Chapter 19
The messenger arrived at dawn, his horse lathered and heaving, the man’s face grey with exhaustion and something worse.
Elodie was breaking her fast in the great hall when the commotion erupted—shouts from the courtyard, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, Bertram’s voice rising in sharp alarm.
She pushed back from the table and hurried toward the noise, arriving just as Gareth emerged from the keep, buckling his sword belt over his tunic with the ease of long practice.
The messenger half-fell from his saddle into the arms of a waiting guard. His words tumbled out between gasping breaths. “Raiders, the northern villages—Hillshire is burning—”
Gareth caught the man before he could collapse entirely. His hands moved in rapid signs to his captain. How many? Direction?
Miles translated for the messenger.
“Dozens,” the messenger answered. “Mayhap more. They came at night. Torched the grain stores first—we’d only just brought in the harvest—then the cottages. Anyone who fought back—” His voice cracked. “There were children, my lord.”
A muscle jumped in Gareth’s jaw. He steadied the messenger and passed him to one of the servants, then turned to Sir Miles with signs so sharp they looked like knife strokes.
Gather twenty men. Full arms. We ride within the hour.
“My lord,” Miles rumbled, “’tis possible the raids are organized. This could be a trap—they might be trying to draw you out.”
Gareth’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes went cold and hard as flint. He signed. Then we spring it. Those villages are under my protection.
Elodie stepped forward before she could think better of it. “What can I do?”
Gareth turned to her, and for just a moment, his stern mask softened. He signed. Stay. Keep the castle safe. His hands hesitated, then added. Keep yourself safe.
“Gareth—”
But he was already moving, issuing silent orders that sent men scattering toward the armoury and stables. Within the hour, as promised, twenty armed riders thundered through Greywatch’s gates into the thin morning mist, Gareth at their head with his dark cloak streaming behind him like a banner.
Elodie watched from the battlements until they disappeared over the ridge, her hands clenched white-knuckled on the sun-warmed stone. The castle felt suddenly hollow without him, as if his absence had drained all the warmth from the air.
Be safe, she thought, the words a prayer to any god that might be listening. Come back to me.
The second wave of refugees arrived before midday.
A straggling line of them appeared on the road—women with children clinging to their skirts, old men leaning on walking sticks, young boys leading bony goats and clutching bundles of salvaged belongings.
They moved with the shuffling exhaustion of people who had been walking all night, their faces hollow with shock, their clothes still reeking of smoke.
Elodie met them at the gate, Bertram at her elbow—but this time, they weren’t alone.
Agnes, a stout woman from Thornwick who’d arrived with the first wave of refugees, was already pushing through the crowd with a basket of bread.
Behind her came two young mothers Elodie recognized from the east wing, their own children balanced on their hips as they reached for the newcomers’ little ones with soft words and steadying hands.
“We know what they need,” Agnes said matter-of-factly when she saw Elodie’s surprised expression. “We were them not so long ago. Come, loves, come. There’s pottage on the fire and pallets in the bailey. You’re safe now.”
The change stunned her. The refugees who’d arrived hollow-eyed and hopeless not so long ago were now the ones offering comfort, drawing the frightened newcomers into the castle’s embrace with the authority of people who’d found their footing again.
“My lady!” Marian appeared at her side, slightly out of breath. “Old Wynne’s got the healing supplies ready, and Cook’s already started another batch of bread. What else do you need?”
Elodie took a breath and relaxed just a bit. This wasn’t like before, when she’d been running herself ragged trying to manage everything alone. The castle had become a community, one that could function without her directing every moment.
“Help Agnes organize sleeping arrangements,” she said.
She moved among the newcomers, but this time her role felt different—less frantic organizer, more... what? Lady of the castle, she supposed. The thought made her stomach flutter.
A woman with singed hair and hollow eyes clutched at Elodie’s sleeve. “My lady, the raiders, they weren’t ordinary bandits—”
“Tell me,” Elodie said quietly, drawing her aside. “Everything you remember.”
The woman’s story came out in fractured pieces. The attackers had moved with military precision. They’d known exactly where the grain stores were, which cottages belonged to the village headman, and where the well was located. They hadn’t stolen, they’d destroyed. Systematically. Deliberately.
Bandits take things, Elodie thought, the cold knot in her stomach tightening. These men wanted to burn.
“Did you see any colours?” she pressed. “Banners? Anything to identify them?”
“Nothing, my lady. They wore dark leather, with hoods over their faces. But—” The woman hesitated. “One of them slipped. Called another by name. Edmund, he said. Like he forgot himself.”
Elodie filed the name away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
By evening, the outer bailey had changed again—more cook fires, more makeshift shelters, more children chasing each other between the tents.
But unlike the desperate scramble of before, there was an order to it now.
Thornwick refugees directed newcomers to their beds.
Agnes had organised a rotation for meal distribution.
Even the castle servants seemed less overwhelmed, working alongside people who’d been strangers not so long ago.
Father Aldric found her near the well, drinking deeply from a ladle of cold water. His robes were rumpled and stained—he’d been helping carry supplies again, she’d noticed.
