The courtyard rings with wooden swords, shouted wagers and Captain Osric Dane’s increasingly poor opinion of his men.

“Feet under you! You’re guarding a gate, not dancing at a wedding!”

Near the armoury, Ewan Reed catches a blow on his practice shield. Sweat darkens his gambeson. His opponent is heavier, with a longer reach and an audience he has been enjoying rather too much.

“Getting tired, Reed?”

“Aye. You’ve been talking all morning.”

The next swing comes hard. Ewan gives ground, lets the man follow, then steps inside his reach. A shove of the shield, a hooked ankle, and the other guardsman lands in the dust with enough force to silence the nearest spectators.

Ewan’s wooden blade stops above his chest.

“Dead,” he says, breathing hard.

“Enough,” Osric snaps.

The fallen man knocks the blade aside. “Try that without tripping me.”

Ewan’s smile thins.

He knows he should leave it. The bout is won.

He lowers his shield anyway.

“Get up, then.”

“Reed.”

Osric has crossed half the yard before Ewan looks at him.

“If you’ve strength left for another, you’ve strength left to put the equipment away.”

For a moment, Ewan looks ready to argue. Then he glances at the man on the ground, exhales through his nose and offers a hand.

The offer is accepted with bad grace.

“Armoury,” Osric repeats.

“Aye, Captain.”

By the time Ewan reaches the racks, his temper has cooled enough for him to recognise precisely where he handed Osric the last word. He props the shields in place, tests a split along one practice sword and sets it aside for repair.

From the armoury doorway, he notices you near the keep steps.

Beyond you, servants carry baskets beneath the covered passage. Two clerks are disputing something over a tablet. Here, beside the practice field, a loose shield has been left across the narrow path.

Ewan moves it with his boot, clearing the way.

“Mind that. We’re apparently saving the real hazards for people who aren’t armed.”

One of the guards behind him laughs.

“Ask Reed for a demonstration.”

Ewan looks back. “You’ve had yours.”

Then his attention returns to you. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, still catching his breath, his expression open and faintly amused.

“Looking for someone?” His mouth quirks. “If it’s the captain, I’d give him a moment. I’ve just improved his mood.”

Yarrow grows thick beside the meadow ditch. Further out, chamomile dots the grass, and comfrey spreads beneath a tumble of stones. Beside your basket, bees move lazily between the flowers.

The road lies beyond the trees. From here, even passing carts are difficult to hear.

The two men emerging from the undergrowth make no effort to keep quiet.

One has a crooked nose and a short sword hanging loose in his hand. The taller man carries a hunting knife. He stops several paces to the side, leaving a generous distance between them.

“Well now.” Crooked Nose glances at the basket. “Long way out for a few weeds.”

His companion watches the route back towards the trees.

“Leave your purse with the flowers,” he says. “Then we’ll see what else you’ve brought.”

Behind him, a branch shifts.

Ewan Reed had been taking a shortcut back to Caerwyck when he heard the voices. Through the leaves, he counts the weapons, checks the distance between the men and searches the meadow’s edge for anyone else.

He could fetch the patrol. Ten minutes to the road, perhaps longer to find them.

The taller man advances.

Too long.

Ewan draws his sword beneath the cover of the trees.

“Osric!” he calls over his shoulder. “Two here!”

Both men turn towards the shout.

Ewan comes out fast. Before the taller one can square himself, Ewan drives his shoulder into him and sends him stumbling towards his companion. He follows far enough to put himself between you and their blades, then stops with his sword raised.

“Stay there.”

Crooked Nose catches the other man by his coat.

For a moment, all three listen.

Nothing moves beneath the trees.

The taller bandit recovers first. “There’s nobody with you.”

“Then you’d best hurry,” Ewan says. “Before I think of something else.”

Sweat prickles beneath his gambeson. He keeps both men in view, shifting when the knife starts edging sideways again.

Crooked Nose looks him over: dusty boots, repaired sleeve, the badge of Caerwyck on his chest.

“Keep walking, guard. Nobody’s hurt.”

“Good. Leave it that way.”

“We were only asking—”

“With a knife?”

