The Beginning of an End
Isla MacLeod fastened the delicate strap of her heels, the sleek black leather unfamiliar on her feet. The dress she wore clung differently than her usual jeans and t-shirts—not extravagant, but enough to make her feel caught between two worlds. No longer a teenager, yet not fully an adult. The in-between space.
Her childhood bedroom remained unchanged, a shrine to years of late-night studying, whispered phone calls, and the lingering scent of vanilla candles. Posters of musicians she no longer listened to clung stubbornly to the walls, while worn books stacked in the corner whispered fragments of stories she once lost herself in.
As she adjusted her cap and gown in the mirror, a soft knock came from the door.
Her mother stood there, leaning against the frame, eyes shining with the quiet kind of sadness only mothers carry.
"You look beautiful," she said, voice warm but edged with something else.
Isla smiled, brushing down the fabric of the gown as if smoothing away nerves. "You always say that."
"Because it’s always true." Her mother stepped inside, adjusting the tassel, her fingers lingering for a moment too long. "You ready?"
The answer should have been easy. But the finality of leaving home, of stepping into the unknown, loomed larger than she expected. Instead of answering, she glanced back at her desk—at the framed photo of her family, at memories wrapped in summer bonfires and laughter she never thought would end.
Her mother followed her gaze, then—half joking, half wistful—said, "You sure you don’t want to just stay home?"
Isla let out a laugh, but it lacked conviction. The question wasn’t real, but the weight behind it was.
From downstairs, her father’s voice rang out, calling them to hurry.
Just like that, time pulled her forward.
Graduation passed in a blur of bright lights and echoing cheers. The moment she tossed her cap into the air, something inside her shifted. Not just relief—something heavier. A quiet goodbye to childhood.
She hugged her friends, took pictures, made promises to keep in touch. But as she walked away, nostalgia settled like a stone in her chest. It wasn’t sadness, exactly. Just something unnamed.
A few days later, at the airport, the reality of leaving truly sank in.
Her mother gripped her hands tightly, thumbs running over her knuckles like she was memorizing them. Her father’s arm rested firm around her shoulders—strong, reassuring, reluctant.
"You call us. Every day if you want," her mom said, voice thick with emotion.
"I will."
"And pictures. I want to see everything."
"I promise."
They exchanged final embraces, murmured goodbyes that felt too permanent, and Isla turned toward the gate, heart hammering. A new adventure. A new life. And yet, excitement wrestled with nerves, refusing to settle.
The flight was quiet—just the occasional murmur of passengers and the soft hum of engines. The elderly woman beside Isla shifted slightly and turned to her with a knowing smile.
"First time to Scotland, dear?"
Isla nodded, adjusting her seatbelt. "Studying at the University of Edinburgh."
The woman’s sharp blue eyes gleamed. "Ahh, a city woven in history. You’ll find Edinburgh doesn’t just tell its past—it feels it. It lingers."
Isla listened as the woman spoke of myths and echoes buried in stone streets. Then her voice dipped lower—conspiratorial, like she was sharing an old secret.
"There was a prince, long ago," she murmured, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air. "Lachlan Strathclyde. A ruler too proud for his own good. Stoic, unyielding—a man of law and blood. He believed in loyalty, but never trusted it. He held power tightly and loved only as much as he thought safe."
Isla blinked. "Safe?"
The woman’s lips curved as if amused. "A man like that doesn’t love without caution. And when he did love—when he finally let himself fall—he destroyed it in fear of losing it."
Isla’s fingers twisted in her lap. The woman wasn’t just telling a legend—she was warning her.
"Was he a villain?" Isla asked softly.
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "A villain? No. But tell me, dear—does the man who swings the executioner’s blade always see himself as the monster?"
A chill ran down Isla’s spine.
The conversation faded, but the name—Lachlan Strathclyde—lodged itself deep.
She didn’t know why, but it felt familiar. Too familiar.
The taxi ride into Edinburgh was a blur. The driver was friendly, pointing out landmarks with pride—Arthur’s Seat rising in the distance, the shadowed outline of the castle perched above the city like a crown. But Isla barely heard him. Her thoughts lingered on the old woman’s story.
When they pulled up to the university, she stepped out slowly, taking in the sight of the ancient stone buildings. They looked carved from time itself. The air smelled of rain and old parchment. The past wasn’t just preserved here—it thrived.
She was almost to her dorm when a student passing by handed her a flyer. “Book fair’s still going on down at the Royal Mile,” he said with a grin. “You should check it out—some real treasures in those stalls.”
She hesitated for only a second before pocketing the flyer. Her feet were aching, her body jetlagged. But adventure didn’t wait for convenience.
She dropped off her bags, freshened up, and set off toward the Royal Mile. The streets were alive with voices, laughter, and the scent of roasted chestnuts and damp stone. Rows of stalls spilled across the cobblestones—hardcovers stacked high, leather-bound tomes glinting in the sun.
She wandered slowly, trailing her fingers along the spines, when something strange happened. A hum.
Soft at first. Barely there. Then deeper. Stronger. The ground beneath her feet thrummed like a heartbeat. No one else reacted. Only her.
At the edge of the fair, she spotted a weathered vendor with a modest table of old books. Drawn like a moth to flame, she stepped closer. Her eyes scanned the titles until one stopped her cold.
The Life and Legend of Prince Lachlan Strathclyde.
Her fingers brushed the cover. The humming stopped.
She lifted her hand. The hum resumed.
Twice more she tested it, heart thudding in her chest.
The vendor—an older man with eyes like fog and knowledge—watched her closely. She turned to him. “This one,” she said, lifting the book.
His gaze was long, unreadable. Then he nodded once, slowly, and slid it toward her.
“Stories have a way of calling to those meant to hear them,” he said.
She stiffened. “What does that mean?”
But he only smiled.
She paid quickly, clutching the book to her chest, and walked away without looking back. The city bustled on around her, unaware. But something had shifted.
Somewhere, beneath layers of ink and time, a thread had begun to pull.
And though she didn’t know it yet, this was only the beginning.