She ladled stew into a wooden bowl, the aroma of rosemary and garlic filling the room as she placed it in front of him. For a while, they ate in silence, the sounds of the fire and the soft clink of spoons against wood the only interruptions.
“You’ve got that look again,” she said simply, sitting across from him with her own bowl, her slight frame barely disturbing the throw draped over the chair.
She spoke, breaking the silence like bread. “What’s eating at you?”
Garrick stared into his bowl, the rich broth steaming up into his face, but his mind wandered back to the dungeon and to the weight of the keys hanging at his side.
He didn’t answer right away. He set his spoon down carefully, leaning back in his chair.
“They arrested Martha,” he said finally. “Walked right into Elena’s hands.”
Her spoon paused mid-air. Slowly, she set it down.
“Candlemaker?” she asked, her tone unreadable.
“That’s what they’re saying.”
She sighed, setting her bowl aside. “It’s starting again, then.”
Garrick didn’t respond, but his silence did. The fire burned steadily, its light dancing across the floorboards and beams of the cottage perched in a high part of the village, above the avalanche’s reach.
Merina studied him, catching something he tried to hide.
“You’ve always done what you thought was right,” she said. “Don’t stop now.”
“What’s right doesn’t matter.” Garrick pushed his chair back slightly. “What matters is keeping order. Keeping things from falling apart.”
As Merina stood up, her wavy black hair caught the firelight, creating a halo effect around her face. Crossing to the hearth, she ladled another spoonful of stew into his bowl.
“And does it feel like it’s working?” she asked, her back still to him.
“Or does it feel like holding back an avalanche with a broom?”
Garrick offered a low, humorless chuckle. “Maybe both.”
She placed the bowl back in front of him. Her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment.
“Whatever it is you’re holding back, Garrick,” she coaxed. “Don’t let it take you with it.”
He met her gaze. The firelight reflected in her steady eyes.
For the first time that day, a feeling inside him eased a little.
“The only thing that matters,” Garrick murmured, picking up his spoon again, “is you. Us. Here. Now.”
His rough hands wrapped around the bowl’s edge.
“What happens there? It’s all the Crown’s play. It’s their drama.”
His expression darkened. “Fools, the Candlemakers. The only thing their belief has ever gotten them is trouble. And believe me, they’re a bunch of hypocrites.”
Merina didn’t move, but he felt her watching him.
“The murder, the deaths—it’s them.” His words were low, edged with conspiracy. “Preaching the light while bringing darkness.”
He sucked in a breath. “I heard that little one, Sarah, betrayed her.”
Merina’s fingers went still on the edge of her bowl. “Sarah?” she let out, head bent low.
Garrick nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s the word. Sold them all out for a room at the castle, some silver.”
A beat of silence. Then, Merina whispered, “She’s just a child, Garrick.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said, resigned.
“What matters is the blood they’ve spilled and the chaos they’ve brought. Do you want the Android Wars all over again?”
Merina drew in a breath and kept her mouth shut.
Garrick pushed his chair back. “Some are saying they’re still here.”
His wife’s expression didn’t change, but her hands smoothed the fabric of her apron.
“Androids?” she asked finally.
Garrick nodded once. “And the Candlemakers? They’ve always been tangled in the past, in old machine superstitions. The Crown won’t stop until every last one of them, android or Candlemaker, is gone.”
A silence stretched between them. The fire crackled gently.
Garrick leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table.
“And honestly?”
The candlelight caught the exhaustion in his face.
“Maybe that’s what it takes.”
The words took on the pallor of a death sentence. Merina gazed at the hearth dominating one wall, its wide stone mantle cluttered with small tokens: a brass candlestick, a wooden carving of a bird with one wing chipped, and a simple clay jar that held wildflowers in the summer but now sat empty.
“And what about us?” She finally said. Her hands rested gently in her lap. “What happens when their war spills over here? When it knocks on this door?”
Garrick inhaled slowly. “It won’t,” he said firmly, but the doubt was there, somewhere.
