The Scottish Highlands stretched wild and untamed under a sky bruised with twilight, the heather swaying in a mournful wind that carried the scent of rain and peat. Eryn MacLean trudged along the muddy path toward her family's croft, her boots sinking with each step. At twenty-eight, she'd grown accustomed to the isolation of Glen Torr, a remote valley where the nearest village was a two-hour walk. The croft was her refuge, a stone cottage passed down through generations, its walls weathered but sturdy. Tonight, though, the wind whispered unease, tugging at her auburn hair as if urging her to turn back.
A crack of lightning split the horizon, illuminating a figure slumped against a gnarled oak near the burn—a shallow stream cutting through the glen. Eryn froze, her breath catching. No one ventured this far in a storm, not with the forecast of sleet. Dropping her basket of foraged herbs, she rushed forward, her shepherd's coat flapping. The figure was male, his dark hair plastered to his face, a leather satchel clutched tightly to his chest. Blood streaked his temple, and his chest rose shallowly, barely keeping pace with the wind.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" she called, kneeling beside him. No response. Her hands, calloused from tending sheep and weaving, checked his pulse—weak but present. Another flash revealed a glint of metal at his wrist, a silver bracelet etched with a spiraling knot. Eryn's heart thudded. That wasn't local craftsmanship. Whoever he was, he wasn't from Glen Torr.
With a grunt, she hauled him up, his arm draping over her shoulders. He was heavier than she expected, his frame solid beneath a soaked woolen coat. The croft was a quarter-mile off, and the storm was closing in. Rain began to fall, sharp and cold, as she dragged him toward shelter, the wind howling like a banshee. His satchel slipped, and a small, leather-bound book tumbled out, its pages fluttering before she snatched it up. The cover bore the same knot design, and a strange warmth pulsed from it, startling her.
Inside, she laid him on the worn rug before the hearth, stoking the fire to life. His face came into focus—high cheekbones, a stubbled jaw, and eyes that flickered open, a piercing gray that seemed to hold the storm itself. "Where… am I?" he rasped, his accent clipped, English with a hint of something older.
"Safe," Eryn said, grabbing a blanket. "You're at my croft. What happened out there?"
He winced, pressing a hand to his head. "Ambushed. They were after this." His gaze darted to the satchel, and Eryn realized he meant the book. Before she could ask, a shadow moved past the window—a tall figure, cloaked against the rain, pausing to scan the croft.
"Get down," he hissed, pulling her behind the sofa. The book pulsed again, its warmth seeping through the leather, and Eryn felt a jolt, like a memory she couldn't place. The cloaked figure knocked, a deliberate rhythm that sent a chill down her spine.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice steady despite the fear.
"Callum Reid," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "And I've brought danger to your door."
The name meant nothing, but the intensity in his gaze did. It reminded her of the day her brother left for the city, promising to return but never did, leaving her to tend the croft alone. "Well, Callum," she said, forcing resolve, "danger or not, you're not dying here. Let's get you patched up."
As she cleaned his wound—a gash from a blunt object, likely a rock—her mind raced. The cloaked figure outside, the book's warmth, Callum's cryptic words—it was a puzzle she couldn't ignore. He watched her, his gray eyes softening. "You're skilled," he said, a faint smile breaking through.
"Comes with living alone," she replied, taping a bandage in place. "Sheeps don't doctor themselves."
He chuckled, a sound that warmed the damp air. "You're not what I expected in this wilderness."
"Neither are you," she countered, meeting his gaze. The storm outside raged, but inside, a different current flowed—curiosity, perhaps, or the start of something more.
The knock came again, sharper. Callum's smile vanished. "They've found me," he muttered, reaching for the book. Its light flared, casting shadows over the room. Eryn grabbed a fire poker, her instincts kicking in. "Not in my home," she said, her voice steel.
The door handle jiggled, and a voice called out, low and threatening. "Callum Reid, hand over the tome, or we'll take it—and the girl."
Eryn's blood ran cold. "Friends of yours?"
"Enemies," he corrected, clutching the book. "They need it to unlock something ancient. I can't let them have it."
She didn't fully grasp it, but the fear in his voice was real. The poker felt flimsy, but she nodded. "Then we hide. There's a cellar—can you make it?"
Callum nodded, and they crept toward a trapdoor beneath the rug. As they descended, the book's light dimmed, but the voice above grew insistent. The cellar was cramped, lined with jars of preserves and wool, offering scant cover. They crouched behind a stack of sacks, the book pulsing softly between them.
"Who are they?" Eryn whispered, her shoulder brushing his.
"A cult," Callum said, his voice tight. "The Order of the Knot. They guard old secrets—power tied to this tome. I stole it to expose them, but it's linked to me. If they take it, they'll control me—or worse."
The weight of his words settled over her. This wasn't just a rescue—it was a fight. Above, the knocking stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. Eryn's mind raced, piecing together a plan. She'd protect her croft, her legacy, and maybe this stranger who'd stumbled into her life. The book pulsed again, and she felt it—a connection, fragile but undeniable.
As the storm raged outside, Eryn knew this was no ordinary night, and Callum Reid was no ordinary man.