After two weeks of tense travel and constant vigilance, the caravan finally arrived at the MacAlasdair Clan's stronghold. Nestled in a sprawling valley surrounded by jagged cliffs and rolling hills, the settlement was a mix of rugged practicality and understated grandeur. Stone towers stood proudly against the skyline, their weathered surfaces etched with runes of protection and strength. The highland winds carried the scent of pine and the faint tang of steel, a testament to the clan's industrious nature and warrior tradition.
As the caravan crested the final hill, Cairine raised her hand, signaling the group to halt. Turning to Granth and Merlin, she smiled. "Welcome to the MacAlasdair lands. You'll be safe here. No goblins, no brigands—just kinfolk and allies."
The gates of the stronghold swung open as the caravan approached, revealing a bustling community within. Men and women clad in leather and chainmail moved with purpose, their sharp eyes scanning the new arrivals. Children ran about, their laughter cutting through the crisp air, while artisans hammered away at forges and weavers worked looms under shaded awnings.
The leader of the MacAlasdair Clan, Laird Connell MacAlasdair, emerged from the central hall, flanked by several clan elders and warriors. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a commanding presence, his auburn hair streaked with silver. His dark green cloak, fastened with a brooch in the shape of a wolf, billowed slightly in the wind as he approached.
"Cairine," Connell greeted, his voice rich and warm. "You've done well. The caravan looks intact, and the journey was clearly a success."
Cairine inclined her head respectfully. "Aye, Laird. We had a few encounters, but the caravan held strong, thanks in part to this one." She gestured toward Merlin, who stood quietly beside Granth.
Connell's piercing gaze shifted to Merlin, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're the Dawnsedge disciple, aren't you? I've heard tales of a young mage-augmenter traveling with Cairine. Seems those tales didn't exaggerate."
Merlin gave a respectful bow. "Laird MacAlasdair, it's an honor to meet you. I'm Merlin, and I was glad to be of service during the journey."
Connell nodded approvingly. "You've done more than serve. Anyone who earns Cairine's praise must have proven their worth a dozen times over."
Granth stepped forward, offering a parchment to the Laird. "With the caravan safely delivered, the goods are now under your protection, Laird Connell. The sect sends its regards and looks forward to continued cooperation."
Connell accepted the parchment with a firm nod before turning back to Cairine. "See that our guests are shown proper hospitality. They've earned it."
The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity as the caravan was unloaded and its contents inventoried. The MacAlasdairs ensured the sect's disciples and hired hands were treated well, offering food, warm mead, and comfortable lodgings within the stronghold.
For Merlin, it was an opportunity to observe and learn more about the Highlanders' ways. The camaraderie and discipline of the MacAlasdair Clan reminded him of the sect, though their traditions were deeply rooted in their unique culture and history.
That evening, a feast was held in the great hall to celebrate the caravan's safe arrival. The room was filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of tankards as stories of the journey were shared. Merlin found himself seated near Cairine and her group, who seemed eager to recount every goblin skirmish and Faryn's wrestling matches with him.
As the night wore on, Connell raised a toast, his voice booming over the lively crowd. "To the Dawnsedge Sect, our steadfast allies! And to the brave souls who brought this caravan safely across the highlands. May this bond between us grow ever stronger!"
The hall erupted in cheers, and for a moment, Merlin allowed himself to relax. The journey had been long and challenging, but as he sat among warriors and comrades, he felt a sense of accomplishment—and belonging—that made it all worthwhile.
As Merlin and Faryn clinked their tankards together, laughing about their latest wrestling match and trading jests, an older woman approached their table. She moved with an air of quiet authority, her silver hair tied into a long braid that hung over one shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to take in everything about Merlin in a single glance. She wore a highland dress adorned with intricate patterns, marking her as someone of importance, perhaps an elder of the MacAlasdair Clan.
She stood beside Merlin, her voice steady but laden with curiosity. "You're the Dawnsedge disciple, aye? Tell me, young man, do you know an augmenter of your sect named Fergus?"
The name struck Merlin like a bolt of lightning, and his mind instantly flashed to Elder Fergus, the strict but fair instructor who had been instrumental in his recent trials. He began to nod, but before he could respond, a heavy silence fell over the hall.
The lively chatter and laughter that had filled the room only moments ago came to an abrupt halt. All eyes turned toward the old woman and Merlin, and an almost tangible tension filled the air. Even Faryn, who had been halfway through a boast about his wrestling prowess, lowered his tankard and glanced between Merlin and the woman.
Merlin set his drink down, his voice cautious but respectful. "I do. Elder Fergus is one of the instructors at the sect. He's a skilled augmenter and has taught me a great deal."
The woman's gaze softened, and a faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. "I see," she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of melancholy. She pulled out a chair and sat down, her eyes not leaving Merlin's face.
