Chapter 75: Fractured Truths

Chapter 75: Fractured Truths
Morning light bled pale through the castle corridors, cold and thin as glass. Isla moved swiftly, the echo of her boots lost in the hush of stone and shadow. She hadn’t slept—her mind had churned with the images from Vaelen’s lab, the sight of herself where she’d never been.

She needed to find Alistair.

Her first stop was the training yard. Empty. The dummies stood impaled with arrows, the air still sharp with the scent of oil and sweat. No sign of him.
Next, the library—dust motes drifting lazily through shafts of light, the old steward snoring in his chair by the hearth. But not Alistair.

The gardens followed, dew clinging to the heather, the fountain whispering softly to itself. The seat where he often read was vacant.

A chill of realization crept over her. She had trained with Alistair, spoken to him, but she’d never known him. Not really. She had no idea what he did when she wasn’t around, what filled his hours beyond the polite smiles and careful banter.

She turned a corner—and froze.

Lachlan.

He stood at the far end of the hall, half-shadowed, watching her. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, only stared. The air thickened between them, the echo of what they once shared turned to pain. Where once the hum of the bond had wrapped around her like warmth, now only a dull throb pulsed beneath her scar—a silent ache that flared each time he drew near.

She tore her gaze away and walked faster. There was nothing left to say to him, not now.

Her steps carried her beyond the castle walls, across the fields where wildflowers struggled through the frost, and toward the ruins—the old circle of stones that had become her refuge, her place of questions.
She needed to think, to breathe, to search for anything that might explain the impossible.

The wind followed her, cool and sweet, carrying the faint scent of lavender—so sudden and vivid it made her throat tighten. Home.

She brushed her fingers along the nearest stone, tracing its rough surface, half expecting it to hum beneath her touch.

“I didn’t know you knew of this place.”

The voice behind her made her spin.

“Alistair,” she breathed. Her heart stuttered. “You followed me?"

He stepped into the clearing, calm as if he’d been waiting for her. “I did.” His eyes swept the circle. “Strange place. Feels older than the hills.”

He was trying to sound casual, but tension clung to his voice. Isla stayed back, every nerve on alert.
“I wanted to speak with you,” she said carefully.
“About… the other night. After I was released from the dungeon.”

His jaw tightened. “Go on.”

She took a step closer. “I need you to understand something. That night—it wasn’t me. The woman you saw, the one who came to your chamber—that wasn’t me.”

Alistair’s expression darkened. “Isla, don’t do this.”

“I’m not lying,” she said quickly. “I spent that night with Vaelen and Fenella in his lab. We’ve discovered something—illusion magic. It’s real, Alistair. Someone wanted you to think it was me.”

He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Illusion magic? Are you mad? Is that your way of denying what we both know happened?”

“No,” she whispered, stepping closer. “You have to believe me. I would never betray Lachlan that way. No matter how cold he’s been to me.”

Alistair’s laughter faltered, but anger still lined his face. “Even after everything he’s done? You defend him? Why?”

“Because he’s not a monster,” she said. “He’s wounded. Angry. Everyone fears him, but no one sees him. Have you even tried, Alistair? Have you truly tried to know your brother?”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “You know nothing of the things we’ve lived through. I’ve tried, Isla. Gods know I’ve tried. He built his walls high and made sure none of us could climb them. After enough rejection, you stop trying.”

They stared at each other, years of pain and misunderstanding echoing in the space between them.

Finally, Isla took a breath. “Then let me show you something.”

She reached up and pulled down the collar of her gown, revealing the dark scar that cut across her chest.

“It wasn’t me, Alistair,” she said, voice trembling. “If it had been, I would’ve had this mark the night we were together. But I didn’t. This scar appeared after Lachlan took Mairi to his bed. That’s when the bond broke. Not before.”

Alistair stared, frozen. “Impossible,” he murmured.

“It’s the truth,” Isla pressed. “Whoever you were with that night—it wasn’t me. You were deceived.”

He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “No. I saw you. I heard your voice. I felt—”

Her tears fell silently. “Please, Alistair. Look at me. Really look. Would I lie to you?"

He did. And what he saw was not guilt, but heartbreak.

Something in him faltered.

But then anger flickered again, desperate to smother doubt. He looked away, jaw clenched tight. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

She didn’t move as he turned and walked away. Her knees gave out, and she fell to the ground, her sobs breaking through the stillness of the ruins.

Alistair stopped halfway down the path. The sound of her crying cut through him like steel. He stood there, torn between pride and shame, between guilt and the ache that wouldn’t let him breathe.

Could she be telling the truth?

The mark—he’d seen it. The raw, jagged wound. And she was right. If it had truly been her, the bond mark would’ve appeared that same night.

Then who…?

Rage and confusion churned in his chest. Without realizing it, his feet carried him back toward the castle, faster and faster, until he was storming through the corridors.

He didn’t knock when he reached Lachlan’s chambers. The door slammed open.

Lachlan was there—half-dressed, Mairi in his arms, her robe sliding from her shoulders.

Alistair froze. Then fury ignited.

“You bastard.”

Lachlan barely turned before Alistair’s fist connected with his jaw. The laird staggered back, blood streaking his lip.

“Get out,” Lachlan barked at Mairi.

She scrambled to gather her robe, fleeing the room with a frightened whimper.

“What in the devil’s name has gotten into you?” Lachlan spat, wiping his mouth.

“You’re a fool,” Alistair said, breath ragged. “You’re throwing everything away.”

“That’s rich,” Lachlan snarled. “You bedded my wife!”

Alistair laughed—sharp, incredulous, broken. “I thought I did! But I didn’t, Lachlan. You think you see everything, but you see nothing.”

Lachlan’s expression darkened. “Careful.”

“No, you listen,” Alistair said, voice shaking with fury. “She’s been loyal to you. Through everything. And you’re too blind to see it. You’re destroying the only person who’s ever truly loved you.”

He turned for the door, pausing only long enough to add, “We’re being tricked, brother. By someone cleverer than either of us. You haven’t lost her yet—but if you keep this up, you will.”

He slammed the door behind him.

Lachlan stood motionless, the echo of his brother’s words lingering in the room like smoke.

Outside, Alistair strode through the courtyard, his pulse hammering, his thoughts racing. Isla’s scar. The illusions.

Someone was weaving a web around them all—and he was done being their pawn.