The Chamber of Cold Light
Margaret Sinclair's chamber was a place of contrast—velvet curtains but drafty walls, a bed hung with fine cloth yet always cold, a desk littered with gold seals beside a cracked jug of water. She preferred it that way. Comfort softened. Hardness sharpened.
By the narrow window, she stood as she often did, watching the harbour below. Wick's ships leaned with the tide, their rigging creaking like old bones. Sailors shouted in the distance, and dogs barked on the quay. To Margaret, all of it was background noise—fleeting, unimportant. What mattered was the storm inside her chest.
She raised her hand to the glass and traced her reflection, fingertip gliding along her jawline. Her beauty was intact, still sharp, but her eyes had changed. They were no longer the eyes of a Sinclair daughter meant for banquets and ballrooms. They were eyes that cut, eyes that promised ruin.
She closed her eyes, and he appeared.
Seumas Gunn. She saw him as she had on the first day she met him in Aberdeen—broad-shouldered, scarred, a presence that filled a room without needing to speak. He had been weary then, the shadows of Culloden and exile still on him, yet his gaze was steady, unbending.
She had thought him like every other man at first—another to be charmed, another to be bent. But when her hand brushed his arm and her smile lingered, he had looked at her not with hunger but with judgment.
That had cut deeper than any insult.
For months she had tried: softer words, sharper jests, whispered invitations. Nothing. His rejection was not loud; it was worse—it was calm. He had turned away from her as if she were a child reaching for fire. And then he had gone to Agnes Craik.
Margaret's teeth ground together at the thought. Agnes. The name itself was an irritant, coarse, common. How could he, a man of legend, turn from a Sinclair daughter to her?
Envy's Bite
It was not the woman's trade in kelp or her salt-stained hands. Margaret could have forgiven that, perhaps even laughed. It was what Agnes had that Margaret never would.
Love.
Not the fluttering kind passed in salons. Not the transaction of dowries and estates. But the raw, blazing loyalty that Seumas gave her freely, without bargain, without restraint. Margaret had seen it in his eyes at Loch Wattenan, when he bled and still stood at Agnes's side. He had looked at her as if she were the axis of the world.
That was what Margaret craved. That was what burned her hollow.
She pressed her nails into her palm until crescents of blood bloomed. "If I cannot have it," she whispered to the window, "then she will not either."
Hatred was easier than envy. Hatred had clarity. It gave her purpose.
Agnes Craik must die. And Seumas must know who had taken her. Only then would he look at Margaret—not with love, perhaps, but with recognition. Grief would bind him to her, if only by hatred.
Better hated than forgotten.
Her desk bore witness to her descent. Letters lay scattered, wax seals stamped with the Sinclair crest.
To Aberdeen: promises of profit if her cousin sent men "of determination."
To a captain in Leith: veiled instructions to carry "cargo" of blades north.
To a surgeon in Inverness: a request for powders and tinctures, "for the swift quieting of enemies."
Margaret sealed another now, her hand steady despite her racing heart:
To Lord P—— of Edinburgh. It is in your power to alter the course of Caithness. I seek men who kill without hesitation, who know their art. Payment will be beyond expectation. Their task: one man, one woman. Their names matter not, only that they fall.
She pressed her signet so hard into the wax that it cracked. She smiled at the imperfection.
Clash with Robert
The door creaked. Her father entered, ledger in hand, eyes sunken. Robert Sinclair looked at her as if he scarcely knew her.
"You overreach," he said, voice dry as ash. "Your letters stink of desperation. You draw attention we cannot afford."
Margaret turned, her hair a cascade of fire. "Desperation? No, Father. Clarity. You play with numbers. I play with lives. Which wins wars, I wonder?"
He slammed his ledger onto the desk. "Numbers feed wars. Powder bought, men paid, ships supplied. Without ledgers there is no sword to swing. You would drown us all in your spite."
She stepped close, eyes blazing. "And you would choke us with your caution. Tell me, Father, how many wars have you won with ink?"
His hand shook, but his words struck. "And how many have you won with madness?"
Her smile cut like a dirk. "Not yet. But I will. Do you know why? Because men do not follow ledgers. They follow fire. And I am fire."
Robert recoiled. For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes—not of the enemy, but of his own blood.
"Listen well," she said, her voice low and venomous. "If you try to chain me again, I will unmake you. Do you think I do not know? The bribes you paid in Aberdeen, the false claims of cargo, the judges you bought? I will whisper it all. Your precious ledgers will hang you by your own ink."
Robert's lips trembled. "You would destroy your own father."