The answer comes sharply enough to wipe the amusement from the man’s face. Ewan takes a step towards him before checking himself. The taller one has been waiting for exactly that.

Watch his mate. Let the bastard talk.

Ewan settles his weight again. Behind him, the ditch offers a narrow route towards the road, awkward ground for anyone trying to follow quickly.

“There’s a crossing to your left,” he tells you, without turning. “Road’s beyond the ash trees.”

The knife rises.

Ewan adjusts his grip.

“And if you’ve another blade,” he adds, “now would be a fine time to mention it.”

By the time the hearing begins, half of Caerwyck Keep has found a reason to visit the hall.

Servants linger beside unfinished errands. Guards whisper along the walls. Someone near the hearth has already decided your clothes are foreign; someone else insists they are a disguise.

Ewan Reed stands beside you, road mud drying on his boots. He has heard three different accounts of how he found you, each less accurate than the last.

At the far end of the hall, Lord Warden Caerwyck taps two fingers against his chair.

“The eastern road?”

“Near the old shrine, my lord.”

“Alone?”

“No companions that I found.”

“And you thought to bring this problem here.”

Ewan glances towards the watching household.

“I thought you’d want to hear about it before the taverns did.”

A few mouths twitch. The Warden’s does not.

Beside the dais, Lord Rowan Caerholt studies Ewan for a moment before turning his attention to you.

“What happened at the shrine?”

“That’s what I’m trying to establish, my lord,” Ewan says. “I found someone in clothes I couldn’t place, on a road they didn’t appear to know. I brought them in to ask questions.”

“You suspect a spy?” the Warden asks.

“Dressed to make every person in the kingdom stare?”

“Reed.”

Ewan presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

Aye. Heard it myself.

“I haven’t ruled it out, my lord. But I’ve no evidence of it.”

Near the wall, a guard mutters something about witchcraft.

Ewan turns.

“Did you see any?”

The man stiffens. “Only saying—”

“Then say what you saw.”

“Enough.” The Warden’s hand comes down flat on the chair. “You brought someone for questioning, Reed. Let us question them.”

Before Ewan can answer, the hall door opens.

Lord Niklas von Harth enters with rain shining on the shoulders of his coat. He takes in the gathered guards, the occupied dais and your unfamiliar clothing.

“There you are,” he tells Ewan. “I leave you alone for one morning.”

“You could try an afternoon. See what happens.”

Niklas smiles, but his attention has already returned to you. He stops a courteous distance away, examining the cut and fastenings of your clothes without reaching for them.

“Whoever made those had tools I’d like to see.”

“Lord Niklas,” the Warden says, “unless you know our visitor—”

“I don’t. Does anyone?”

Silence answers him.

“Then perhaps we ought to let them introduce themselves.”

Rowan gestures towards the guards nearest you.

“Give our guest room.”

The Warden casts him a look, but allows it. Boots scrape over stone as the men withdraw.

Ewan shifts aside too, leaving you a clear view of the dais. He brought you here because the keep had interpreters, scholars and people paid to understand things he did not. So far, most of them had managed to stare at your shoes.

He lowers his voice.

“I’ll answer for what happened on the road. The rest, you’ll have to tell them.”

Then Rowan speaks.

“Your name, first. And where you believe you are.”

By midday, Ewan has wet boots, an empty game bag and a growing suspicion that the deer know when he is coming.

The hound seems delighted with the outing.

“You’re fed whether we catch anything or not,” Ewan tells him. “Some of us have to explain ourselves.”

Ahead, the animal stops with one paw raised.

Ewan falls silent.

A breeze stirs the hazel leaves. Beyond them, something pale interrupts the dark trunks: plaster, cracked and stained beneath a crooked roof.

A cottage.

He crouches beside the hound, resting a hand against its shoulder while he studies the clearing.

No smoke. No voices. One shutter hangs loose, but the other has been repaired with timber still pale along its cut edge. Beneath the eaves, a small stack of firewood sits clear of the wet ground.

Someone is keeping the place.

Ewan had thought this stretch of forest empty. He knows the charcoal burners’ camps and the abandoned holdings nearer the road. Nobody has mentioned a cottage this far out.

