The Highlands breathed differently that morning, sharp, brittle, and tinged with danger. The mist did not drift as it usually did; it clung, thick and stubborn, like a warning that refused to be ignored.
From my perch high in the shadow of the ridge, I saw movement below: the faint gleam of red through the fog. Redcoats.
They were moving in silence, their formation careful, deliberate. Hunters on the trail. And the prey, they were closing in fast upon Jamie Fraser's band.
I pressed a hand to the damp soil beside me, feeling the pulse of the land. The forest was restless. It knew blood would be spilled before the sun broke through.
I had not meant to follow him again. Not Jamie, not the Highlanders who stirred the dust of fate wherever they went. I told myself I watched only to understand, to trace the ripples that Claire's arrival had begun. But there was something about him, the stubborn fire in his eyes even through pain, that pulled at the part of me that refused to remain detached.
And now, destiny had led me to this, watching from the shadows as the lines of war inched closer to crossing.
I could see them Jamie and the others just beyond the bend, resting their horses by a stream. Dougal stood near the edge of the clearing, arguing in low tones with Angus. The men laughed now and then, unaware that death was threading its way through the fog behind them.
Jamie was apart from them, crouched near the water, his hand pressed against his side where his wound had reopened. I could see the dark stain spreading through the linen beneath his plaid. He was exhausted. Vulnerable.
And the Redcoats were less than half a mile away.
I felt the decision rise in me before I could stop it.
I could let fate run its course.
I could let history unfold as it should.
But I couldn't. Not this time.
Some debts, even unspoken, demand to be paid.
I slipped from my perch, my cloak brushing softly against the ferns. The forest bent around me, guiding me as it always did, branches shifting, roots softening underfoot. The mist wrapped around my figure, rendering me part of its weave.
There was a scout ahead of the Redcoats, a young Highlander from Dougal's ranks, straying too far from his men, unaware that death followed in his tracks. I reached him just as he drew near the ridge.
He froze when he saw me, his blade halfway drawn, eyes wide.
"Christ above…" he started, voice rough.
I raised a finger to my lips. "Silence, lad," I whispered. My voice barely touched the air. "If you value your chief's men, you'll listen."
He stared at me, uncertain, but something in my tone, or perhaps the eerie stillness around us, kept him rooted.
"The red soldiers move behind the mist," I said softly. "They'll strike from the east within minutes. You must warn Dougal's party, now."
His brow furrowed. "How… how do ye ken that?"
"Because I've seen it," I murmured. "Because the forest tells me what men do not."
His fear deepened, but so did his resolve. He sheathed his blade, eyes darting toward the east.
"Go," I urged. "If you delay, they'll take the wounded one first."
That did it. He turned and sprinted through the trees, his footfalls barely whispering on the moss.
When he was gone, I exhaled shakily, the cold seeping deeper into my skin. I had broken my own rule, interfered when I was meant only to watch.
But fate, it seemed, did not always demand passivity. Sometimes, it whispered for hands to move unseen.
I followed at a distance, staying within the curtain of fog. Below, I heard the alarmed cries of Dougal's men, the swift clatter of hooves. Jamie stumbled but mounted his horse, gripping the reins with one good arm.
The Redcoats burst through the trees moments later, their muskets raised, but they were too late. The Highlanders had scattered, their escape swift and soundless through paths only the locals knew.
A few shots rang out, harmless in the distance. Then, silence.
The forest reclaimed itself, as though nothing had happened.
From my vantage point, I saw Jamie glance back once toward the ridge, his brow furrowed. He said something to Murtagh, something brief, questioning. Murtagh followed his gaze toward the mist, toward me, though he couldn't possibly see.
And yet, for a fleeting heartbeat, I thought I saw understanding in his eyes. The same wordless recognition as before.
The shadow had intervened again.
When they disappeared beyond the trees, I leaned against the trunk of an old oak, the strength draining from my limbs. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sharp awareness of what I had done.
Every act has a consequence. Every interference, a ripple.
And I had just sent one racing through the threads of time.
The forest was quiet now, but the stones far beyond, at Craigh na Dun, began to hum softly, almost imperceptibly. They knew.
"Don't turn against me for this," I whispered into the mist. "I've only preserved what was meant to be."
The wind shifted, carrying a faint echo, neither approval nor rebuke, only the weight of inevitability.
By the time I returned to my hollowed tree, twilight had descended. I lit one of my oil orbs and placed it by the roots, the golden glow spilling across the bark. I sat there for a long time, listening to the pulse beneath the earth, the rhythm of a world rearranging itself around what I had done.
Then, a soft flutter.
A raven landed on the ledge beside me, feathers slick with rain. Its eyes gleamed like drops of ink. It cawed once, sharp and low.
A messenger.
I reached for the small scrap of parchment tied to its leg. The writing was crude but unmistakably Highland.
"They say the shadow saved the young laird. Some call it witchcraft. Some call it fate. Murtagh calls it mercy."
I closed my eyes, a breath trembling free from my chest. Mercy.
It was a dangerous word in a world built on war and superstition.
Still, I smiled faintly. If they wished to name me a witch, so be it. The Huntress of Shadows had her purpose, and her secret had just deepened.
For somewhere in the folds of time, fate had taken notice.
And the next time I interfered, it would not let me do so quietly.