"For them, it is," Alistair replied, his voice a low rumble. "They fight for a king. We fight for the memory of our fathers."
For weeks, the lowland forces had been pushing north, their heavy cavalry and polished armor clashing with the wild stillness of the glens. They saw the Highlands as a frontier to be tamed, but to Alistair, the mountains weren’t just land—they were a fortress that breathed. highland-warriors
The Lowlanders charged, their boots sinking into the deceptive bog. Then, the MacLeods moved. They didn't march; they surged like a landslide. Alistair led the charge, his kilt snapping in the wind as he cleared the distance with the practiced ease of a man who had run these crags since childhood. "For them, it is," Alistair replied, his voice a low rumble
Alistair stood atop a jagged outcrop, wiping his blade on a tuft of grass. He looked out over the glen, silent once more. They hadn't won the war—not yet—but as long as the mist rolled through the heather and the pipes sang in the dark, the Highlands would never be truly conquered. They saw the Highlands as a frontier to