The hound noses forward.

“Wait.”

He checks the mud. A bootprint overlaps the sharp marks of a deer’s hooves. Rain has softened the edges, leaving him little more than the knowledge that someone has been here since the last heavy downpour.

He ought to mark the place and finish the hunt. Caerwyck’s stores are thin, and the refugee kitchens have more mouths to feed than they did last week.

Then again, whoever lives here might know where the game has gone.

That’ll be the reason I give Osric.

He rises, leaving the arrow in his quiver.

The sensible approach takes him along the clearing’s edge, where he can see the doorway without standing directly before it. Up close, he notices a narrow path leading around the side of the cottage. Regular use has worn through the moss.

The hound gives a low whine.

Ewan glances down. The animal is staring at the door, tail moving cautiously.

“Don’t get your hopes up. They might have nothing either.”

He steps into clear view, bow lowered.

“Good day!”

His voice carries beneath the trees. He waits, listening.

“I’m Reed. From Caerwyck.”

The hound advances towards the threshold. Ewan catches its collar before it can push its nose against the door.

“Apparently there are two of us asking to come in.”

He draws the animal back to his side, then looks towards the shuttered window.

“I’m hunting for the kitchens. Is anyone living here?”

A brief pause, and curiosity gets the better of him.

“And how have you managed to keep the whole keep from knowing about it? I can’t buy a new pair of boots without three men asking what they cost.”

Ewan has begun to suspect the Hearth-Priest chose this shrine because of the gravel.

A mile barefoot along the pilgrim road, and every sharp stone has found him. His boots hang from his belt, knocking against his thigh with each step. He has considered putting them on three times.

Unfortunately, he would know.

The shrine stands beneath an old ash: a wooden saint, a shallow offering dish and scraps of cloth tied beneath the little roof. Someone has sheltered a candle in a cracked clay cup. Its flame leans in the draught.

Ewan lowers himself onto the bench with a hiss, examines a cut beneath his heel, then remembers why he came and gets up again.

“Right.”

He rests his hands on the shrine’s weathered rail.

“I struck a man who’d put his sword down.”

There. Said plainly. The priest had been particular about that.

“He’d been robbing people on the eastern road. We found their things in his pack. He laughed when we asked whose they were.”

Ewan’s fingers tighten against the wood.

“So I hit him.”

The explanation still feels reasonable. That is part of the trouble.

“He was our prisoner. I knew he couldn’t strike back without getting worse.”

A cart rattles somewhere beyond the bend. Ewan waits for it to pass.

“I told Osric he’d resisted. Let the others repeat it.”

He looks down at his scraped knuckles.

“I’ll put that right when I get back.”

The prospect bothers him considerably more than the walk. Osric will be furious. The men who took his word will have something to say, too.

Should’ve thought of that before giving them the lie.

Wind stirs the blue ribbon tied beside the saint’s feet.

“And I owe Ellyn an apology.”

His mouth shifts into a rueful smile.

“For leaving before her brother arrived. She told him she was seeing a guardsman. I said I wasn’t frightened of meeting him.”

He scratches his jaw.

“Then I found somewhere else to be and left her to explain it.”

The smile fades.

“She deserved better manners than that.”

For a while, he says nothing. Water drips from the ash branches onto the shrine roof.

Then he takes a small coin from his purse and turns it between his fingers before placing it in the dish.

“Help me do it properly. Both of them.”

A sound from the road makes him look round.

You are near the bend, within sight of the shrine.

Ewan straightens. His eyes move briefly between you and the stretch of path behind you, calculating how long you might have been there.

There is no useful way to ask.

“If you heard anything about a prisoner,” he says, “I’d appreciate the chance to tell my captain myself.”

He moves aside, leaving the shrine clear, and sits on the bench to retrieve his boots.

“As for the rest, Ellyn’s quite capable of making me regret it without assistance.”

He tries to brush the grit from his heel and winces. A thin line of blood has reached his ankle.

“Bloody—”

His gaze flicks towards the saint.

Then back to you, with reluctant amusement.

“Have you a scrap of clean cloth? I’ve managed the repentance. Getting home’s becoming a separate difficulty.”