Chapter 15
The argument started over nothing and became everything.
Four days had passed since Alaric’s visit.
Days of increased patrols, nervous servants, and Gareth’s relentless vigilance.
He’d barely slept—Elodie could see it in the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension that never left his shoulders.
Every rider on the horizon set the castle on alert.
Every unexpected sound made hands reach for weapons.
She understood the need for caution, even supported it. What she couldn’t accept was being treated like a piece of fragile glassware that might shatter if she wandered more than ten paces from the keep.
“I was just going to the herb garden,” she said for the third time, her voice rising despite her best efforts. “The herb garden. Inside the walls. Fifty paces from the door.”
Gareth’s signs were sharp, clipped. You were told to stay inside.
“I was told to be careful. There’s a difference.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I can’t spend every moment of every day locked in this solar. I’ll go mad.”
Better mad than dead.
“Oh, that’s comforting. Thank you for that, you great dolt.”
You do not understand—
“I understand perfectly!”
Their hands flew between them—accusation, defense, counterattack. Elodie had never argued in sign language before. It was surprisingly satisfying. No one could interrupt you when you were still signing.
Gareth made a sharp gesture she didn’t recognize.
“What does that mean?” she demanded.
He fingerspelled slowly, his expression deadly serious: S-T-U-B-B-O-R-N.
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” Instead of yelling, she signed back with exaggerated precision. You. More stubborn. Like stone.
His lips twitched. Even furious, he found her amusing. The knowledge only made her angrier.
“I have work to do,” she continued. “I have students waiting for lessons. I have a life in this castle, and you’re asking me to give it up because—”
Because I will not lose you.
The signs were so violent that she actually stepped back. His hands hung in the air for a moment, trembling, before he dropped them to his sides and turned away.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Elodie stared at his back—the rigid line of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the windowsill. Her anger drained away, replaced by something more complicated.
“Gareth.”
He didn’t turn.
She moved closer, slowly, the way you’d approach a wounded animal. “Gareth, look at me.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. When he finally turned, his face was pale, his expression raw in a way she’d never seen before.
Why do you defend me? His hands moved jerkily, as if the signs hurt to make. You do not know The Silent Reaper. Not truly. You do not know what I have done. The people I have killed. The choices I have made.
“I know enough.”
You know nothing. He laughed—a silent, bitter exhalation. I was not always the man you see. Before Alaric, I was... I believed in honor. In service. In doing what was right. And then I learned that none of it mattered. That the world rewards cunning and cruelty, not virtue.
“That doesn’t change who you are.”
It changed everything. His hands stilled, then resumed more slowly. Three years ago, I was left for dead. The woman who found me—the healer who saved my life—she told me that I had a choice. I could let the betrayal poison me, or I could build something new.
Elodie waited, not daring to interrupt.
I chose silence, he continued. I chose distance. I chose to become the kind of man who could never be hurt again. And it worked. For three years, nothing touched me. Nothing mattered. I was safe.
“Safe isn’t the same as living.”
No. His gaze held hers, and what she saw there made her breath catch.
It is not. And then you appeared. In a flash of lightning, dressed in flowers and gossamer.
Talking to yourself about odd doings. And I thought— His hands faltered.
I thought perhaps the world still held wonders I had not yet imagined.
She felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back fiercely.
“Gareth—”
You gave me back my voice, he signed. Not my speech—that was always still there, waiting.
You gave me my voice. The part of me that could connect.
That could trust and feel. His hands dropped briefly to his sides before rising again.
And now I am terrified. Because if something happens to you, I do not know who I will become.
“Nothing is going to happen to me,” she said, her voice thick. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You cannot promise that.
“No. I can’t. But neither can you. Neither can anyone.” She stepped closer, close enough to touch. “That’s what it means to be alive, Gareth. To care about things you might lose. To love people who could hurt you. You can’t protect yourself from loss by refusing to live.”
I know. His hands moved slowly, deliberately. I know. But I do not know how to stop being afraid.
“You don’t stop. You just... keep going anyway.” She reached up and touched his face—the scarred jaw, the rough stubble, the skin that was warm beneath her fingers. “That’s what courage is. Not the absence of fear. Just the decision to keep going despite it.”
