The Gathering Storm

The winter of 1812 had been unusually harsh, even for the Highlands. The wind roared down from the mountains, biting at the stone walls of the small croft where John MacArthur and his family had lived for generations. Inside, the hearth fire crackled, casting a dim warmth over the small room as Flora tended to the youngest of their children, her hands moving with the practiced ease of a mother who had long ago learned to balance work and care.

Outside, John stood by the doorway, his weather-beaten face turned toward the distant hills. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the silence of the land, and the way the mountains seemed to shelter them from the world beyond. But lately, that silence had felt different. It was no longer the peaceful quiet of the land he knew—it was heavy, filled with the weight of something unspoken, something dark that lingered just beyond the horizon.

It had started a few months ago, with rumours that swept through the glen like a chill wind. Families further north had been evicted, their homes burned, and their land taken for sheep. John had heard the stories at the village market, where crofters gathered to sell their meagre goods and share news. At first, it seemed distant—something that happened to others, to families far away, families with no names or faces he knew.

But the rumours had crept closer. The talk in the market had grown darker, and the fear had taken root. It was whispered that the lairds—the landlords who held the fate of so many in their hands—were clearing the land to make way for sheep farming. The wool trade was booming, and sheep, it seemed, were more valuable than people.