Her eyes narrowed. "I would destroy anyone who stands between me and what I desire."
The silence between them was thick, heavy as the sea before a storm. At last Robert picked up his ledger and left, slamming the door.
Margaret laughed softly, shaking her head. "Weak men. Always weak."
Alone with the Mirror
She returned to her mirror. The glass reflected her face, perfect still, but her eyes wild. She leaned close, whispering:
"You will be dead, Agnes Craik. And when you die, Seumas will see me. He will see me at last."
She pinched the candle flame between her fingers, wincing at the burn, and in the dark her laughter rang like a dirge.
Her descent did not happen in one night but over many. Each day she bribed another man, whispered to another ear, penned another letter. She promised coin, land, favours of the flesh. She prowled the taverns, cloak pulled tight, her beauty both weapon and mask.
Servants whispered of her madness. They said she barely ate, pacing her chamber like a hawk in a cage. They said she muttered names in the dark—Agnes, Seumas—over and over.
Robert avoided her gaze now. Keith endured her presence like one endures a thorn. But Margaret did not care.
Her world had shrunk to a single purpose: the ruin of Agnes Craik and the breaking of Seumas Gunn.
Thus Margaret's path deepened. She was no longer merely scorned—she was consumed. Obsession became her food, vengeance her breath. Her beauty, once her crown, became her mask; her wealth, her dagger.
And so the storm gathered not only in Wick's yard but in Margaret Sinclair's heart.
For storms are not only born of wind and sea. Some are born of envy, hatred, and a single woman's burning will.
The March from Wick
At dawn the horn sounded, low and deep, its note rolling across the harbour like thunder caught in a hollowed hill. Wick stirred awake with it—dogs barked, shutters banged open, women hurried into doorways with shawls clutched at their throats. The men of Keith gathered in the yard of the King's Arms, breath steaming in the cold, weapons clattering, boots crunching on frost.
The fire-cross still smoked in its socket, carried before them as both warning and summons. Its charred ends gave off the faint smell of peat and blood. Behind it stood Colin Keith, broad-shouldered, plaid flung over one arm, his claymore strapped across his back. His face was stone, his eyes iron.
"Form ranks!" His voice carried above the clamour. "Muskets front, targes behind, blades to the flanks! Any man who cannot keep a pace will not keep his life. March with me, or stay in Wick and drink yourself into shame."
They shuffled into place: fifty with muskets, some patched and battered from Culloden days, twenty with pikes, the rest with claymores, dirks, and targes. Each man carried the weight of his history—scarred veterans beside raw lads, mercenaries lured by silver beside farmers driven by feud.
Robert Sinclair rode at the column's side, ledger strapped to his saddle. His lips moved silently as he counted, lips tightening at every gap in the line. To him the march was figures, supply, cost.
Margaret rode further forward, mounted on a white palfrey, a scarlet cloak fastened at her throat. Her hair gleamed in the rising sun, her smile sharper than a dirk's edge. She looked like vengeance made flesh. Men's eyes followed her—some in awe, some with unease.
At the second blast of the horn, they moved. Drums thudded. Boots struck frost. Women wailed farewells. Boys ran alongside until driven back. The Keiths marched north, their cries of "Airson Chiad!" rattling the streets.
Doubts in the Ranks
The rhythm of the march carried them at first. The scrape of targes, the thump of drums, the rattle of musket slings. But soon the whispers began.
Rory trudged pale-faced, his musket slipping on his shoulder. His powder horn clinked as his hands shook.
"You'll spill the lot," muttered Alasdair Og beside him, his grin too wide, his eyes too bright. "Save it for Gunn's ghost. A ball through the heart will send him to hell, same as any man."
Rory's mouth was dry. "You don't kill a ghost."
Bain swaggered behind them, his dirk flashing in the light, his belt heavy with Margaret's silver. "Ghost or no, silver kills quicker. And I've coin enough." He patted his purse, grinning.
Murdoch, the bow-legged farmer turned fighter, growled from the flank, Lochaber axe across his shoulder. "Silver won't stop his claymore. You've not seen it swing. Cuts men like rushes. Ask MacRae's kin if you doubt it."
Bain sneered. "Then I'll not be in its way."
Davie Kerr spat into the frost. "Cowards talk of avoiding blades. Keiths meet them head on."
But even his words rang thinner than before.
The march carried them past fields hardened by frost, past crofts where smoke curled warily. Children stared wide-eyed as the column passed. Some men spat in the dirt at the sight of Keith tartan. Others crossed themselves, whispering prayers.
