“I’m not a witch. I’m a Canadian, you big oaf! And a Sutherl...” I begin, then pause, biting down on my lower lip. A rush of conflicting emotions surges within me.
Cal and I are partners in time now. In my heart, that makes me a Sutherland-MacDowell. But does this thick-skulled oaf need to know that? No need to waste precious moments enlightening him about the complexities of time-travel partnerships and inherited Scottish surnames.
Besides, it will all go over his head like a highland caber toss.
“Gregor, this doesn’t have to go down like a bad breakup,” I say, my voice steady, hoping to inject some reason into the escalating tension. “We can squashthis beef right here, right now. No more bloodshed, no more grudges.”
I swear I catch a glimmer of regret in his frosty gaze for a split second. But then his features harden, and he hoists his sword with renewed defiance.
“Never,” he snarls through clenched teeth. “I’ll keel over ’afore I bow down to ye MacDowells.”
Behind him, his crew shifts around like they’ve got ants in their pants. Their expressions are a mixed bag of doubt and unease. Ah. They’re starting to question their fearless leader’s sanity.
Taking a bold step forward, our eyes locked in an intense stare-down, I call him out.
“Take a look around,” my voice rings out clear and steady amid the chaos. “Your posse is ditching you faster than last season’s fashion trends. They see the pointlessness of this showdown. They know you’re on one big ego trip that’s only going to bring pain.”
Gregor’s face contorts with confusion, probably at how I’m speaking and at my audacity. He’s definitely never encountered a woman who dares to fight. But there’s an unmistakable spark of doubt flickering in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
He knows deep down that I’m onto something.
“Your reign of terror has to stop. Now,” I snarl at him.
As if on cue for dramatic effect, thunder rumbles ominously overhead.
“You’ve been playing human Jenga with familiesfor too long just to feed your own freaking power trip. But playtime’s over, you kilted buffoon. Drop the sword!”
There’s a heart-stopping pause where Gregor stands frozen like a statue; sword still raised high in stubborn refusal. Then Cal moves in, weapon at the ready and his free hand poised to snatch Gregor’s blade from him.
Gregor’s sword makes a desperate plunge for Cal’s. Their metals meet with a bang that echoes around us before morphing into a deafening crack. It’s the swan song of Gregor’s precious blade as it breaks at its hilt.
The pieces clatter to the ground like someone just dropped their hopes and dreams on the floor. Gregor’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he takes in his ruined weapon. Then they fill with what I can only describe as Oscar-worthy tears.
“N-no... not me darling blade!” he wails, crumbling to his knees and sobbing as he gathers the shattered pieces close like they’re his babies.
A cheer ripplesthrough our ragtag army as Gregor’s two remaining men surrender, their weapons clattering on the ground behind him.
We’ve done it! We’ve won! But even as a wave of relief crashes over me, I’m painfully aware that thereal test is just beginning: piecing back together what’s been shattered and figuring out how to move forward.
I sneak a peek at Cal, my heart blooming with pride and affection. He’s been my rock through all this madness, a steady beacon in the chaos. Together, we’ve stared down the impossible and come out stronger for it.
As though picking up on my thoughts, Cal swivels towards me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know, Mills,” he teases, his voice full of admiration, “you might’ve just kicked off a new fashion revolution with those boots of yours.”
I follow his gaze and chuckle. He’s spot on. The women around us—Fi leading the charge—have all shucked off their boots and are brandishing them like they’re ready to hurl them at Gregor and his goons.
Fi tosses me a cheeky grin, her fiery red curls bobbing around her face. “Much more practical than those flimsy slippers!” she announces triumphantly, waving one of the cobbler’s latest boot creations in the air. “We’ll all be sportin’ these boots from now on, thanks to ye, Mills.”
Laughter bubbles up from deep within me, releasing the tension that had knotted my shoulders during battle. “Happy to be of service. It’s like I’ve always said: boots make kick-ass weapons.”
As the dustsettles and the adrenaline from the battle slowly fades, Fi and her sister Elspeth jump into action, expertly bandaging our wounds. We’re back in the sanctuary of the Inn and Tavern, a space that's become our steadfast command center.
Fi and her friends move through the room like a well-oiled machine, gently tending to the injured and soothing away pains with their tender care. Cal and I glance around, taking stock of what we've lost and what we've gained.
Gregor Campbell, that silver-haired snake, is groaning in the corner, his hands and ankles shackled.
“Oh God, me head,” he whines like a spoiled child who lost at his own game. A lone soldier from his clan hides behind an overturned table. He’s spotted by Alistair, who raises his sword menacingly. The poor guy screams a pathetic plea for mercy before high-tailing it out of our tavern.
Whoops of triumph fill the room as Gregor is unceremoniously dragged down to the cellar by Alistair and Fergus, where he’ll be locked up tight as a drum.