Merina studied the face she knew so well. Then, finally: “You can’t pretend the storm doesn’t exist just because we’re on higher ground.”
Garrick stared into his bowl as if it held answers he couldn’t find. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind and snow held their ground. And, in the distance, a faint light glowed in another window.
Asingle candle burned in the window, its soft light caressing the warm skin of the woman stretched lazily in the small bed, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves.
“You’re late,” Ryn murmured, teasing.
The bed sat low and narrow, covered in a patchwork quilt. It wasn’t much, but the space radiated a warmth and intimacy that Ward always found his way back to.
As she watched Ward with quiet amusement, her arms fell to her sides. Her full curves were accentuated by a thin white shirt. The neckline dipped low, and the fabric slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone and the inviting curve of her breasts.
Ward shrugged off his cloak, tossing it over the back of the stool near the door. “Garrick kept me longer than I thought,” he muttered, his fingers moving to the laces of his shirt.
The linen slipped free, baring his chest to the room’s warmth, and he kicked off his boots with a heavy thud before stepping closer to the bed, where the scent of aged pine mingled with the faint trace of lavender from a satchel tucked near the pillows.
Ryn’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You smell like smoke and ale,” she said, her gaze trailing over him, lingering on the broad line of his shoulders and the faint scars etched across his skin.
“And you,” Ward replied, leaning in closer, “smell like trouble.”
“You could never stay out of trouble, Ward,” she said playfully.
Her laughter was gentle, as she leaned back against the pillows, letting the thin fabric of her shift ride up her thighs and the lace trim underneath peek out.
Ward’s pulse quickened, his hands finding her waist as he lowered himself onto the bed, his weight pressing her into the softness beneath them.
Her hands slid over his shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle as he pressed his mouth to her neck, his stubble rough against her skin.
Ryn arched beneath him, her body responding to his touch as his lips trailed lower, brushing the delicate edge of her neckline. The thin fabric caught beneath his fingers as he pulled it aside, exposing more of her to the candlelight.
In this moment, they heard only the hushed rustle of fabric and the quiet rhythm of their breaths, paced by the flicker of the candlelight. Ward pressed against her, his hand sliding along the curve of her waist as she tilted her head back, her lips parting in a silent sigh.
The embers in the hearth glowed dimly, casting the room in warm shadows. Ryn stretched again, her body still humming. She studied him through lidded eyes.
“Heard there’s trouble at the castle,” she murmured casually, watching him carefully.
Ward snorted, leaning back against the headboard. “Trouble’s an understatement. Not just the murder of ol’ Edric. Not just an avalanche. It’s a circus up there.”
She turned onto her side, resting her chin on her hand. “Plenty of folks dancing on his grave, I’d wager. The Crown’s going to come down hard.”
“Aye,” Ward said. “But it’s not just Edric’s murderer they’re after. The Candlemakers are stirring things up again.”
Ryn arched a brow. “You think they deserve what’s coming?”
Ward’s gaze moved down her body, still bare beneath the sheets.
“Deserve?” he scoffed. “Who gives a rat’s arse? Honor, belief—you ask me, it’s all the same excuse for bloodshed.”
She studied him. “And what do we believe, then?”
His fingers traced along her arm, slow, absent. “That the only thing worth a damn is living. Pleasure. Happiness. Everything else—gods, kings, revolutions—different faces, same game.”
Her laughter was softer now, almost distant. “You’re a cynic.”
“I’m a realist,” Ward corrected, pulling her closer. “And a man who knows how to enjoy what he’s got while he’s got it.”
His lips brushed hers, but Ryn pulled back a little, her smile fading.
“And when the storm comes here?” she asked, quietly. “When the Crown’s drama spills onto our little stage?”
For the measure of a breath, Ward’s easy confidence wavered.
“Then we take what we can and leave the rest.” His voice was steady again. “You and me, Ryn. We’re smarter than the lot of them.”
She watched him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she leaned back against the pillows, her expression unreadable. “You’d better be right.”