“We’ll be in sight of the cove within the hour,” I reported, my eyes on the water ahead. “No patrol boats spotted yet. I’ve seen no signs of anyone else either.”
“Keep it that way,” she replied. “I want to be a ghost.”
I nodded. “Ghost it is.”
Behind us, the others were gathering their gear. Nox rolled his shoulders, sheathed his blades, and glanced toward the bow like he could will the coastline to come closer already. Bishop checked that his weapons were in neat order, laying them all out and checking them over. Eamon was triple checking the medical kit. Again.
“Anything we need to know before we land?” Elias asked out loud, coming up to stand beside Tamsin.
“I’ve run this shoreline before,” Nox said. “Smuggling routes, years ago. If it’s still the same, the rocks north of the cove are high enough to block view from any patrols inland. There’s an old walking path that used to be maintained. It should lead us straight to the edge of the village if it hasn’t overgrown.”
Tamsin gave a single nod.
The wind shifted. Land drew closer. I could see dark shapes against the dusky horizon. We slowed the engine, coasting in as quietly as we could, cutting the motor just short of the cove and letting the boat drift the rest of the way in.
We disembarked in near silence, boots hitting wet sand, seaspray clinging to our clothes. The air here was cooler than the Isle of Man, and it made a shiver cascade down my spine.
Still, we moved fast. Nox led the way, guiding us over the rolling hills and into the tree line, following memory and instinct until the brush gave way to the overgrown remains of what used to be a road. Our breath fogged slightly as the temperature dropped, and the sounds of the ocean faded behind us.
After nearly an hour of hiking under cover of trees and darkness, the first village we encountered emerged like a ghost from the landscape. I saw crumbled stone walls, sagging roofs, and windows long since boarded or broken. No lights. No movement. Just silence and the ghosts of the memory of lives once lived here.
We approached a chapel at the far end of the village. It had a half-collapsed roof, and the remnants of stained-glass windows glinted in the moonlight. A soft whistle carried through the air. Two notes. To an untrained ear, it might have sounded like an owl.
It wasn’t.
We stopped.
Elias raised his hand, and I stepped ahead first.
A figure emerged from behind the stone arch, a woman. She was in her mid-forties, lean, and had hair buzzed close to her scalp. She wore shabby clothes and moved like someone who didn’t expect comfort from the world anymore.
“Name?” she asked, voice low.
“Griff Madoc,” I answered.
Her eyes scanned the rest of us, lingering on Tamsin. “You’re with the Accord?”
Tamsin stepped forward. “We are.”
The woman nodded. “Call me Lyndsey. I’ve got six beds, some food, and letters left for you. Come inside before someone sees something.”
We entered in single file, ducking through the sagging doorway. Inside, the chapel smelled like old stone and damp wood, but it was warm enough. The pews had been cleared out, replaced with a few bedrolls, crates of supplies, and a makeshift hearth. Candles flickered from the altar, where someone had arranged old bottles and tins into the shape of a cross.
Lyndsey set a battered pot down near the hearth. “It’s not fancy,” she said, already ladling. “But it’s hot.”
Steam rose, carrying the smell of onions and barley, something meaty beneath it. I guessed that it was rabbit, maybe, or goat. There were chunks of carrot and turnip floating near the surface, as well as some green herbs.
“Hot is fancy these days,” Nox grinned approvingly.
She snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”
She handed out tin bowls and rough slices of dense dark bread baked that morning by the look of it. Eamon accepted his with visible gratitude, testing the stew with a cautious sip before he smiled softly.
“This is good,” he praised. “You’ve got a talented hand with seasoning.”
Lyndsey smiled at that, pleased. “Been feeding people on the move a long time.”
We settled around a cleared space where pews had once been, sitting on crates and folded blankets, and ate in silence. Then Lyndsey reached into a small lockbox and handed Tamsin two folded letters.
