The mist had not yet lifted when I left the forest. It clung to my cloak, my hair, my lashes as though the Highlands themselves wished to keep me hidden a while longer. But even shadows must one day step into the light.
Word of the witch in the woods had reached beyond the glens now. The Huntress of Shadows, the spirit who saved a Fraser from the gallows of fate.
It was a tale told by firelight, embroidered by fear, and believed enough that men turned twice before crossing the woods at night.
And yet, despite the legend's weight, I could feel the threads of fate tugging me elsewhere. The stones hummed faintly every dawn, and in their song, I heard one name rise again and again, Leoch.
Castle Leoch.
Where Claire Randall's true story would begin.
And where mine, it seemed, was destined to intertwine with theirs.
So, I buried the witch.
At least, the one the world thought they knew. I tore away my soot-stained cloak, bound my hair, and wrapped myself in plain linen and grief. A widow's garb, humble, worn, forgettable. The disguise of a woman erased by time.
By the third day of travel, my reflection in a river's edge showed no trace of the creature who had conjured smoke and vanished from fire. Just a pale-faced wanderer with eyes too watchful and silence too deep.
When I reached Leoch, the castle loomed gray and proud upon its hill, its battlements jagged against the horizon, like an old beast that refused to die. The scent of peat fires and roasted meat drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of life within its walls.
I approached the gate with the hesitance of the weary, leaning on a walking stick I did not need.
"Name?" the guard asked, his tone sharp but distracted.
"Elara Wyn," I said softly. "Widow of Alasdair Wyn. Lost him to fever, north of Inverness. I seek work."
He studied me for a long moment. My eyes did not waver. Pity, I had learned, could be a more potent weapon than lies.
"Speak to Mistress Fitz," he grunted finally, motioning me inside.
And just like that, the legend of the Huntress of Shadows slipped through the gates of Castle Leoch wearing a widow's face.
The kitchens of Leoch were their own kind of battlefield. Steam, shouting, clattering pans, the air alive with motion. Mistress FitzGibbons ruled the chaos with a wooden spoon that seemed as dangerous as a sword.
She looked me over once, then nodded toward a basin. "You've the hands of a worker," she said briskly. "Good. There's always need for one who keeps quiet."
I smiled faintly. "Quiet's my virtue, Mistress."
"Then you'll fit fine," she said.
And so I did.
Days passed, marked by the rhythm of the castle, the clang of bells, the laughter of clansmen, the soft steps of women who carried more secrets than bread. I learned quickly where to linger unseen, how to listen without being noticed.
And soon, I saw them.
Jamie Fraser, standing in the courtyard with his arm bound from the wound that should've killed him. Stubborn as ever, arguing with Murtagh about training and chores. His laughter, rare but unguarded, carried like sunlight through cold stone.
And near him, Claire.
She moved through the castle like she didn't belong, too straight-backed, too confident, too clean. A woman from another world, trying to survive a century not her own.
I knew the signs. I'd lived them.
The first time I saw her hands tremble near the herb table, I recognized the tremor not of fear, but of restraint, the urge to explain what no one here would understand.
It was like watching a mirror breathe.
But I could not reveal myself, not to her, not yet. The ripple of her arrival was still new, and my own presence already threatened the balance. Too much interference, and time itself might turn on me.
Still, I found ways to help. Quietly.
When the stables caught fire one night from a spilled lantern, I drew the horses to safety under the cover of smoke. No one saw me, only the faint shimmer of light that cloaked their path.
When Jamie's bandages grew sour, I left a small pouch of powdered antiseptic by the well, an old-world remnant wrapped in burlap, marked only with a symbol I'd used in my work before the fall: two overlapping circles, science and fate intertwined.
He found it. Used it. Spoke later of "a blessing from the forest."
I almost laughed when I heard it, the forest blessing her children still.
But Leoch was not a place of peace. Beneath its stone and hearth ran suspicion like an undercurrent.
I felt it in the whispers. The way eyes followed Claire in the corridors, the healer who came from nowhere, whose hands could mend wounds that priests could not.
It would not be long before they whispered witch again.
And that, I could not allow to happen.
Not again. Not to her.
So I watched from the shadows, from the rafters of the kitchen, from the hidden stair near the library, from the forest edge beyond the walls.
Once, I caught Murtagh's gaze upon me as I lingered near the courtyard's edge. He said nothing, but his look held something between warning and understanding. The same unspoken accord as before: he would keep my secret, for now.
That night, as I returned to my small chamber by the scullery, the stones began to hum faintly, distant yet insistent. The same pulse I'd felt at Craigh na Dun.
Change was coming again.
I sat by the narrow window, the moonlight painting my hands in silver. The castle slept, but fate did not.
"History is unfolding," I whispered. "And I am standing in its shadow."
The forest had sheltered me. The smoke had hidden me. But now, the heart of Leoch would test the limits of both.
Because within these walls, among the scent of bread and steel, the truth was waiting to be seen.
And when it did…
I would no longer be able to hide behind the mask of a widow.
Not from them.
Not from destiny.
Not even from myself.
In the kitchen's dim light, I polished a copper pot until my reflection stared back, older, wearier, but unmistakably alive. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser's story was taking shape. And I, Elara Wyn de Roslin, the Huntress of Shadows, stood in the wings, unseen yet vital.
Soon, the myth I'd become would step into the light once more.
And when it did, Leoch itself would remember my name.