THE SECRET ROOM

CHAPTER FOUR

Katie’s POV

His arms were warm.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not the sword at his hip or the way the other men stared at him like he was something more than just their leader. Not even the rich, rough plaid slung over his shoulder or the smell of pine and earth that clung to him like a second skin.

It was his warmth — steady, solid — in a world that had suddenly gone cold.

He carried me like I weighed nothing. Like he’d done it before.

The sword I had clutched so desperately moments ago now lay abandoned in the grass, forgotten. I should’ve been panicking — flailing, screaming, running — but something in his expression made me still. Not soft, but not cruel either. Controlled. Watchful. Protective?

I didn’t know.

He pushed through the underbrush with ease, and the forest opened into a clearing glowing with firelight. The scent of roasted meat and burning wood curled through the air. I blinked in disbelief.

There were tents — dozens of them — made of stitched hide and wool, encircling a massive campfire at the center. Horses were tethered nearby. Men sat sharpening blades or speaking low in a language that hummed with history — Scottish Gaelic, thick and lyrical. Some turned as we approached, their gazes curious, even wary.

I curled slightly in the man’s arms, suddenly self-conscious again in my soaked dress and bare feet.

He ignored the stares.

He brought me straight to the fire and gently lowered me onto a thick woolen cloth spread across the grass. Warmth from the flames reached for my frozen skin, and I instinctively leaned toward it.

Without a word, he turned and vanished into one of the larger tents.

My hands trembled. My thoughts spun. What was this place? Who were these people?

And more importantly… when was I?

A few of the warriors stood near the edge of the firelight, watching me with unreadable expressions. They said nothing, but their presence loomed, thick as fog.

Then I felt something soft drape over my shoulders.

I turned.

The man had returned, placing a thick plaid blanket around me. It smelled like fire and forest. My fingers curled into it gratefully.

“Taing mhòr,” I murmured, the Gaelic words coming to me without thought.

(Thank you.)

He paused. “A bheil Gàidhlig agad?”

(Do you speak Gaelic?)

“Tha… beagan.” I nodded. (Yes… a little.)

He sat across from me, his eyes still locked on mine. The firelight caught in them, revealing the faintest hint of something — not cruelty, not anger… curiosity.

“You are not from here,” he said finally. His voice was deeper now, grounded by the English tongue. “Are you?”

I shook my head slowly. “No. I’m from England. But… it’s not just that. I’m not from this time either.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scoff or laugh or accuse me of madness. He just waited.

So I told him.

About the mirror. The library. The steel door we weren’t supposed to open. The ancient inscription in a language I shouldn’t have been able to understand but somehow did. The way the world had changed around me.

“I… I don’t know how I got here exactly,” I whispered, eyes fixed on the fire. “But I read something aloud, and then I was just… pulled in.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, “You were meant to come.”

I looked up sharply. “What?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “The words you spoke — agad an dàn a’ feitheamh thu san àm a dh’fhalbh — that is no ordinary phrase. It is a calling. A blood-bound promise.”

I blinked. “You know it?”

He nodded once. “It is old. Sacred. My mother told it to me as a child. She said… when the moon is high and the world grows thin, the past may borrow from the future.”

I had no idea what that meant.

But the way he said it made the hair on my arms rise.

“What’s your name?” I asked, unsure if I should’ve already known it.

He hesitated, then replied, “Calum. Calum MacLeòid.”

MacLeòid.

The name felt heavy. Historic. And somehow… familiar.

“Will your people hurt me?” I asked softly.

He looked around the camp. Then back at me.

“No,” he said. “Not while I draw breath.”

And even though I had no reason to trust him… I believed him.

“Rest,” he added, nodding toward the nearest tent. “You’ll need it. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to my home. There is someone there who may know more about your… arrival.”

I nodded slowly. The blanket was still warm around me, and exhaustion pulled at my limbs like gravity.

I stood and moved toward the tent, casting one last glance at him.

He stood near the fire, the wind catching the hem of his plaid, his sword glinting at his side.

Strong. Silent. Out of time.

I crawled into the tent and collapsed onto the makeshift bed, the blanket pulled tight around me. My eyes closed, the fire’s glow dancing behind my eyelids.

I dreamed of school. Of the girls. Of Jane’s laugh and Sasha’s smirk.

And just before sleep fully claimed me, I saw something else.

A pair of ice-blue eyes. Watching me.

