“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.
CHAPTER 20
Elodie lay in her narrow bed, listening to the sounds of a castle settling into an uneasy rest—the distant murmur of refugees in the bailey, the measured footsteps of guards on the walls, the creak and groan of ancient stones. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind spun like a wheel, turning over the day’s events again and again.
The burned villages, terrified refugees, and the systematic pattern of destruction that Gareth’s men had confirmed. Someone wasn’t just raiding—they were strangling Greywatch, cutting off its supply lines, terrorizing its people, isolating it from its neighbors.
It had to be Alaric, but why now?
She threw off her blankets with a frustrated huff. Clearly, sleep wasn’t happening. She might as well make herself useful.
The castle corridors were quiet at this hour, lit only by guttering torches that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls. Her feet knew the way without conscious thought—down the narrow stairs, through the servants’ passage, and into the great hall.
She expected to find it empty. Instead, she found Gareth. He sat at the high table, maps spread before him in overlappinglayers, a single candle casting golden light across his bent head. His dark hair fell forward, obscuring his face, so absorbed in his study that he didn’t hear her approach.
Elodie paused suddenly uncertain. He looked exhausted—shoulders bowed, jaw tight, one hand pressed against his temple as if trying to push back a headache. The weight of responsibility hung visibly on him, and a sharp pang of something between sympathy and protectiveness went through her. She cleared her throat softly.
His head came up instantly, hand moving toward his sword before recognition registered. When he saw her, the tension in his shoulders eased.
You should be sleeping,he signed.
