Chapter 84 — The Last Breath

Chapter 84 — The Last Breath
The dungeon was quiet.
Too quiet.

The torches had burned low, their flames flickering against the walls, breathing shadows that looked almost alive. The air was thick with dampness and iron. Somewhere, water dripped from the ceiling — slow, rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock.

Lachlan stood in the doorway, his breath misting faintly in the chill.

He hadn’t planned to come. He’d told himself it was pride that kept him away, or anger, or duty. But the truth was simpler: he was afraid.

Afraid of what he’d see.
Afraid of what he’d feel.
Afraid of what he’d done.

The guard hesitated when he saw the look in Lachlan’s eyes, then silently stepped aside.
Lachlan entered.

For a moment, he didn’t recognize her.

Isla sat slumped against the wall, a frail figure half-shrouded in the tattered blanket they’d given her. Her hair — once vibrant red hair— was now white as new-fallen snow. The color had drained from her skin, leaving it ghostly pale, and her lips were blue with cold. The mark across her chest had spread, black veins crawling up her neck, twisting around her collarbone like vines of ink. Her breathing came in shallow rattles that echoed through the stone cell.
When she lifted her head, her eyes fluttered open — pale and clouded, but still hers.

Still Isla.

“Lachlan…” Her voice was a whisper, soft as the sound of falling ash.

She tried to sit, but her limbs trembled.

He moved before he could stop himself, kneeling beside her and slipping an arm behind her shoulders. The moment his hand touched her, he froze — she felt weightless. Fragile. Like the slightest movement might shatter her completely.

“You shouldn’t move,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You’re weak.”

She laughed, or tried to. It came out as a breathless rasp. “Weak? I suppose I am. But I’m still here.”

He looked at her then — really looked at her. The girl who’d arrived in his world full of questions and light, who’d argued with him about grain stores and laughter and how to make people happy. The woman who’d loved him even when he gave her nothing in return.

Guilt twisted deep in his chest, but pride was a stubborn thing.

So when she asked, “Why did you come?” he could only answer the truth.

“I don’t know.”

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, alive with everything left unsaid. The kind of silence that carried the weight of a thousand apologies neither knew how to voice.

Finally, Isla reached into the pocket of her thin gown and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Her hand shook as she held it out to him.

“When I’m gone,” she said quietly, “read this.”
He didn’t move to take it, just stared at her hand. It was so small. So pale.

When he finally accepted the letter, their fingers brushed — her skin was cold as winter stone.

He wanted to speak. To tell her he was sorry, that he hadn’t known, that he’d believed the wrong people. But his throat wouldn’t work. His jaw locked. The words died before they reached his tongue.

Isla, though, didn’t seem to expect them.

She looked down at his hand — at the scars and callouses from years of sword work — and traced a trembling finger across his knuckles. “You’ve always had such strong hands,” she whispered. “The first time I saw them, I thought they were meant to protect me. I think, in a way, they did. Just not from you.”

Her lips curved faintly. She intertwined her fingers with his, her small hand swallowed by his larger one. “You don’t have to say anything. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I hate you.”

He swallowed hard, but she continued before he could answer.

“I don’t. I could never hate you, Lachlan. You let fear and prophecy rule your heart, but you’re not cruel — not truly. Just… broken. And maybe I was meant to see the pieces of you, to love them for a little while before they turned to dust.”

Her breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. The sound made something deep inside him crack.

Still, he couldn’t look away.

“I realize now,” she went on, “you never belonged to me. You belonged to the prophecy, to your pride, to your pain. And I forgive you for that. I forgive you for everything you couldn’t give me.”

He finally spoke, voice hoarse and shaking. “You forgive me?”

“I do,” she whispered. “Because I think, in another time, in another life… we might have gotten it right.”

Her body trembled violently. She clutched at her chest, struggling to breathe. Lachlan caught her before she fell, pulling her into his lap.

She was so light. So unbearably light.

He held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed against her cold fingers. Her eyes flickered, half-closed, the blue fading from them like paint washed away by rain.

Her hand reached up, barely steady, and touched his cheek. “You’ve always been handsome,” she breathed, her lips trembling into the ghost of a smile. “You’ll have no trouble finding the next Mrs. Strathclyde.”

“Don’t say that,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t—”

Her coughs cut him off, each one rattling deeper, shaking her frail body. She pressed her hand weakly to his chest, right above his heart.

“Promise me you’ll be happy,” she said. “Whether it’s Mairi or another. Just… be happy. Please.”

He wanted to tell her he couldn’t. That she was his happiness. That every ounce of warmth he had left was already leaving with her.

But he couldn’t form the words.

Instead, she kissed her fingers and placed them against his lips — a soft, trembling farewell.

A single tear slid down her cheek. It hit his thumb and vanished.

“Goodbye, Lachlan,” she whispered.

Her head fell forward, her hand slipping from his.
He called her name once — twice — louder each time.

Then silence.

The kind of silence that never ends.

Her chest stilled. Her last breath left her lips like a sigh.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his tears falling freely now, his shoulders shaking as the guards burst through the door.

“She’s gone,” one whispered.

Lachlan didn’t answer. He only held her tighter, rocking her gently, as if warmth might find her again if he refused to let go.

In the torchlight, the black veins that had spread across her skin began to fade — dissolving into pale silver lines that glowed faintly for a heartbeat, then disappeared altogether.

The bond had finally released her.

And with it, Lachlan Strathclyde’s soul.