“You’ve built something here,” he said gruffly. “These people—they trust each other now. They work together.”
“They built it themselves,” Elodie said. “I just... showed them the door.”
The priest studied her with those sharp, assessing eyes. “Perhaps. But someone had to open it first.” He paused, his thin face working through several expressions. “I was wrong about you. I ask for your forgiveness.”
Coming from the man who’d wanted to exorcise her, it was practically a declaration of undying devotion. Elodie managed a tired smile. “Already forgiven, Father.”
Shouts arose from the watchtower just as the sun touched the horizon.
“Riders approaching! ’Tis Lord Gareth!”
Elodie was running before she consciously decided to move, her exhausted legs finding new strength as she pushed through the crowd toward the gate. The portcullis groaned upward, and then they were through, twenty riders, dust-covered and weary, but alive, all of them alive—
Gareth swung down from his horse, and his eyes found her immediately.
He stood frozen for a moment, taking in the courtyard—the refugees, the cook fires, the organised chaos of community that had sprung up in his absence.
His gaze swept across the scene, cataloguing and assessing, before returning to her.
She must have looked a sight. Her gown was streaked with soot and blood that wasn’t hers, her hair had escaped its braid hours ago, and she was fairly certain there was porridge crusted on her sleeve from where a toddler had thrown up on her.
But Gareth was looking at her like she’d hung the moon. He crossed the space between them in three long strides. His hands came up to cup her face, tilting it toward the torchlight, and she could feel him checking for injuries, assessing her condition the way he’d assessed the courtyard.
You are well? he signed, one-handed.
“I’m fine.” She caught his wrist, stilling his examination. “What about you? What did you find?”
Before he could answer, Sir Miles appeared at his shoulder, his face grim beneath the road dust. “My lord. We should speak. The men need to hear this.”
Gareth nodded, but his hand found Elodie’s and drew her with him toward the great hall.
The great hall had been cleared for the council, the displaced villagers settled in the outer bailey with their fires and their fears. Gareth’s men gathered in a rough semicircle, their faces hard with exhaustion and something else—anger, Elodie realised. Cold, focused anger.
Miles stepped forward, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall.
“The raiders weren’t bandits,” he reported.
“They were trained soldiers. Disciplined. They moved in formation, hit specific targets, and withdrew on signal.” He reached into his belt and produced a dagger, laying it on the table before Gareth.
“Three of them carried weapons with Dunharrow’s forge-mark—filed off, but not well enough. ”
The silence that followed was absolute. Gareth picked up the dagger, turning it in his hands. Even from where she stood, Elodie could see the faint traces of a mark near the hilt—scratched away, but the indentation remained, the ghost of a symbol.
His hands moved sharply. Alaric.
“He’s testing our borders,” Miles continued. “Seeing how swiftly we respond. How many men we can spare.” He glanced at Elodie, then back to Gareth. “The attacks form a pattern, my lord. They’re all villages nigh to Greywatch. He’s not raiding for supplies—he’s sending a message.”
“What message?” One of the younger soldiers asked.
Gareth’s expression was carved from ice. That we are alone, that no one will help us, and that he can hurt our people whenever he chooses.
“There’s more,” Miles said heavily. “The survivors described their attackers. They said the men moved as if they knew exactly where the grain stores were. Where the wells were. Which cottages belonged to the headmen.” He paused.
“Someone’s been feeding them information, my lord. Someone who knows these villages.”
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
We have a traitor, Gareth signed. Someone inside our borders. Perhaps inside our walls.
Elodie thought of the refugees in the courtyard—the hollow-eyed women, the frightened children, the old men who’d lost everything. Someone had helped Alaric target them. Someone had made a map of their lives and handed it to their enemies.
“What do we do?” she asked, her voice cutting through the grim silence.
Gareth turned to her. For a moment, his expression softened—gratitude, perhaps, for her presence.
We prepare, he signed. We watch. And we find the traitor before they can do more damage. His hands stilled, then moved again with brutal precision. And when Alaric strikes again—we will be ready.
The meeting dissolved into smaller groups—Miles organizing patrol schedules, Bertram tallying their remaining supplies, soldiers comparing notes about the raiders’ movements. Elodie stood apart, processing everything she’d heard.
Gareth appeared at her side, his presence a solid warmth in the hall.
You should rest, he signed. You have done more than enough today.
“So have you.”
I am used to war. Something flickered in his expression—pain, quickly hidden. You should not have to be.
Elodie reached up and touched his face, her fingers brushing the edge of his scar. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever’s coming—we face it together.”
He caught her hand and held it against his cheek for a moment. Then he turned his face and pressed a kiss to her palm—gentle, reverent, a promise sealed in silence.
Together, he signed.
Behind them, the hall buzzed with preparations for war. Outside, refugees huddled around their fires, finding comfort in community. And somewhere beyond the castle walls, Alaric was planning his next move.
Marian appeared in the kitchen passage, clearly waiting for direction about tomorrow’s meal distribution. Elodie gave Gareth’s hand one final squeeze before going to help.