Steeling himself, Garrick marched ahead, boots crunching through the hardened snow.
“Commander Sorian!” he called, cutting through the roar of the steam drill as it chewed through the snow on the icy pass, doing in a day what would’ve taken the villagers two months.
“Grateful for your swift response,” he added, squinting against particles of snow whipped up from a bitter wind howling through the ravine.
Sorian dismounted from his horse with practiced ease, his movements fluid and economical despite the heavy fur-lined cloak that draped his shoulders. His boots sunk into the snow with finality, claiming the ground beneath him for the Crown.
Beside them, the great leviathan of iron and wood spewed clouds of icy fog. A squadron of workers fed it coal, adjusted its valves, and oiled its moving parts.
The pointed head of the machine spun ceaselessly, grinding through the icy wall of the avalanche as soldiers worked in rhythm around it, clearing debris and reinforcing the passage.
Behind it, the Crown’s army proceeded in a narrow column that stretched back beyond what Garrick could see.
Sorian swiveled slowly toward Garrick, his gaze locking on him with predatory intensity. He had an unnerving patience in his scrutiny, as if he could extract truth through sheer observation.
For a moment, he said nothing, examining Garrick’s scars, his patched cloak, the worn leather of the sword belt, and the tension that pulled Garrick’s shoulders into a rigid line.
“Garrick,” Sorian said finally, his tone smooth as polished marble but edged with mild curiosity. “Edric’s first guard.” A statement, not a question. “Are you here to explain the signal? I was expecting someone with actual authority.”
He smiled glibly to his officers who flanked him. They laughed shallowly in return, the sound as hollow as ice cracking over a frozen lake.
The exchange was calculated, intended to diminish Garrick, and it was effective in that regard. Something withered in Garrick’s chest, as an old instinct to bow before power gained the upper hand.
Garrick forced his shoulders back, “Threadneedle is in desperate need, sir. With the avalanche, the town’s running low on food and medicine. The winters have been harsher each year, and—”
“And yet, someone lit the signal,” Sorian interrupted, examining Garrick with the cool assessment of a man who has long since learned to separate useful information from excuses. His tone was curious, not accusatory, but the heaviness of his gaze was enough to unsettle even veteran soldiers. “I hope it was for more than just hunger.”
He coughed delicately as if the very idea of responding to such a mundane crisis was beneath the Crown’s dignity.
As he smiled at his officers, they shared a dismissive smirk among themselves. The message was clear: hunger was a commoner’s problem, unworthy of the Crown’s military might.
Sorian was motionless. Snow clung to him, his beard, and the dark waves of his hair, but he was unbothered by it. A blue brocade doublet, trimmed with gold thread, caught the weak morning sunlight.
Garrick waited a second, surprised. For the first time, he considered the possibility that the Crown had no interest in the town’s survival.
And as the silence between them widened, the drill let out a shrieking groan, its head burrowing deeper into the ice. Metal screamed against compacted snow and rock, until with a final, shuddering roar, it broke through.
The machine lurched forward, then shuddered to a stop, steam billowing around it in great clouds.
The pass was open.
Garrick watched as row after row of mounted soldiers passed through the newly opened channel, their steel armor catching the early light, moving as precisely as the machine that had just stopped.
Standard-bearers rode at the front, snapping in the wind atop crimson banners. Behind them came supply wagons, siege tools, and war machines rolling over the ice-pack with ominous purpose.
This was no relief column. This was an army.
“Yes,” Garrick said, finding his voice. “Yes, of course there’s a reason beyond hunger.” He straightened his spine, drawing on decades of service to the Crown to steady himself.
“Lord Edric has been killed.”
That caught Sorian’s full attention. His calculated disinterest vanished in an instant. “Killed?”
Garrick nodded grimly. “Murdered, sir. In cold blood.” He watched Sorian’s reaction carefully. “The murderer has been caught, though, rest assured. A woman, Martha, one of the Candlemakers. She admitted it.”
Sorian’s expression darkened as his focus sharpened. “Martha? A Candlemaker?” A dangerous interest stirred, rooted in knowledge far above Garrick’s grade.
“And the other Candlemakers have been dealt with? I trust Kael has dispatched them for the Crown.” He made a subtle adjustment to his tone. “Kael is still here, alive?”
Garrick shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware he was navigating terrain more dangerous than the mountain pass.
“Yes—er… and no, my lord. I mean, yes, Kael is here. But not entirely dispatched with the Candlemakers, I don’t think. Or most.” He paused, knowing each word was another step toward danger, and he was slipping off a ledge.
“There was a girl that Elena took to the castle—”
“A girl?” Sorian repeated slowly. His tone made the nearby soldiers pause in their work.
A scribe hurried forward, a leather folio clutched in gloved hands. He extended a parchment to Sorian, who took it without shifting his gaze from Garrick.
