The Craik camp never truly slept. Saltpans had to be tended even at night, kelp fires fed and banked, barrels shifted so the heat did not split the staves. But on this night, work was slowed and the people gathered, as if pulled by some invisible rope to the fire at the camp's centre.
The pit had been dug deep and wide, lined with stone and fed with peat until it burned steady. Around it sat every man, woman, and child of the Craiks and their close kin. The flames painted their faces red, eyes glinting, shadows dancing along the walls of the sheds. The sea's thunder was a low drum beneath it all, a heartbeat that reminded them they were never alone, never unguarded.
The Gathering
Màiri, shawl pulled around her thin shoulders, stood first. She was the oldest in the camp, hair white as kelp ash, hands as twisted as driftwood, but her voice carried as if she were thirty years younger.
"Thigibh uile," she called. Come, all of you.
They came. Ewan and Tam, their faces still raw with youth and pride; the women who had spent the day with their arms blackened by kelp smoke; the children, eyes wide and lips stained with the remains of berries. And Seumas Gunn, tall, scarred, his claymore resting upright before him, the steel catching firelight. Agnes stood at his side, a scarf of red wool binding back her hair, a mark as bold as a banner.
Màiri lifted her hands. "We are Craiks. We are salt and sea, kelp and smoke. Our work feeds us, our land keeps us, and our names bind us. But names are wind if we do not tie them with blood and fire."
A murmur of assent rose. She turned, looked at Seumas. "This man carries a name the world calls cursed. Gunn. Yet he has stood with us, bled with us, guarded us when others would have left. I ask you—what is a name worth, if the deeds are stronger?"
The people answered not with words but with sound: the thumping of hands on thighs, the clapping of palms, the stamping of boots in the dirt. A rhythm, rough and certain.
Agnes raised her voice above it. "He is ours. If the Keiths or the Sinclairs come, they do not face a Gunn alone. They face Craiks, and Gunn, and all who stand beside us. Còmhla. Together."
The rhythm rose louder: Còmhla, còmhla, còmhla. Together, together, together.
Songs of Strength
Then came the songs.
An old man named Ailig struck up the first—a lament for Drummossie Moor, sung slow, with the keening edge of a dirge. The younger folk joined in, some stumbling over the words, but all carrying the grief. Flint felt it strike him in the chest like a musket ball, for the song spoke of brothers lying in the heather, of claymores broken and dreams scattered. He saw again the moor, the red coats advancing, his father's shout drowned by cannon-fire.
Agnes reached for his hand, grounding him.
Then the songs changed. The keening gave way to a waulking song, lively, defiant, the kind sung by women as they beat wool to soften it. The rhythm was infectious: slap, turn, slap. Children clapped, men stamped, voices rose. The words spoke of work, of laughter, of weather endured, of hearts that kept beating no matter how the world tried to still them.
Seumas's lips moved to the words, half-remembered from his youth. Agnes heard him whisper the refrain, and the sound of it—rough, broken by cough, but true—made her chest ache with something fiercer than sorrow.
Blessing of the Weapons
When the songs ended, Màiri stepped forward again, carrying a bowl of kelp ash mixed with salt and water. She dipped her fingers, blackened by soot, and went to the young fighters first.
"To you, Ewan mac Alasdair Craik," she intoned, smearing ash on his brow. "May your blade strike true, and may your heart not harden to stone."
"To you, Tam mac Sheumais Craik. May your arm never falter, and may you always find your way home."
One by one, she blessed them all. When she came to Seumas, she paused, her old eyes narrowing. "And to you, Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Gunn." Her hand pressed ash across his brow. "You were born with prophecy on your shoulders. Fuil is stàilinn. Blood and steel. You have carried both. But hear me—steel breaks, blood spills, and only love endures. Do not forget it."
Seumas bowed his head. The words struck him harder than any blow.
Agnes came last. Màiri touched her brow with the same ash and smiled, sly and knowing. "You burn already, lass. May your fire warm, not scorch."
The people laughed softly, easing the weight of the moment.
The Feast
When the blessings ended, the women brought food: bannocks baked on the griddle, fish smoked and salted, bowls of broth thick with barley and roots. Nothing fine, but plenty enough. Children ate first, then the elders, then the fighters. The firelight turned the meal into something grander than it was, and for a while, the fear of raids and bloodshed melted into warmth and community.
Seumas sat with Agnes, tearing a bannock in half and pressing one piece into her hand. "This—" he gestured at the people laughing, singing, eating—"this is worth more than all the gold I ever made in Glasgow."
Agnes leaned close, voice soft but steady. "Then you'll fight to keep it."
He met her eyes. "Aye. With every breath left in me."
The Oath
When the meal was finished and the fire burned low, Seumas rose. Silence fell.
"You know my name," he said. "Seumas Gunn. The Crown put a price on it. The Sinclairs call it cursed. The Keiths call it enemy. But here—" he planted his claymore upright before him, the steel gleaming red—"here it is only a man's name. And I give it to you. I will fight for you. I will bleed for you. If need be, I will die for you. Airson na beò. For the living."
The Craiks erupted, voices rising: Airson na beò! Airson na beò!
Agnes stood beside him, her hand in his, and the fire's glow caught them both. For a moment, Seumas thought he saw his father's face in the flames, proud and sad, and heard again the prophecy whispered at his birth: Fuil is stàilinn. Blood and steel.
But now, perhaps, there was more. Perhaps there was flame, and love, and hope.
The Alliance of Shadows
The inn's common room was cleared of all but the most loyal men. The fire smouldered low, casting long fingers of light across the table where Robert Sinclair had laid out maps, contracts, and accounts. The air smelled of wet wool, smoke, and candle wax. Beyond the walls, the night howled like a thing alive, rattling the shutters with every gust from the sea.
