They both knew something else too. The raids had started six months ago—around the same time whispers began spreading that Lord Alaric de Montrevain was looking to expand his holdings. Dunharrow Keep sat less than half a day’s ride from Greywatch. Close enough to coordinate attacks. Close enough to weaken a rival without ever being directly implicated.
Gareth had no proof. Nothing he could take to the king’s justiciars, nothing that would hold up in any court.
But he knew.
He knew.
They returned to Greywatch as the sun was setting, painting the grey stone walls in shades of copper and rust. The light was thin and pale—winter’s last grudging gift before darkness claimed the moors. The castle loomed against the darkening sky, solid and unyielding. Home, if such a word still had any meaning.
Gareth dismissed his men and climbed to the battlements alone. This was his ritual—watching the sun die, standing in the cold wind, reminding himself that he was still alive even when he felt like something less than living.
The moors stretched before him, beautiful and treacherous. Patches of snow still clung to the hollows where the weak winter sun couldn’t reach, and the ground would be treacherous with hidden ice for weeks yet. One wrong step into the bogs and a man could vanish forever. Gareth had learned every safe path, every hidden danger. He’d made this land his own through sheer stubborn will.
And in the distance, barely visible against the horizon, sat Dunharrow Keep.
Gareth’s hand rose unbidden to the scar at his throat—rough and ridged beneath his fingers, a permanent reminder of the price of misplaced faith.
Alaric’s seat. His stronghold. The place where a boy of seven had been sent to learn honor from a man who had none.
But Gareth knew things about that fortress that Alaric didn’t. His father had told him years ago, when Gareth was just a squire returning home for a brief visit. The elder de Clare had helped design Dunharrow’s drainage systems decades ago, before Alaric’s family held the keep—back when it belonged to a different lord with different enemies.
“Every fortress bleeds somewhere,” his father had said, unrolling old parchments by candlelight. “Remember where thisone bleeds. You never know when such knowledge might save your life.”
Gareth remembered. He remembered everything.
Soon, he thought.Soon.
Footsteps on the stairs made him turn. Bertram appeared, slightly out of breath from the climb, his cheeks reddened by the cold.
“My lord.” The steward bowed. “I wanted to speak with you about the May Day celebrations.”
Gareth stared at him.
“I know you’ve forbidden festivities in the past.” Bertram hurried on before Gareth could dismiss him. “But the people are afraid, my lord. The raids, the rumors—they need something to lift their spirits. Even a small celebration would?—”
Gareth held up a hand.
Bertram stopped.
For a long moment, Gareth considered. May Day. Dancing and feasting and laughter, all the things that had no place in Greywatch Castle. All the things that had no place in his life. Spring would come eventually—it always did, no matter how endless winter seemed—but he could not imagine welcoming it with ribbons and song.
He shook his head.
The steward’s face fell. “As you wish, my lord.”
He turned to go, then paused at the top of the stairs. “There was a time,” he said quietly, “when you would have led the celebrations yourself. When you laughed and danced and made the serving girls blush with your pretty words.” He glanced back, something careful in his expression. “I miss that man.”
Gareth didn’t move. Didn’t respond. The wind cut across the battlements, sharp and bitter with the promise of frost, and he let it fill the silence between them.
Bertram sighed and began his descent. He’d made it three steps when he stopped again.
“I nearly forgot, my lord. A messenger arrived while you were gone—from the regency council in London.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt. “They’re demanding updated tax records before the summer levy. And there’s some matter of disputed grazing rights on the northern border. Lord Ashworth claims his shepherds have been using that land for generations.”
Gareth took the parchment. More problems. More demands. The work of lordship never ended, even for a lord who refused to speak.
“I’ve prepared the records as best I can,” Bertram continued, “but they’ll need your seal. And Lord Ashworth has requested a meeting to discuss the border matter. He suggests three days hence at the old stone marker.”
Gareth nodded. He’d deal with Ashworth. He’d deal with all of it. That was what he did now—dealt with problems, one after another, an endless parade of duties that kept him moving.
