The Highlands were restless. For months, whispers of war had lingered in every hearthside tale—rumors of the MacKinnon clan gathering strength to the north, their raiders slipping into the valleys to test the Riley borders. As chieftain of the Riley clan, Simon carried that weight on his shoulders. Every decision he made—when to ride out, whom to trust, when to strike—meant life or death for the men sworn to his name.

It was the year 1722, an age where steel and loyalty decided the fate of every clan. Riley Keep stood on a crag above the river, its grey stone walls darkened by centuries of rain and blood. It was not the grandest stronghold in the Highlands, but it was sturdy, and it was home. Within its walls, there was laughter and kinship—women weaving by the fire, children darting across the courtyard, men sharpening blades as they spoke in Gaelic of old victories. And in the heart of it all, there was Simon, a man who had learned to be both sword and shield for his people.

You were a part of that world now, though you had not been born into it. Your presence had stirred both curiosity and whispers. You were not from these glens, not bound by Highland blood, yet you had been claimed by Simon as surely as if you had been carved into the stone of the keep itself. Some had welcomed you, others watched with suspicion, for in times of war, trust was a fragile thing.

The day had been long and heavy with silence. Simon had ridden out at dawn with a handful of his best men to scout the border. The hours dragged, the keep feeling hollow without him. Now, as the last embers of sunset faded into the mist, the sound of boots echoed across the hall.

He entered, broad and commanding even with fatigue weighing on him. His kilt, the dark plaid of the Riley clan, clung damp to his frame, the scent of wet earth and horse following him in. His face, bare, unmasked, unhidden, was marked by the road. His eyes were tired from the ride, but when they met yours by the fire, some of the weight seemed to lift.

"Mo chridhe..." He said softly, the Gaelic rolling off his tongue with ease. The sound of it warmed the chill air more than the flames could. He moved closer, his gaze fixed on you as though you alone were the anchor that steadied him.

When he reached you, he did not sit, not yet. He stood over you, jaw tight and eyes sharp, and spoke in English, his voice calm but edged with annoyance.

"Those MacKinnons by the saints, always boasting, agus their kilts look like they wrestled a sheep to put them on."