as a warmth under her palm; he felt it as a fire in his chest that was not sickness. Neither moved closer, but neither pulled away.
The sea crashed, the wind sighed, the pans hissed their low song.
And in that moment, James Gunn—Flint—knew that for the first time since Culloden, he wanted more than just to endure. He wanted to live.
Agnes felt it too. She turned back to the sea, her hand slipping away at last, and whispered so softly he almost missed it:
"Lasair agus luath."
Flame and ash.
He breathed the words back to her.
"Lasair agus luath."
And the night seemed warmer for it.
Signs of Storm
The days after the fire raid were uneasy calm. The Craiks worked harder than ever, cutting kelp until their backs bent and their hands blistered, boiling brine by moonlight, repairing fences with what rope and timber they had left. The salt and ash would sell—aye—but every man and woman felt the weight of eyes watching from the heather.
Flint saw it too. From the cliff path he would pause, scanning the ridges where gulls wheeled. He knew the signs—small movements, the way silence falls where men lie hidden, the sudden scatter of birds when something shifts. Keith's men were out there. Scouts. Counting. Waiting.
At night by the fire, Agnes read it in his face.
"They're gathering."
"Aye." He coughed into his kerchief, black-stained now from many nights. "He'll come with numbers this time."
"Good," she said. "Let him waste them on Caithness ground."
She said it with a chieftain's fire, but he saw the tightness in her jaw, the ledger already ticking in her head. Salt pans could be rebuilt. People could not.
The Eve of Battle
The Craiks stood in a line along the shore, rough-armed, rough-shod, but steadier than they had been a fortnight ago. Flint had drilled them in the Gunn way:
Breath counting.Half-strokes with blades to save strength.The targe not as shield alone, but as a liar, a club, a wall.Volley discipline with muskets.
Now he walked the line, claymore over his shoulder, pistols at his belt. His voice, low and harsh, carried like the sea's undertow.
"You'll not fight to look brave. You'll fight to live. Hold your place. Step together. Count your breath. Kill when you must. Hold when you can. That's how we'll keep the line."
Ewan, Tam, Seoras—all the young ones—looked at him with eyes too wide, but steadier than they had been. Agnes moved among them after, laying a hand on each shoulder, speaking their names like blessings.
That night she and Flint stood alone by the fire.
"You've given them what I couldn't," she said.
"You gave them reason," he answered. "I only gave them teeth."
"And you?" she asked, turning to him. "Why do you fight still, when your body betrays you?"
He looked into the flames. "Because death isn't victory. Not until I choose it."
She held his gaze. "Then choose life."
The words struck him harder than any blade. He had no answer, only silence, and the weight of her eyes on him.
The Keiths Strike
The dawn came grey and sharp, the sea white with spray. From the ridge above the loch, the Keiths came in a dark tide: forty men, some hirelings, some kin, all hungry for Craik salt and kelp. At their head rode Colin Keith, cloak snapping, blade bare.
Agnes called her people to the line. The Craiks stood shoulder to shoulder, muskets primed, blades ready. Flint planted himself in the seam by the sheds—the place he could do the most harm. His claymore gleamed in the dawn, a memory of Culloden come again.
Keith raised his sword. "Take it all! Leave none standing!"
The Keiths roared and charged.
The first volley cracked. Flint had drilled them well: half the line fired, then stepped back to reload while the second fired. Smoke rolled, men fell, the Keith charge staggered. Still they came.
Flint stepped forward into the press. His claymore swept wide, cutting two men down. The targe smashed a face, the dirk stabbed under ribs. Blood sprayed hot across his hands. He coughed, choking on it, but fought on.
Agnes held the fence line, short sword flashing, pistol barking once before she flung it aside and seized a shovel. She swung it like a blade, knocking a man into the brine where others finished him. Her hair flew loose, a banner of fire.
The clash was chaos—steel on steel, shouts, screams, the hiss of fire as torches fell into pans. Flint fought like a man possessed, each stroke precise despite the weakness in his body. A ball grazed his arm; a blade cut his thigh. Still he stood. Still he killed.
The Duel
Colin Keith pushed through his men until he faced Flint across the churned mud. The noise of battle seemed to fall away. Two men, two blades, centuries of feud between them.
"Gunn," Keith said softly. "I know you now."
Flint lifted his claymore. "Then you know how this ends."
They clashed—steel ringing, sparks flying. Keith was strong, trained, uninjured. Flint was fevered, bleeding, half-dead already. But he fought with a grim fury, every ounce of will poured into each strike.
Keith's blade cut his side, shallow but burning. Flint drove his targe forward, boss slamming Keith's jaw. Keith staggered, spat blood, grinned.
"You should have died at Culloden."
"I did," Flint rasped, and struck again.
The duel raged—parry, cut, bind, shove. Flint's strength began to falter. His cough tore free, spattering blood across Keith's blade. Keith pressed in, laughing.
Then Agnes was there, shouting in Gaelic, driving Keith back with a sweep of her shovel like a queen with her sceptre. Flint surged up beside her, claymore swinging one last time. Together they forced Keith to stumble, trip, and fall into the mud.
Keith's men pulled him back before the killing blow could fall, dragging him away with curses. "This isn't finished!" he spat.
"No," Flint growled, chest heaving. "It isn't."
Aftermath
The Keiths broke, leaving their dead in the mud and their wounded groaning. The Craiks stood bloodied but alive, smoke curling from their pans, breath steaming in the cold air.
Agnes raised her sword high. "We held!"
A ragged cheer went up.
Flint leaned on his claymore, coughing, blood dripping from his lips. Agnes came to his side, steadying him with a hand under his arm.
"You'll fall," she said.
"Not yet," he answered.
Their eyes met—blood, smoke, firelight reflected in both. Something passed between them, stronger than battle, stronger than fear.
In that moment, with the sea crashing behind them and the smell of blood in the air, they both knew: this fight was no longer only for salt and kelp, nor even for vengeance. It was for each other.