Chapter 16: The Attempt

I've made my decision.

Three days of watching. Three days of asking careful questions, piecing together what I can. Catherine's roommate remembers her leaving one night and never coming back. The man from the kitchens, Derek, vanished the same week. Official story: they left together. Wanted to try their luck elsewhere.

Nobody believes it. They just don't say so out loud.

Eleanor was telling the truth. Hugh is trading people to raiders. And if he's done it twice, he'll do it again.

Maybe next time it'll be someone else. Maybe it'll be Zoe.

I can't let that happen.

The knife is in my hand. I don't remember picking it up. It feels right there. Familiar. The same knife I used in the clearing. The same blade that's already tasted blood.

Nine people. What's one more?

The thought should horrify me. It doesn't. There's nothing inside anymore. Just cold. Just purpose.

I need more than a knife.

The armoury is in the east wing, near the guardhouse. I've mapped it. Two guards during the day, one at night. They rotate at midnight, same as the detention block.

But the armoury has a proper lock. Keys held by Marcus. Getting in won't be easy.

Unless I don't need to get in.

I think about the hunting party I saw returning three days ago. Rifles slung over shoulders, relaxed, laughing. They store their weapons in the armoury after each trip. But there's a window—the fifteen minutes between returning and actually turning the weapons in. They stop at the kitchens first. Get warm. Grab food.

Tomorrow's hunting party leaves at dawn. They'll return by mid-afternoon if they're lucky.

I can wait.

That cold focus settles in. Same feeling from the forest, from the ridge above the pagan camp. My mind goes quiet. Stops asking questions. Just runs through the steps.

Hugh Gilespie. Leader of Free Mugdock. The man everyone trusts.

The man who trades his own people to monsters.

I sit in the dark of our room, listening to Zoe breathe. She's been distant since our last conversation. Worried about me. Trying to give me space.

She doesn't know what I'm planning. Can't know. She'd try to stop me. She'd tell me I'm wrong, that I'm paranoid, that Hugh is a good man.

But I've seen what good men do when they think no one's watching.

Tomorrow. When the hunting party returns. I'll get a rifle. And then I'll wait for Hugh to be alone.

One shot. Clean. The same way I took the first pagan. The same mechanical precision.

And then we'll leave. Zoe and me. Find somewhere else. Somewhere without leaders who sell their people to save their own skin.

She won't understand. Not at first. But she'll see. Once Hugh's gone, she'll see what he really was.

The knife turns in my hand. Catching the faint light from the window.

I don't sleep. I don't need to. The soldier doesn't need sleep. The soldier just needs a target.

Tomorrow.

Before Hugh, there's Eleanor.

I can't leave her down there. Can't let her rot in a cell for the crime of telling the truth. When Hugh is dead and everything falls apart, they'll blame her too. She needs to be gone before that happens.

The detention block is easier the second time. I know the route. Know the guard's habits. Know the ninety-second window during shift change.

I wait in the shadows until the old guards leave and the new ones haven't arrived. Then I move.

Down the stairs. Through the corridor. Past the sleeping prisoners to Eleanor's cell at the end.

She's awake. Watching. Like she's been waiting for me.

"I knew you'd come back," she whispers.

"We need to move. Now."

The lock is old iron. Simple mechanism. I've picked worse during training exercises. It takes me forty seconds—longer than I'd like—but then the door swings open.

Eleanor steps out. Her eyes are bright, alert. No hesitation.

"What's the plan?"

"I'm going after Hugh. You need to get out. North gate, there's a gap in the watch rotation at quarter past six. Go through the forest, don't follow the roads."

She nods. Taking it in. Processing.

"And then?"

"Then you're free. Go wherever you want. Just don't come back."

She studies me for a moment. Something flickering behind her eyes that I can't quite read.

"You're really going to kill him."

"Yes."

"Good." She puts a hand on my arm. Brief. Firm. "He deserves it. For Catherine. For Derek. For all of them."

The names hit me like punches. Reminders of why I'm doing this. Why it has to be done.

"Go," I say. "Before the guards come back."

She goes. Quick and quiet, up the stairs and into the darkness. I wait until her footsteps fade, then follow.

At the top, we split. She heads north, toward the gate and the forest beyond. I head east, toward the hunting party and the rifle I need.

I don't look back.

One innocent person saved. One guilty person to deal with.

The math is simple. Clean. The kind of calculation the soldier understands.

I don't let myself think about what happens if I'm wrong.

The hunting party returns at half past three.

I'm in position. Have been for hours. A shadowed alcove near the kitchen entrance, where I can see the courtyard without being seen. The cold doesn't touch me. Nothing touches me.

They come through the gate laughing, two deer slung between them. Good haul. Everyone's in high spirits. They head straight for the kitchens, just like I knew they would. Rifles still on their shoulders.

