Read Chapter 12: The Turning Tide

The rain had not let up in three days. It hammered the windows of the garrison mess hall, drumming an impatient rhythm against the glass as Captain Thorne unrolled a map across the trestle table. Callum stood at the far end, arms crossed, watching the man's pale fingers trace the contours of the Glenshiel valley.

"Gentlemen," Thorne said, voice carrying the clipped authority of a man who believed every word he spoke was gospel. "We have an opportunity. A unique one."

Four other officers ringed the table. Sergeant McGregor, a squat Lowlander with a face like battered leather. Lieutenant Ashby, young and eager, still believing war was glory. Two others Callum knew only by sight—newly posted, fresh from the south with polished boots and empty eyes.

"Our spy within the rebel command has at last proven his worth." Thorne's finger stabbed at a mark on the map—a hollow between two ridges, not far from the meeting grounds Eilidh favored. "The rebel leadership convenes here in four days' time. A full council. MacKinnon will be there. So will the others. All of them, in one place."

Callum's chest tightened. He kept his face still, the way he'd learned hunting—motionless, breath shallow, waiting.

"Our spy has given us the exact route they'll take and the hour of their gathering," Thorne continued. "We will move under cover of darkness, position two companies along these heights—" his finger traced the ridgelines—"and close the trap before they can scatter. If we succeed, this rebellion dies in a single stroke."

"Who's the spy?" Callum asked. The words came out flatter than he intended.

Thorne looked up. Something flickered behind his eyes—a knowing, a test. "I don't reveal sources, MacRae. You know that."

"Then how do we trust the intelligence?"

"Because the intelligence has already been proven." Thorne straightened, folding his hands behind his back. "The spy named Annabel's captors before you found her. The spy warned us of the landslide two days before it struck—though someone failed to act on that warning in time." His gaze lingered on Callum, hard as flint. "This source has cost the rebels dearly. It owes us its life."

Callum's blood went cold.

The landslide at the pass. Only a handful of men knew of that beyond the rebel camp. Callum had misled Thorne about its timing, claimed the patrol had stumbled into it unknowing. But Duncan had known. Duncan had sent Annabel to warn the rebels of the attack—or so she'd said. And Duncan had sat in that cell, feeding information like a spider spinning silk, every word a thread he could pull.

No. It couldn't be Duncan. The thought soured in his stomach like bad meat. Duncan was a rebel. A true one, whatever his methods. He had betrayed Annabel for coin, yes, but coin for the cause, not for the English. He had played Callum from the cell, manipulating him, steering him. But he hadn't sold them out.

Except—

"You look pale, MacRae." Thorne's voice cut through the fog. "Something troubling you?"

Callum shook his head. "Rain gets into the bones. That's all."

Thorne studied him a moment too long. Then he smiled—a thin, bloodless thing. "You've been useful to us, in your way. I'll grant you that. Your knowledge of the terrain has saved lives." He paused. "But forgive me if I don't fully trust a man whose brother rots in our cells. You understand."

"I understand."

"Good." Thorne rolled the map with a snap. "We move at dusk, three nights hence. MacRae, you'll guide the western column. Ashby, you take the east. McGregor and I will lead the center, closing on the council from the approach route." He looked around the table. "Any man who fails in his duty, who hesitates, who shows the slightest inclination toward sympathy for these rebels—" his eyes settled on Callum again—"will be hanged alongside the prisoners we take. That is not a threat. It is a promise."

The officers dispersed. Callum lingered, watching Thorne fold the map into his coat. The rain kept falling.

He knew the Glenshiel valley. He knew the hollow Thorne had marked—a bowl of green grass ringed by scree slopes, a place where voices carried and there was no cover for a retreat. If the British closed from three sides at dusk, the rebel leadership would be caught like fish in a net. Eilidh would be there. MacKinnon. The men who fed the rebellion, who carried its messages, who lit its fires.

And Duncan.

If Duncan was the spy, the ambush would succeed. And the British would spare their informant—a man who had bought his life with rebel blood. Duncan would walk free. Callum could take him north, far from all of this, and perhaps—perhaps—something of the family could be salvaged from the wreckage.

But if Callum warned Eilidh and the rebels scattered, Thorne would know. There was no mistaking it this time—no landslide to blame, no failed patrol to cloud the issue. The ambush would fail because someone had warned them, and only one man knew the full plan outside the officer corps. The noose would tighten around Duncan's neck before the week was out.

Callum stood at the window, watching the rain sheet across the parade ground. His brother's face rose in his mind—sharp-boned, quick-eyed, always a half-smile playing at his lips even in the darkest hours. The boy who had taught Callum to set snares. The man who had sold Annabel for coin and called it necessity.

Duncan had manipulated him. Used him. Made him a pawn in a game Callum still didn't fully understand. And now he was likely trading rebel lives for his own.

But he was still Duncan. Still blood. Still the only family Callum had left.

The rain kept falling. Somewhere beyond the hills, Eilidh would be gathering the council, trusting the hunter who had saved her once, who had led the British into a false attack once, who had carried her cause in his chest like a burning coal.

Callum closed his eyes. When he opened them, the decision was already made—had been made, perhaps, the moment he understood what Thorne planned.

He turned from the window, pulled his coat tight, and walked into the night.

He had to reach Eilidh before Thorne's columns moved. And that meant he had to walk into the heart of the rebels, unarmed, unwelcome, and pray she still believed in him enough to listen.

Behind him, the garrison bell tolled ten. Somewhere in the cells below, Duncan would be hearing it too, dreaming his narrow dreams of survival.

Callum did not look back.