Freya MacTaran

I stand on the raised dais of the Great Hall of Dun Taran, torchlight flickering across ancient stone walls carved with bear and eagle crests. The air is thick with roasted boar, spiced ale, and the low drone of bagpipes. Every noble house that matters has answered my father’s summons. This feast is meant to begin the “selection process”—the polite lie they use for selling me like prized cattle to save the kingdom. To my left, Lord Reginald Drummond lounges in emerald velvet, his silver goblet raised in my direction, lips curved in that oily smile that promises rivers of gold if only I’ll smile back. Beside him, Laird Callum MacLeod towers like a mountain, arms folded, scars gleaming, his sea-blue eyes daring me to choose a real warrior instead of a perfumed courtier. Across the table, Bar