I wait.

They file inside. The last one—young, careless—props his rifle against the wall by the door while he stamps snow off his boots.

Fifteen seconds. That's all I need.

I move. Quick. Silent. The rifle's in my hands before he even turns around. I'm back in the shadows, checking the chamber, confirming it's loaded.

It is.

Now I wait again.

Hugh's routines are predictable. Office during the day. Dinner in the great hall. Evening walk on the walls when the weather permits. Then back to his quarters.

Tonight the weather's clear. He'll walk.

I position myself in the tower overlooking the north wall. The same tower where the guards keep their evening watch. But the guards rotate at six, and there's a ten-minute gap before the new shift arrives.

Ten minutes is more than enough.

The sun sets. The temperature drops. I don't feel it.

I feel nothing.

Just the weight of the rifle in my hands. Just the slow, steady rhythm of my breathing. Just the clarity of purpose that comes when everything else falls away.

Six o'clock. The guards leave their post. I move into position.

The wall stretches out below me. Empty. Grey stone dusted with snow. The last light of day fading behind the hills.

And then I see him.

Hugh. Walking alone. Hands clasped behind his back, breath misting in the cold air. He looks tired. Older than I remember. The weight of leadership showing in his shoulders.

Doesn't matter. Doesn't change what he's done.

I raise the rifle. Settle into the stance. Left shoulder, left eye, the way I've done a thousand times. The scope finds him easily. Centre mass. Clean shot.

My finger finds the trigger.

This is it.

The moment.

Time slows.

I've been here before. On the ridge overlooking the pagan camp. Scope sighted, finger ready. The same cold certainty. The same emptiness where fear should be.

One squeeze. That's all it takes. One squeeze and it's over.

Hugh stops walking. Turns toward the tower. For a moment it looks like he's staring right at me, right down the barrel of the rifle.

He can't see me. It's too dark. I'm too well hidden.

But something makes me hesitate.

He looks exhausted. Like a man who hasn't slept properly in months.

He sold people to raiders. He's not human. He's a monster.

My finger tightens on the trigger.

One squeeze.

I can't do it.

I should look him in the eye when I do it.

I need him to know why. Need him to see my face when he dies. Need him to understand what he did and why it cost him everything.

The rifle lowers. The moment passes.

But it's not over. It's just beginning.

I leave the tower. Move through the castle. Following the route I know he'll take. Back to his office. Back to his paperwork and his impossible decisions.

The knife is heavy in my belt.

This time, I won't hesitate.

His office door is unlocked. It always is. Hugh Gilespie, man of the people. Open door policy.

Not tonight.

I slip inside and close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds impossibly loud in the silence.

The room is empty. A single candle burning on the desk, casting long shadows across the maps and papers. He's not back yet. Good. I can wait.

I position myself in the corner behind the door. When he enters, he won't see me until it's too late. Training. Procedure. The soldier knows exactly what to do.

Minutes pass. I count my heartbeats. Slow. Steady. The heartbeat of a predator waiting for prey.

Footsteps in the corridor. Coming closer. The handle turns.

Hugh enters, rubbing his hands together against the cold. He moves toward the desk, reaches for the candle—

I'm on him before he can react.

My arm hooks around his throat. I drag him backward, off balance. He's shorter than me but solid, compact. A man who's survived things. Doesn't matter. I have leverage, momentum, training. We crash into the wall. He grunts, tries to twist free.

The knife comes up. Pressed against his neck. One quick motion and it's over.

"Don't move."

He stops struggling. Smart. His breath comes fast, his body tense, but he doesn't fight.

"Jamie." His voice is strained but calm. Too calm. "Whatever you think—"

"I know what you did." I press the blade tighter. Feel his pulse jumping against the steel. "Catherine. Derek. The others. You traded them to MacLeod like cattle."

"That's not—"

"I talked to Eleanor. I know everything."

He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

"Eleanor doesn't know everything. She saw something and made assumptions."

"She saw you hand over Mugdock people to raiders."

"She saw me trade captured raiders back for our supplies and our driver." Hugh shifts slightly. Testing. I press the knife deeper. "Callum. His name is Callum. MacLeod's people took him. I got him back."

"That's not what she said."

"Eleanor was stealing from the stores. Multiple witnesses. She's looking for any excuse to discredit me so she can get out of that cell."

He's lying. He has to be lying.

"What about Catherine? Derek?"

"They left. Together. I didn't stop them. People can leave if they want. This isn't a prison."

"You're lying."

"I'm not." His voice is steady. No fear. No anger. Just that same tired patience. "Jamie, I understand why you don't trust me. After everything you've been through, trust doesn't come easy. But I'm not your enemy."

The knife shakes in my hand. Just slightly. Just enough that we both notice.