Margaret sat stiff-backed in a carved oak chair, her gown the colour of mourning though her eyes burned brighter than the embers in the hearth. A string of pearls circled her neck, each one gleaming like a drop of moonlight. She touched them often, as if to reassure herself of her place in the world—even here, at the edge of it.
Robert bent over his papers, quill scratching, fingers stained with ink. His whole being radiated calm calculation. He looked less like a father, less like a man even, and more like a machine designed for profit. In the lamplight his thin face seemed carved from stone, lines cut by years of bargaining, suing, bribing, and buying.
Opposite him, Colin Keith sprawled with the deliberate ease of a man who wasted no movement. He was broad-shouldered, scarred, his dark hair tied back with a strip of leather. His cloak still held the stink of horse and heather. He drank slowly from a tankard, his eyes never leaving the Sinclairs. Keith was not a man of ink or pearls. He was Caithness itself—hard ground, sharp winds, and a dangerous patience.
Robert's Calculations
Robert tapped the edge of the parchment with one bony finger. "The Craiks rely on three routes for trade," he said. "Scrabster for the ferries, Wick for the factors, and Thurso for the sheriff's writ. Close any one and they suffer. Close all three, and they starve."
He turned the page, showing neat columns of figures. "I've already bribed the sheriff's substitute. He'll seize Craik casks on suspicion of unpaid duties. The factors in Scrabster will refuse them pier space. And the ferrymen—" he smiled, thin as a knife's edge—"will find they prefer our gold to Craik brine. By spring, their goods will rot before they ever leave the shore."
Keith gave a grunt, unimpressed. "Aye, coin strangles. But slow strangling makes a man fight harder. Gunn won't sit while his folk starve."
"Then let him fight," Robert said coldly. "Every musket he fires costs powder. Every raid costs blood. I will choke him with hunger, and you may bleed him with steel. Between us, he cannot last."
Margaret's Fury
Margaret leaned forward, pearls shifting against her throat. "Not good enough," she hissed. "He must not only fall. He must suffer. That woman must be made to pay for daring to stand at his side."
Keith turned his head, studying her as if she were some strange bird blown north from warmer lands. "You care more for the woman than for the man."
Margaret's lips curled. "She looked at me as if I were the trespasser. She spoke as if my name meant nothing. And he—" her breath caught, the memory like a blade in her chest, "he stood for her. He never stood for me."
Her hand clenched on the pearls until the string creaked. "I will see her throat cut. I will see her dragged through her own pans and left for gulls."
"Pride," Keith said flatly, "spends men badly."
Robert raised his head at last, quill laid carefully aside. His eyes, sharp as glass, fixed on his daughter. "Margaret. Enough."
She flinched, but her jaw stayed set.
"We came here for coin and land," Robert continued, voice clipped. "Not for theatrics. Gunn must be destroyed in a way that strengthens us, not weakens. Keith will have the ground. I will have silence. And you—" his gaze sharpened—"you will have your name cleared in Aberdeen. That should be satisfaction enough."
Margaret's voice dropped to a whisper. "Not enough."
Keith's Terms
Keith drained his tankard and set it down with a heavy thud. "Listen well, Sinclairs. Gunn is no ordinary man. I've seen him fight. He moves like a shadow that refuses burial. The more you push, the stronger he becomes. If you want him dead, you'll need more than contracts and rage. You'll need the ground itself to betray him."
Robert spread his hands. "Then teach us the ground."
Keith leaned closer, pointing to the map with a scarred finger. "Here—the seam by the sheds. Bad footing, loose rock. Push him there and his targe will be more burden than shield. And here—" he traced a burn that cut toward the sea—"the hidden path. They use it to haul fish and smuggle casks at night. Ambush there and you'll find Gunn alone more often than not."
Margaret's eyes gleamed. "Then strike. Tonight. Tomorrow. Why wait?"
"Because haste kills more of mine than his," Keith said. His voice carried the weight of command, and his men at the walls straightened unconsciously. "We wait until hunger gnaws them thin. Then we come not as shadows but as fire. Fire eats kelp, eats sheds, eats men. Fire leaves no ghosts to fight again."
Robert nodded, already seeing the profit in it. "So be it. Your men will test their defences, find the seam. When the time comes, we strike with fire and steel. Gunn dies. The woman dies. The Craiks scatter. The land is yours. The silence is mine."
Poison in the Alliance
Margaret's smile curved like a blade unsheathed. "And I will have his heart."
Keith regarded her without blinking. "Careful, my lady. A heart cut wrong breeds martyrs. You want him forgotten, not remembered."
Margaret shook her head, curls shivering like flames. "No. I want him remembered as broken. I want her remembered as ash. Let their ghosts wail—so long as every man knows they were destroyed by Sinclair will."
Robert snapped the ledger shut. "Your will is not the measure here. My coin is. Keith's men are. Keep your venom, Margaret, but keep it leashed. One slip, and we all bleed for it."
For a long moment the three of them sat in the glow of the dying fire—the merchant, the warrior, the woman with poison in her heart. The pact hung in the air like smoke, sour and unclean.
At last, Keith rose, his cloak falling heavy across his shoulders. "You've paid for steel," he said. "You'll have it. But mark my words—Gunn won't fall easy. Kill him wrong, and Caithness itself will rise to avenge him."
Margaret's voice followed him as he strode to the door. "Then we'll kill him right."
The door banged open, and the night's gale rushed in, scattering papers and blowing the lamp-flame wild. Keith was gone into the storm.
Robert calmly set the papers in order again, smoothing each with his long fingers. Margaret sat back, her smile fixed and fierce, her eyes shining like a hawk's in the dark.
The Alliance of Shadows was made.