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, something had shifted in his expression.
You see me, he signed. You are the first person in three years who has truly seen me.
“Yes, I see you.”
She let her thumb trace the edge of his scar. His breath caught. His hands came up to cup her face, mirroring her gesture, his calloused palms gentle against her skin.
“I see the fear,” she continued softly. “I see the anger. I see the loneliness. And none of it makes me want to run. None of it makes me care about you less.”
You should. But his hands moved gently now, the earlier violence gone. You should run from me. I will only bring you pain.
“Maybe. Probably. Life is painful.” She smiled, though her eyes were wet. “But you also bring me joy. You bring me purpose. You bring me a reason to wake up in the morning and fight for something.” Her voice dropped. “You make me feel seen. For the first time in years.”
They stood there in the golden afternoon light, her hand on his face, his hands cradling hers. The argument that had started this felt distant now—a storm that had passed to reveal something clearer beneath.
I see you too, he signed finally, releasing her face just long enough to shape the words.
Your brilliance. And your courage. Your endless words that fill up all the silences I used to hide in.
His hands returned to cup her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.
I did not know I was lonely until you showed me what connection felt like.
“Then stop trying to lock me away.” She pressed her forehead to his. “Let me stand beside you. Let me be your partner, not your prisoner.”
He was still for a long moment. If something happens to you—
“Then you’ll burn the world down. I know.” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes—pale as morning frost, and just as sharp. “I’m counting on it, actually. Makes me feel very secure.”
That surprised a breath of laughter out of him—silent, but real. His thumb traced her cheekbone, rough and gentle at once.
You are difficult.
“I’m an archaeologist. We specialize in difficult things.” She grinned despite herself. “Found any good dead civilizations lately?”
Just one. His expression softened. Though it may not be as dead as it seemed.
They stood there, breathing the same air, close enough to kiss but not crossing that final distance. Not yet. The moment stretched between them, fragile and perfect. A sharp knock shattered the silence.
“My lord!” Bertram’s voice, urgent through the door. “My lord, riders approaching from the north!”
Gareth’s hands dropped from her face. The softness vanished from his expression, replaced by the cold focus of a man preparing for battle.
He crossed to the door in three strides and pulled it open. Bertram stood there, breathing hard, his weathered face tight with worry.
“How many?” Elodie asked before Gareth could sign the question.
“A dozen, my lady. Maybe more. They’re not carrying banners.”
Not Alaric’s men, Gareth signed rapidly. He would fly his colors.
“Could be refugees,” Elodie said. “The raids—”
Could be anything. Gareth was already moving, his hand finding his sword belt by instinct. Bertram, sound the alert. Miles to the walls.
“Already done, my lord.”
Gareth paused at the doorway and looked back at her. For just a moment, the warrior’s mask slipped, and she saw the man underneath—the one who’d just bared his soul to her, who’d just admitted he was terrified of losing her.
Stay here, he signed.
“Gareth—”
Please. The sign was soft, almost a request. Until we know what this is. Please.
She wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed against letting him walk into potential danger without her. But she could see what it cost him to ask, could see the fear he was trying so hard to hide.
“Fine,” she said. “But the moment you know anything—”
I will send word. He was gone before she could respond, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Elodie stood alone in the solar, her heart still racing from everything they’d said—and everything they hadn’t. Outside, she could hear the castle coming to life, men calling to each other, the clatter of weapons being readied.
She moved to the window and looked out over the courtyard. Gareth had appeared below, conferring with Miles, his hands moving in rapid signs. The guardsmen were taking positions along the walls.
The riders crested the hill.
Even from this distance, she could see they weren’t soldiers. The horses were too varied, the riders too ragged. Women and children, she realized with a jolt. Families. Fleeing something.
Refugees. People Alaric had driven from their homes.
More mouths to feed—and more opportunities for a spy to slip through.
She thought of Marian’s bright eyes, of the task Gareth had given her. Watch. Listen. Find the spy.
Somewhere in that approaching group, someone might be carrying Alaric’s secrets. Carrying his plans.
She needed to be there when they arrived.
“Spinach fudge,” she swore, and headed for the door.