"I've seen what you are," I say. "I've seen how you treat Zoe. How you treat me. Different. Separate. You're playing us against each other."

"I gave Zoe a job that uses her skills. I gave you time to adjust. How is that—"

"Shut up."

"Jamie—"

"SHUT UP!"

My voice echoes off the stone walls. The candle flame flickers. Hugh goes very still.

The cold focus is slipping. Something underneath pushing through, something I can't control.

He's lying. He has to be lying. Because if he's not—

If he's not lying, then I'm the monster.

I killed nine people in that clearing. Told myself it was necessary. Told myself I was saving Zoe. But what if I just wanted to kill? What if this is who I am now? Someone who sees enemies everywhere, who solves problems with violence, who can't stop until everyone around him is dead?

The knife trembles against Hugh's throat.

"Jamie." His voice is gentle now. Like he's talking to a frightened child. "Put the knife down. Please."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. You're not a killer."

"I am." The words tear out of me. "I killed nine people. I watched them die. I didn't feel anything. I'm exactly what you should be afraid of."

"You killed people who were hurting someone you care for. I'd have done the same." Hugh doesn't try to move. Doesn't try to escape. "And the fact that you're standing here, shaking, unable to do this. That proves you're not what you think you are."

He's wrong. He doesn't know me. Doesn't know what I'm capable of.

But my hand won't stop shaking. The knife that killed five men in that clearing, that cut through flesh and muscle without hesitation. Now it trembles against the throat of an unarmed man.

The door swings open. Zoe.

She freezes in the doorway. Takes in the scene. Me with my arm around Hugh's throat. The knife at his neck. The blood.

"Jamie?" Her voice breaks. "What are you doing?"

She heard the shouting. She came.

Of course she came.

Hugh looks at me. Blood trickling from where the blade has nicked his skin. But his eyes aren't angry. They're sad.

"It's okay, Zoe," he says quietly. "It's okay."

The lock. I forgot about the lock.

My left hand moves without thinking. Reaches back. Turns the latch.

The door bursts open. Zoe stumbles in, catches herself, sees us.

Her face goes white.

"Jamie. Oh God. Jamie, what are you doing?"

I can't answer. Can't speak. The knife is still at Hugh's throat. My hand is still shaking. Everything is falling apart.

"Jamie, put the knife down." She steps closer. Slowly. Hands raised. Like she's approaching a wild animal. "Please. Whatever's happening, we can talk about it."

"He's trading people, Zoe. Giving them to raiders."

"What? No. That's—" She looks at Hugh, at the blood on his neck, at me. "Jamie, that doesn't make sense."

"I have proof. A witness. She saw—"

"Eleanor?" Zoe's voice hardens. "The woman in the cells? Jamie, she's a thief. She'll say anything to get out."

"She's not lying. She saw—"

"She saw what she wanted to see!" Zoe takes another step. Close enough to touch me now. "Jamie, look at me. Look at me."

I can't. If I look at her, I'll break. And if I break now, I'll never put the pieces back together.

"Jamie." Her voice cracks. "This isn't you. This isn't—" She stops. Starts again. "Please. Just put the knife down."

He's dangerous, Zoe. You don't know what he's done.

"He's not. He's just a man trying to keep people alive." She's crying now. Tears streaming down her face. "Like you did. Like you've been doing since this all started. You saved me, Jamie. You saved my life. And I'm trying to save yours."

The knife wavers.

"Please." She reaches out. Her fingers brush my wrist. Gentle. Warm. "Give me the knife. Let him go. We'll figure this out together. I promise."

Hugh hasn't moved. Hasn't said a word. He's watching us both with that same sad, patient expression.

My arm is shaking badly now. The cold focus is gone, replaced by something raw and howling. All the things I've been pushing down—the guilt, the horror, the endless screaming weight of what I did in that clearing—rising up all at once.

"I can't stop," I whisper. "I don't know how to stop."

"Yes, you do." Zoe's hand closes around my wrist. Steady. Firm. "You stop right now. You let go. And then we figure out the rest."

The knife trembles against Hugh's throat.

One motion. One cut. It would be so easy.

But my hand is opening. The knife is falling. Clattering to the stone floor.

And then I'm falling too.

My knees hit the ground. My hands press against the cold stone. Everything is coming apart—the walls I built, the soldier I pretended to be, all of it crumbling into dust.

I hear myself making a sound. Not crying. Something worse. The sound of a person breaking open.

Zoe's arms are around me. Holding me together. Her voice in my ear, saying words I can't quite hear. But her presence is enough. The warmth of her. The realness.

I'm not alone. Even now, after everything, I'm not alone.

The door is still open. I hear footsteps. Voices. Marcus, maybe. Others.

But I can't look up. Can't face them. Can't face what I've done.

So I stay on the floor, in Zoe's arms, and let myself shatter.