The village inn buzzed with the low murmur of morning chatter as dawn broke over Glen Torr, its golden light filtering through the fog that clung to the Highlands like a shroud. Eryn MacLean sat by the hearth, the fire's warmth a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the inn's thick stone walls. The clock on the mantel read 6:23 AM, its ticking a steady counterpoint to the storm's fading echoes. Beside her, Callum Reid nursed a mug of tea, his gray eyes shadowed with exhaustion but sharp with focus. The leather-bound tome rested on the table, its spiraling knot glinting faintly, a silent reminder of the danger lurking beyond the windows.
Mairi Fraser bustled in from the kitchen, her blonde hair tied back with a scarf, a small wooden box in her hands. The scent of rowan ash wafted from it—earthy, with a hint of spice—as she set it down. "Last season's harvest," she said, her voice brisk. "Dried and ground, just like Granny used to do. Should do the trick if your cult story's true." Her green eyes flicked to Callum, assessing him with the same scrutiny she gave a questionable ale supplier.
"It's true," Callum said, his tone firm but weary. "The ash can disrupt the binding, but the ritual needs intent—and a safe place. The grove's our best shot." He traced the knot on the tome's cover, his fingers lingering as if it burned. Eryn watched him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his scar seemed to deepen with every breath. He was distinct—haunted yet resolute—unlike any man she'd met in this isolated glen.
Eryn leaned forward, her auburn hair falling over one shoulder. "The grove's a mile north, past the old mill. It's sheltered, but exposed if they're watching. We'll need a distraction." Her mind churned, recalling the terrain—rolling hills, a crumbling mill, and a stream that could mask their trail. The feedback about her last book's weak opening echoed in her thoughts; she'd ensure this journey started with a bang.
Mairi smirked, crossing her arms. "Leave that to me. I'll spread word of a sheep rustling scare—get the locals riled up and moving. Should draw their eyes. But you two—" she pointed at Eryn and Callum—"better move fast. I saw a stranger asking about you last night, Eryn. Tall, dark hair, scar on his cheek. Didn't look friendly."
Callum tensed, his hand brushing the tome. "Lachlan. He's their enforcer. If he's here, the Order's closing in." The name carried weight, and Eryn felt a shiver. This Lachlan sounded like a formidable foe, adding a layer of suspense to their escape.
"Let's go," Eryn said, standing. She grabbed her coat, the rowan ash box, and a knife from the kitchen—practical, but a nod to the danger ahead. Callum followed, the tome tucked under his arm, his presence a steady anchor amidst her racing thoughts. As they slipped out the back, Mairi began her ruse, her voice carrying through the inn as she rallied the villagers.
The morning air was crisp, the heather damp underfoot as they trekked north. Eryn led, her boots navigating the uneven ground with ease, while Callum kept pace, his gaze scanning the horizon. The mill loomed ahead, its broken wheel a skeleton against the sky. "We'll cross the stream there," she said, pointing. "It'll cover our scent if they're tracking."
Callum nodded, but his expression darkened. "They might use the tome against me. It's linked to my blood—they can sense it if they get close." The admission hung heavy, and Eryn felt a pang of sympathy. His character was emerging—strong yet burdened—a contrast to her own independence.
As they neared the stream, a shout rang out. Eryn whipped around to see a figure emerge from the mist—Lachlan, his dark hair slick with rain, a scar slashing his left cheek. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak billowing as he advanced, a dagger glinting in his hand. "Reid!" he bellowed. "Hand over the grimoire, or the girl dies!"
Eryn's heart lurched, but she pushed Callum behind a boulder, raising her knife. "Not today," she spat, her voice steady. The feedback about indistinct characters fueled her resolve—she'd make Eryn bold, memorable. Lachlan lunged, and she parried, the blade clashing with a metallic ring. Callum joined, grabbing a rock and throwing it, forcing Lachlan back.
"Run!" Callum urged, and they splashed into the stream, the cold water soaking their legs. Lachlan pursued, but the current slowed him, and the villagers' distant shouts—Mairi's distraction—drew his attention. They reached the grove, a circle of ancient rowan trees, their red berries a stark contrast to the gray dawn.
Panting, Eryn dropped to her knees, opening the ash box. "Now what?" she asked, her hands trembling but determined.
Callum knelt beside her, the tome open to a page of faded script. "We mix the ash with water, draw the knot symbol, and I cut my palm. You hold the intent—to break the bond. It's risky; if it fails, they'll know exactly where we are."
Eryn nodded, scooping ash into a hollowed stone. She added stream water, stirring it into a gritty paste. Callum handed her the tome, his hand lingering on hers. "Your intent matters," he said softly. "Trust me with this."
She met his gaze, the gray depths pulling her in. The romantic tension was palpable, a thread woven through the danger. "I do," she whispered, drawing the knot on a flat rock. Callum sliced his palm, blood mixing with the ash, and placed his hand over the symbol. Eryn pressed hers atop his, closing her eyes. "Break the bond," she intoned, her voice firm.
The air crackled, the tome glowing as the symbol flared. Callum gasped, his body tensing, and Eryn felt a surge—like a cord snapping. The light faded, and he slumped, breathing heavily. "It worked," he murmured, a relieved smile breaking through. "They can't track me now."
Eryn exhaled, her hand still on his. The connection lingered, warm and electric. But the grove grew silent, too silent. A rustle sounded, and Lachlan emerged, his dagger raised. "Clever," he snarled. "But the Order doesn't give up."
Eryn scrambled up, knife ready, but a whistle cut through the air—Mairi, leading a group of villagers with pitchforks. Lachlan hesitated, then retreated into the mist. The villagers dispersed, and Mairi jogged over, breathless. "Told you I'd handle it," she said, grinning. "But he'll be back."
Callum stood, steadying himself against a tree. "We need to move. The ritual bought time, but they'll adapt." He turned to Eryn, his expression softening. "You saved me—again."
She shrugged, masking the flutter in her chest. "Part of the deal. But we're not done." Mairi handed her a flask of water, and they planned their next step—a trek to a hidden cave Mairi knew, where they could regroup.
As they walked, the heather rustled underfoot, and Eryn felt the weight of their bond.