Above, the sky darkened. Clouds dragged low, heavy with snow. A cold wind rose from the sea, sharp with salt and kelp.
An old man limping in the baggage train muttered: "Tha na h-eòin a' tighinn ro thràth." (The birds come too early.)
Crows wheeled overhead, black against grey, circling once, twice, then scattering inland with harsh cries.
Keith narrowed his eyes. He remembered Culloden dawn, crows wheeling over moorland before cannon fire tore the earth apart. He spat into the heather. "Birds do not choose battles. Men do."
But men muttered prayers, touched charms of rowan, crossed themselves. Fear worked its way into the column as surely as frost into bone.
Margaret, riding tall, only smiled. "Even the crows know Agnes's blood will fall."
The Craiks Prepare
At Loch Wattenan, the Craiks had already readied themselves. Beacon fires had burned through the night, their smoke drifting like banners across the hills.
Agnes Craik stood before her people, cloak snapping in the wind, her voice fierce. "The Keiths march. They bring steel and fire. But we have buried our dead and we will bury more if we must—never will we kneel!"
Her words caught like sparks on dry heather. Men roared, women lifted their voices, children stamped feet with sticks for swords.
Seumas Gunn stepped forward, leaning heavily on his claymore. His ribs ached, his cough rattled, but his voice cut through the wind like iron.
"I fought at Culloden. I saw men cut down like wheat, clans broken, kin scattered. But I lived. And I tell you this: if we stand as one, we will not break as they did. They call me the ghost of the Gunns. Then let them come. They will find their ghosts are not easily laid."
The cry that answered him was deafening: "Còmhla gu bràth!" Together forever.
While men drilled, the women stoked the kelp fires. The pits smoked blue, flames licking seaweed piled high. The smell of iodine and brine choked the air, but it was the smell of survival. The ash would make soap, glass, even powder.
Others tended the salt pans along the shore, hauling buckets of brine, boiling it down to white crystals. Salt would keep the fish, feed the people, fund the fight.
Agnes moved among them, sleeves rolled, her hands as ready with nets as with bandages. "Every stone of kelp you burn is a blade in my hand. Every grain of salt is a bullet in your musket."
Seumas watched her with pride. She was no noble lady waiting behind walls. She was their strength, as much as his claymore.
At night, the Craiks gathered by the loch. Old Màiri lit juniper and scattered salt on the flames, chanting:
"Thig slàinte mar an èirigh-grèine,
Fàg pian mar sgòth a' seòladh."
(May healing come like the sunrise,
May pain leave like a drifting cloud.)
Men and women knelt, children clinging to mothers. Agnes clasped Seumas's hand. "They look to us," she whispered.
He coughed, blood speckling his lips, but his grip was firm. "Then we will not look away."
Margaret's Fantasies
Far away on the march, Margaret rode in silence, lost in visions.
She imagined Agnes bound to a post, flames licking her skirts, screaming. She imagined Seumas running to her, too late, his face broken. She imagined herself standing nearby, calm, radiant, victorious.
In other dreams she saw Seumas fall first, claymore clattering to the ground. She saw Agnes kneel beside him, sobbing, before Bain's knife slit her throat. And then she, Margaret, would step forward, her face the last thing Agnes saw.
These visions fed her like bread and wine. She rode taller, her smile bright, though madness smouldered beneath it.
The loch grew strange as the days passed. One morning its surface was smooth as glass, reflecting sky without ripple. Another day, waves rose though no wind blew.
Old Màiri frowned, clutching her staff. "The waters do not lie. The storm comes not only from men."
Agnes touched her arm. "Then we will weather it."
Seumas stared at the loch, memory gnawing him. The silence before Culloden. The stillness before cannon roar. He gripped his claymore tighter.
The Keiths marched north, through fields and burns, their column a scar across Caithness. The Craiks drilled, their fires smoking, their children learning war-cries. Between them stretched land waiting for blood, sky heavy with snow, sea restless at the cliffs.
The people of Caithness watched from crofts and dykes, whispering: "The feud awakens. Gunn walks again. Keith marches with him. The land itself shakes."
So the storm gathered.
In Wick, the march began with horn and drum, but whispers of fear hollowed the noise. Margaret dreamed of blood, Robert counted costs, Keith forced his men to stand like wolves though many quivered like sheep.
At Loch Wattenan, cairns were built, targes polished, dirks sharpened. Agnes bound her people with fire, Seumas bound them with steel.
The sky darkened, the loch stilled, crows wheeled overhead. The breath of the storm was on every neck, its shadow on every heart.
Soon it would break, and Caithness would drown in blood and ash.