*Rory*
The great hall is filled with leaders of allied clans, and the tension is sharp enough to cut steel. The crackle of torchlight dances along the stone walls, but there’s little warmth here. Men stand in clusters. Warriors with blood still on their boots, elders cloaked in furs, women with red-rimmed eyes and arms crossed tight across their chests. The scent of smoke still clings to everyone, coating the room in sorrow.
Duncan stands near the hearth, his chin high, shoulders squared like he was born to bear the weight suddenly dropped on them. But I see the pain in his eyes. The grief just barely kept at bay. The exhaustion stitched into his frame.
“I did not ask to lead,” Duncan says, loud enough to quiet the room. “But I will. I must. My father named me his successor, and I will