"You must forgive me for bringing up a name that carries such weight here," she said after a moment. "Fergus MacAlasdair is his full name. He was born of this clan, though he left us many years ago. Some of us still remember him as a fiery young warrior with a thirst for adventure."
The room remained quiet, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Merlin glanced at Faryn, who offered a slight shrug, as if to say you're on your own with this one.
The woman continued, her voice now tinged with pride. "It seems Fergus has made a name for himself in your sect. But here in the highlands, he is remembered as the Laird's eldest son—the one who chose the path of the sect over his duties to the clan."
Merlin felt the weight of her words. He had always seen Elder Fergus as a stern mentor, a pillar of strength and discipline. To learn that he had left behind a life of responsibility and family to join the sect painted the elder in an entirely new light.
"I didn't know," Merlin admitted quietly. "Elder Fergus doesn't speak much about his past."
The woman nodded, her expression distant. "That sounds like him. Always focused on the future, never lingering in what's already done." She looked around the hall, her voice rising slightly. "We've long since made our peace with his choice. But to hear that he has shaped warriors like you, young man… that brings some comfort."
The tension in the room began to dissipate, though the atmosphere remained contemplative. The older woman stood, placing a hand briefly on Merlin's shoulder. "Tell him, if you see him again, that his clan remembers him. And that the highlands still sing of his name."
Merlin inclined his head. "I will."
As she walked away, the conversations in the hall slowly resumed, though there was an undercurrent of murmurs about Fergus and the weight of his legacy. Faryn leaned in, his voice low but teasing. "Well, lad, seems you've got yourself tangled in highland family drama. Good luck with that."
Merlin chuckled softly, though his thoughts remained with Elder Fergus. For the rest of the evening, he couldn't shake the image of the stern elder as a young man, torn between his clan and the path of the sect.
As the feast wore on, Merlin began to notice something he had overlooked in the lively chaos of the gathering. Amid the towering Highlanders with their fiery red hair, striking green eyes, and imposing height, there were subtle variations among some of them that hinted at a different lineage.
These Highlanders, though unmistakably of the MacAlasdair clan, had skin a tone darker than the typical pale complexion of their kin. Their features were slightly softer, though still framed by the robust frames that marked their heritage. They carried themselves with the same confidence as the others, but Merlin observed they mostly gathered together in small groups, their interactions more intimate and reserved compared to the boisterous camaraderie of the rest of the hall.
Merlin's gaze lingered on them as he pondered. Southern ancestry? Myrddin's memories flickered to life in his mind, recounting tales of ancient wars and alliances between the highlands and the southern lands. Though rare, it wasn't unheard of for southern warriors or mages to marry into highland clans during times of peace. These unions were said to strengthen both bloodlines, blending the raw power of the highlanders with the agility and cunning of the southern tribes.
One of the darker-toned Highlanders caught his gaze—a young woman with deep auburn hair, braided down her back, and piercing green eyes. She was laughing softly with her companions, her voice low and melodic. She turned slightly, her eyes meeting Merlin's for the briefest moment. She didn't seem startled or affronted, merely curious, as though she, too, was studying him.
"Noticed, have you?" Faryn's voice broke Merlin's concentration. His companion leaned back in his chair, a tankard in hand, his lips curled in a knowing grin.
"Noticed what?" Merlin asked, though his tone betrayed his suspicion that Faryn knew exactly what he meant.
"The Southbloods," Faryn said, taking a long swig from his drink. "MacAlasdair clan's had dealings with the southern folk for generations. Trade, war, marriage—it's all connected. Those you see there? Their ancestors came from far south, but they're as much Highlander as any of us. Some folk like to make a distinction, but only fools think it means anything."
Merlin nodded slowly, his curiosity piqued. "They seem… more reserved."
Faryn chuckled. "Aye, they keep to themselves a bit more. Old habits, maybe. But when trouble comes, you'll see them fight just as fiercely as any Highlander. Some say the Southbloods carry a bit of the old magic in their veins, makes them quicker on their feet, sharper with their blades. Cairine herself's got a touch of it, though she'd never admit it."
Merlin glanced toward Cairine, who was deep in conversation with the Laird at the head of the hall. Now that it was mentioned, he could see it—the faint olive undertone to her skin, the slight curve of her cheekbones that set her apart from her fiery-haired kin.
"It's an interesting mix," Merlin said, more to himself than to Faryn.
Faryn grinned. "The highlands are full of interesting mixes, lad. Just keep your eyes open—you'll learn more than you ever thought possible."
Merlin nodded, his thoughts returning to the Southbloods. As he observed them throughout the night, he couldn't help but wonder if their lineage carried some hidden strength, a unique blend of cultures and powers that added to the mystique of the MacAlasdair clan.