Sorian glanced at the document as whispers passed between him and his nearest officers, fragments that Garrick strained to hear.
“The Covenant…” — “...Edric’s work.” He muttered to his officers, words both weighted and hushed—meant for chosen ears only.
“Was her name Oona?” Sorian asked suddenly, his attention snapping back to Garrick with unnerving intensity.
Garrick glanced away, his breath clouding in the cold air, before facing Sorian. The question felt like a trap, though he couldn’t fathom why.
“Yes, sir, and no. I mean Oona escaped, last night, with Sarah—a Candlemaker.”
A hint of interest crossed Sorian’s face, quickly followed by anger and impatience. For the first time, his controlled façade cracked slightly, revealing a hungrier passion beneath.
“Speak clearly, Crown’s Guard,” he commanded, his cadence clipped. “Sarah?”
Garrick nodded, though the name felt foreign on his lips, as if speaking it aloud somehow changed its nature.
“The young Candlemaker Sarah was kept in the castle by Lady Elena.” He trailed off, realizing too late the effect his words had on Sorian.
The commander sharpened his expression, unsheathing his gaze like a knife on Garrick. A cold, hungry fury was lurking behind those eyes.
Garrick watched as garrison after garrison marched by, a war machine built of flesh and steel and cold purpose. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone. He had called doom upon Threadneedle, not salvation.
“But she has been captured,” Sorian pressed, trying to stay composed.
When Garrick nodded, the commander breathed a visible sigh of relief, tension draining from his shoulders.
“Good work, man,” he said, his voice coated with pseudo-warmth.
“We’ll want to get to this Sarah first.” He motioned to his officers with a quick gesture that brooked no argument. “You’ll get a reward,” he added to Garrick, as if dismissing a servant who had performed adequately.
Then Garrick saw it, rolling through the newly cleared pass among the supply caravan.
It was a covered wagon, unmistakable in its design: a prisoner’s cage, reinforced with iron bars and heavy locks, flanked on all sides by armored guards whose hands never strayed far from their weapons.
The truth crashed over him like an avalanche. They weren’t coming to restore order or bring supplies. They were coming for someone specific.
For her. For Sarah.
“No, sorry, my lord, not Sarah,” Garrick interrupted, the words tumbling out before he could consider their wisdom. “Oona has been captured. Sarah is unaccounted for.”
Sorian went very quiet, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. He leaned forward, speaking in a dangerous whisper that somehow carried over the wind and hustle. “And you let her escape?”
Garrick locked eyes with Sorian, not backing down. “The castle guard is my charge. I take responsibility,” he said, staring directly into Sorian’s heated eyes. “She fled before we—”
Sorian’s words cut through him like a whip. “Your failure will be dealt with.”
The rebuke hit harder than the icy wind that cut through the pass. The words carried a promise, one that Garrick had seen fulfilled often enough to know exactly what it meant.
Sorian spun around to his officers, his tone clipped and commanding. “Prepare to ride. We find the girl.”
There was no delay in the response. Officers barked orders and soldiers suddenly changed purpose, preparing mounts and equipment for a search party.
In a single, fluid motion, Sorian mounted the steed and settled into his saddle as if it were a throne.
Then he snapped back to Garrick, an afterthought that felt deliberately staged.
“Report at once to the Captain of the Guard,” he said, carrying the full force of the Crown’s authority in his tone. “The Crown doesn’t tolerate failure.”
With that, he spurred his horse forward, leading a contingent of mounted soldiers through the pass and toward Threadneedle. Their figures gradually vanished into the swirling white, leaving Garrick alone on the path as the long line of armory continued to flow down the pass like a river of steel.
Report to the Captain of the Guard. The command echoed in his head, its meaning clear.
“Hmff,” Garrick snorted, looking around to make sure he wasn’t observed. Then, with the practiced ease of a man who had survived decades under the Crown, he ducked behind a supply vehicle, blending seamlessly into the procession.
As the wagon passed a jagged crag that jutted from the mountainside, he slipped away, disappearing into the landscape he knew far better than any Crown soldier. Free, at least for now.
Astone moved; a branch broke. Crick.
The sound sliced through the heavy silence of the mountain cave. Garrick’s body tensed, muscle memory taking over.
He had his knife out in an instant—not the sword, too noisy, too slow in these close quarters—and pressed himself against the cold, damp stone wall. Waiting.
Years of military service had taught him patience. He controlled his breathing, letting it shallow and slow, as he listened to the careful footsteps approaching the cave mouth; not an animal, too deliberate; a man, trying to move silently and mostly succeeding.
Garrick squeezed the handle on his knife, his other hand ready to draw his sword if needed. In the dim light, the steel caught the faint glow of dying embers.
An outline appeared at the mouth of the cave, backlit by the gray mountain daylight. In a split second, Garrick lunged, a blur of practiced violence.
