Chapter 82— Threads of Deception
Chapter 82— Threads of Deception
The chamber was silent save for the slow dripping of water from a cracked stone pipe. Shadows trembled across the walls, flickering with the blue-white glow of candles that refused to burn steady. Ruadhán Dubh moved through the dim light like a wraith, his black cloak trailing along the floor, the air around him humming faintly with restrained power.
He had returned from the meeting with Mairi just before dawn, and though the horizon still wore its pale blush of night, his mind was already alive with plans.
“She’s from another time,” he murmured to himself, lips curling. “How curious.”
He crossed to a heavy oak table at the center of the room. Upon it sat an assortment of alchemical tools—vials, feathers, dried herbs, and a basin filled with silver water that shimmered like liquid glass. Beside them, a single leather-bound book lay open, its pages blank.
Ruadhán dipped a quill into the ink, watching as the tip glowed faintly red.
“She seeks a book,” he whispered. “So I shall give her one.”
He began to write—slow, deliberate strokes that carved through the parchment like veins through flesh. The words appeared in two languages at once, ancient Gaelic beneath, and English above—his gift and his trap. Each line wove together spells of memory and time, a mirror for Isla’s curiosity and her doom.
When he finished, he pressed his palm to the cover and whispered a phrase too old for any mortal ear. The air rippled. The book shuddered, absorbing the words, sealing them in gold light.
Ruadhán straightened, his expression grimly satisfied. “She will find what she’s looking for,” he said, “and in doing so, she will find her end.”
He turned toward the basin. The water, once still, now pulsed with movement. Ripples spread outward from the center, forming an image—a woman kneeling in her chamber, one hand clutching her chest. Isla. Her scar glowed faintly beneath her skin, the light flickering weaker and weaker.
“So,” he murmured. “The bond decays.” He smiled thinly. “And when the bond dies, so does she.”
He watched for a long moment, until the image blurred into smoke. Then, reaching for his cloak, he muttered, “Mairi will know where to place it. She’ll alert him when the time is right.”
He lifted the finished book from the table and held it close. “And when she chants those words,” he whispered, “the world will believe her a witch. The prophecy will devour them all.”
At sunrise, the castle was already alive with whispers.
Mairi had done as instructed. The false book lay among the stones, half-hidden, waiting to be found. And when Isla returned to the ruins—as she always did when troubled—Mairi sent word.
Lachlan was in council when she burst into the room. “My lord,” she said breathlessly, “it’s Isla. She’s at the stones—chanting again. I swear it. Fenella saw her go.”
The room fell silent.
Alistair rose first, his heart dropping. “That cannot be—”
But Lachlan’s expression had already hardened. “Summon the guards,” he ordered. “If she dabbles in forbidden magic again, she’ll answer for it.”
Mairi bowed her head, hiding her smile.
The stones stood cold beneath a pewter sky. Isla knelt before them, the chant on her lips like a prayer she barely dared to believe in.
“A spell that binds, be still, time,
Unwind the world, make right the time,
Return my life, undo the thread,
Bring me home. Bring me home…”
The wind caught her hair and tossed it wildly around her face. She didn’t hear the clanking of armor until it was too late.
“Lady Isla of Strathclyde!” a voice barked. “You are under arrest for witchcraft and treachery against the crown!”
She turned, startled, as soldiers surrounded her. The world tilted—the chant died on her lips.
“What?” she whispered. “No—please, I was only—”
“Silence.” The guard yanked her to her feet, iron shackles snapping around her wrists.
Through the crowd of onlookers forming at the edge of the trees, Isla saw Fenella and Vaelen pushing forward, their faces pale. Vaelen’s eyes widened when he saw the false book lying open beside the stones—the same book he’d helped her search for.
“It’s real,” he breathed. “She was telling the truth.”
Fenella’s hands trembled at her mouth. “Oh, dear gods… they’ll kill her.”
Mairi stood at the back of the crowd, her cloak drawn up to hide her expression—but the corners of her lips twitched upward. Victory was a sweet, quiet thing.
From the ridge above the stones, Alistair watched the scene unfold. His stomach churned. Isla’s words from their last meeting echoed in his head. It wasn’t me, Alistair. It was illusion.
Now, seeing her bound and trembling, he realized with sickening clarity that she had spoken the truth.
By the time he reached the stones, the guards had already begun to lead her away.
Lachlan rode in behind them, his expression carved in stone. He dismounted without a word, looking down at Isla as though she were a stranger.
“Do not speak to me,” he said flatly. “You’ve shamed us enough.”
Something in her broke at that.
She didn’t struggle. Didn’t beg. She simply met his eyes—sad, tired, and utterly calm.
“I loved you,” she whispered.
He looked away.
Fenella sobbed softly. Vaelen turned his face to the ground.
As they led Isla back toward the castle, the villagers began to murmur. Rumors traveled faster than wind: the laird’s wife, a witch, the bond broken, a curse upon them all.
At the edge of the woods, Mairi stood beside Ruadhán, who had come to watch the chaos unfold.
“You’ve done well,” he said. “The world believes what it was always meant to.”
Mairi smiled faintly. “And Isla?”
Ruadhán’s gaze flickered toward the distant castle.
“Isla has already begun to die. The rest is merely ceremony.”