I woke to the sound of birdsong. Not the harsh caw of crows on city rooftops or the muffled buzz of a school morning. This was different — cleaner, sharper. A kind of music that sounded older than memory.

For a moment, I forgot everything.

Forgot the mirror. The smoke. The sword.

I forgot I had nearly drowned. That I had spoken to a man who seemed carved from myth.

But then I opened my eyes and saw the fabric above me — thick wool, stitched by hand, the seams slightly uneven — and it all came rushing back.

I wasn’t home.

I sat up slowly, still wrapped in the plaid blanket Calum had given me. The ground beneath me was padded with furs, and sunlight streamed through the open flap of the tent, casting golden beams across the woven floor.

Outside, I could hear voices — deep, lilting, speaking in Scottish Gaelic. Horses snorted. Metal clanged. The low rhythm of hammers echoed against stone. Life was happening out there.

I slipped on my shoes — or what was left of them — and pulled the blanket tighter around myself like a makeshift cloak. My dress was still damp at the hem, wrinkled and streaked with mud. But I had no choice. This was all I had.

I stepped outside.

The camp was already awake and alive. Men moved in clusters, some tending to fires, others sharpening weapons or repairing gear. A few women were there too — hauling water, cooking, even wielding blades with skill that made my jaw tighten in awe.

And then there was me.

A girl from a boarding school in North Yorkshire, standing awkwardly in the middle of a medieval war camp like she’d wandered out of a hallucination.

I caught a few glances. Some curious. Some cautious.

And then I saw him.

Calum.

He stood near a black horse, speaking to an older man with silver in his beard. His posture was stiff, commanding, like someone used to being obeyed. But the moment his eyes landed on me, something in his expression shifted — not warmth, not exactly… but a flicker of something gentler.

He handed the reins to the man beside him and made his way over.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice roughened by the morning air.

“Barely,” I murmured. “Where are we?”

He gestured to the forest behind him. “We broke camp at first light. We’ll reach my village by sundown.”

I blinked. “So… we’re walking?”

He arched a brow. “You’d prefer to fly?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not unless that mirror still works.”

Something like amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it faded quickly.

“You’ll ride with me.”

“What?”

“It’s safer,” he added. “You’re not dressed for travel. And you don’t know these woods.”

I hesitated, glancing around. “What if I… I mean, couldn’t I just… try to find my way back? To the mirror?”

Calum stepped closer. “Do you even know where you are?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Exactly.

His voice softened slightly. “If there’s a way back, it’s not out here in the trees. Not alone. My people have stories… about the mirror. About the words you spoke. There may be someone in the village who knows more.”

I sighed, shoulders sinking. “Fine. But only because I literally have no idea what century I’m in.”

He nodded once, then turned and led me toward the horse.

The journey began just after sunrise.

Calum helped me mount the horse — thank God, because I had never ridden before and my dress made it ten times harder. I sat sideways at first, then ended up gripping the saddle with both legs as he climbed up behind me. His hands moved past me to take the reins, and for a moment I could feel the heat of his chest against my back.

It was oddly comforting. Steady.

The forest blurred past us as the horse trotted down a narrow trail, the world stretching out in ways I couldn’t name. No roads. No cars. Just moss-covered stones, towering trees, and the echo of a time that felt untouched.

We didn’t speak much, not at first. But I caught myself watching him — the way his jaw clenched when he was deep in thought, the quiet way he scanned the trees like a predator trained to sense danger.

He wasn’t just a warrior.

He was someone who had seen things. Lived through fire. And I couldn’t help but wonder what shadows he carried behind those cold eyes.

“Do you always travel with a full army?” I asked after an hour.

His reply was low. “Only when there’s something worth protecting.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that. I wasn’t sure he did either.

We stopped by a stream to rest. A few of the men refilled waterskins. A girl about my age approached and handed me a piece of bread wrapped in cloth. I thanked her shyly.

“You are the one who came through the mirror,” she said in Gaelic-accented English.

I froze. “How do you know?”

She smiled faintly. “They say the land whispered of it before you arrived. That the stars shifted. That the air smelled like ash and silver.”

I swallowed. “What does that mean?”

Her smile faded. “It means your presence is no accident.”

We reached the village just before nightfall. Thatched roofs peeked from behind a low wall of stone. Smoke curled from chimneys. People paused in their chores as we rode in.

And even though I was exhausted and confused and completely out of my element… a part of me felt something strange.

Like I had been here before.

Like something… or someone… had been waiting for me.