Ch 20: The Prophecy
Lachlan woke to warmth and softness.
The early light slipped through the heavy drapes, casting a golden haze across the chamber. Isla lay beside him, tangled in linen and peace. Her bare shoulder rose and fell with each breath, her cheek nestled against his chest. One of her hands still rested over his heart, as if claiming it.
And she had. Entirely.
A quiet smile touched his lips. He hadn't known a moment like this could exist. Stillness. Safety. Something akin to joy.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed her temple. She didn’t stir. She was still dreaming, and he didn’t want to wake her.
For the first time in years, his body felt unburdened—his soul less caged. He was no longer only the warrior, the druid prince. He was a husband now. A man with something to lose.
A sharp knock shattered the calm.
Lachlan stiffened. He turned toward the door, scowling. Whoever dared—
"My lord!" a voice called from beyond the wood. "Forgive me, but the Wiccan sends word—she must see you. It’s urgent."
His body tensed.
He eased away from Isla, pressing one last kiss to her shoulder. She stirred but didn’t wake.
Lachlan dressed quickly, sword at his hip out of habit. He moved like a man preparing for battle, not prophecy.
The walk to the cathedral was brisk and silent. Fog clung to the stones and the air felt colder than it should’ve.
He entered the sacred hall. Candles flickered from long iron sconces, and incense curled from the altar. The scent was sharp—spiced earth, bloodroot, and ash.
Wiccan Elspeth stood in her ceremonial robes near the altar, her hood pushed back to reveal wild curls threaded with silver. Her eyes, as always, were unsettling. All-seeing.
"You came quickly," she said, her voice like wind through branches.
"You summoned me before sunrise on the morning after my wedding," he said coolly. "It must be dire."
Elspeth turned toward the altar. "It is. I saw fire last night. And betrayal."
A chill prickled the back of his neck. "Show me."
She didn’t answer. She merely reached for the basin at the altar’s center. Her fingers traced the rim, whispering words in a language older than stone. The water shimmered, then darkened.
Lachlan stepped forward as the surface came alive with color and light.
At first, he saw Isla.
But not the Isla who had trembled in his arms the night before. This Isla wore black. Her face was serene, but her eyes were cold. She stood in a circle of ancient stones, hands lifted, lips moving in a silent chant.
A pulse of dark energy rippled outward. The land around her twisted—trees blackened, skies turned crimson. Then came the visions: the Highland clans burning, the rivers turning to ash, Scotland crumbling.
Lachlan’s hands curled into fists.
The vision faded, leaving only silence between them.
"No," he said, jaw clenched. "That isn’t her."
Elspeth’s gaze didn’t waver. "Prophecy is never fixed, my lord. But it is rarely wrong."
He turned from the basin, breath heavy. "What causes it? What turns her?"
"Fear. Power. Desperation. Love—all can open doors to darkness."
His heart thundered.
"Then tell me how to protect her."
Elspeth paused. "There is a way. The bond between you has begun, but it remains... incomplete."
He looked at her sharply.
"The blood vow," she said. "The true Druidic rite of union. Cut palm to palm. A spoken oath before the gods and the land. Once made, it binds soul to soul, deeper than any human promise."
Lachlan’s thoughts raced. He'd heard of it—whispers in ancient texts, stories the old priests muttered with caution.
"Then we’ll do it," he said. "Tonight."
But Elspeth stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Are you sure? The blood vow magnifies what lies within. It protects—but it also reveals."
He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
She looked toward the flame at the altar. "If her heart is loyal, the vow will shield her from all shadow. But if even a sliver of doubt or darkness has found its way inside..."
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Lachlan stared down at the water again, the last echo of the vision lingering in its depths.
"The choice is yours, my lord. But once the blood touches blood... there is no turning back."
He left the cathedral in silence.
The castle rose before him, strong and ancient, but his steps felt heavier than they had the night before. The stone beneath his boots felt colder, the halls less familiar.
As he passed through the courtyard, he glanced up and saw her—Isla, standing on a balcony above. Wrapped in a pale shawl, her copper hair tousled gently by the wind. She was laughing at something a maid said, the sound clear and bright like birdsong at dawn.
And for a moment, all the fear and doubt Elspeth had planted in him fell away.
He thought back to the first time he saw her—drenched and defiant, stumbling into his world like a whisper from a forgotten dream. He thought of the ball, the way she fit against him like a missing half. The way she’d kissed him without hesitation.
He remembered her trembling in his arms. Her whispered plea: Take me with you. The trust in her eyes. The heat of her touch.
And last night—how it hadn’t been just desire or duty. It had felt like something… sacred. Something real.
There had been no fear in her. No falsehood. Just aching honesty.
But then the vision came back, unbidden. Her eyes gone cold. Her hands raised in ritual. The kingdom crumbling around her.
Lachlan’s jaw clenched.
What if it was all a lie?
What if the pull he felt toward her—this overwhelming need to protect her, to be near her—wasn’t fate at all… but magic?
Could she be enchanting him without even knowing it? Could her presence in his dreams, her voice in his soul, be part of some deeper spell?
But then—he was a druid prince. If she had bewitched him, wouldn’t he have sensed it? Wouldn’t the Wiccan have seen it?
I would have known, he told himself. I would have felt the falsehood.
And yet…
He stared up at Isla, her smile softening as she caught sight of him.
His heart clenched with a force that felt too honest to be sorcery.
But doubt, once planted, did not wither easily.
He turned away before she could wave, his expression unreadable.
Whatever the truth was—he had to find it.
Before the blood vow.
Before it was too late.