He had him in a lock, one arm twisted behind the back, knife pressed against the throat, before the intruder could even gasp.
“If you’re gonna slit my throat, at least have the decency to do it in daylight,” Ward choked out, his voice strained against the pressure of the blade.
Garrick drew a deep breath and let it go, tension draining from his shoulders as recognition set in. He released his grip and eased away, knife still in hand but no longer threatening.
“How did you find me?” The question came out rough-edged, scraping against his dry throat.
Ward rubbed his neck, a frown giving way to a familiar smirk. “We’ve only been up here a million times,” he laughed, pointing at the stack of abandoned flasks in the corner. “When you used to be handsome.”
A fire burned weakly near the mouth of the cave, embers glowing on a raised stone platform, doing little against the mountain chill. The cave smelled of old ash, earth, and wet stone.
Etched scenes in ash and charcoal marked the stone walls. A few stubborn roots poked through cracks in the ceiling. The cave widened before ending a few hundred feet in, where the mountain swallowed it in a series of narrowing cracks too small for a man to pass.
A trickle of water ran down a far surface, the sound a constant whisper beneath their voices. It pooled in a corner before forming a small rivulet that disappeared into the darkness. Outside, there was only the white, endless snow against the gray stone of the cliff wall.
Ward shrugged off a large pack, letting it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. He rolled his shoulder, clearly exhausted from hauling it up the treacherous path.
“Merina’s worried sick, you know,” Ward said, crouching to warm his hands over the meager fire. His weathered face, usually set in cynical amusement, showed genuine concern.
“I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up for duty. She thought the Crown took you.” He glanced at Garrick. “You know they arrived today.”
Garrick nodded, his face giving nothing away. He slid the knife back into his belt, the blade disappearing beneath his worn cloak.
Ward spat—tobacco, maybe, or the mountain herb he chewed to keep alert during long night watches.
“Of course you do,” Ward said, studying Garrick’s impassive expression. “Is that why you’re up here? Sneaking away?” His mouth twisted into a crooked grin as he took in the sparse cave. “Never thought I’d see it—Garrick, a fugitive.” He couldn’t help letting out a little giggle, the sound incongruous with his grizzled appearance.
Garrick frowned and pulled out his knife again, brandishing it with a glint in his eye that might have been a threat.
“Calm down, old man.” Ward raised his hands in mock surrender, undaunted by the blade. “I guess we’re both on the lam now.”
“I’m not part of your rebellion, Ward,” Garrick said, the words coming out stiff and formal.
“No?” Ward’s eyebrows rose, skepticism plain on his face. “I’d take a good hard look at yourself, because it don’t seem to me like you’re a Crown’s guard anymore.”
The truth of that hit harder than any physical blow. Garrick sank down, turned his back to Ward, and stared into the darkness at the rear of the cave. The dying coals starkly lit the deep lines around his eyes, the scars that etched his dark face, and the gray stubble on his chin.
In the silence that followed, the cave spoke for them—the soft drip of water, the occasional settling of stone, the whisper of wind across the entrance.
“Oh hell’s bells, Garrick,” Ward sighed, moving to sit beside him. “Join us. We’ll be meeting at the Old Mill. We’ll give the Crown a run for their money.”
He leaned in, whispering, as if they might be overheard even here. “Word is, they’ve got their eye on somebody—”
“Sarah,” Garrick interrupted, the name coming out with unexpected authority. He didn’t look at Ward, instead stretching out his legs toward the fire, boots caked with snow and mud.
“Yeah… wait—how did you know…” Ward’s voice trailed off, confusion giving way to sudden realization. “Wait...” His expression changed suddenly as a piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Wait, was it you?”
He scrutinized Garrick, noticing a tell: a twitch, a tremor, a jerk of his hand that betrayed more than words ever could.
“It was you, ya bastard.” Ward’s voice ricocheted off the stone. “You lit the signal.” He stood, pacing in agitation. “For the sake of a donkey’s arse, Garrick, you screwed us all.”
Now Garrick faced him, raising his gaze to meet Ward’s directly. In the dim light, his eyes were shadowed pits, giving nothing away.
“It was the right thing to do,” was all he said, confidently.
Ward just shook his head, disbelief radiating from every line of his body. “Crikey.” He gave a humorless laugh. “You’re holed up in this cave, a fugitive, and the Crown’s army is all over the town searching for that girl, not giving a damn about feeding anyone, and you...” He jabbed a finger toward Garrick. “You still think you were in the right. You need to come up with a new hand, Garrick.”
Crack. The noise splintered in the cave, sharp and sudden. Garrick had picked up a stone and aimed it at the stack of liquor bottles left over from pleasanter times, striking with deadly accuracy. One bottle shattered, glass fragments scattering across the stone floor like ice crystals.
“I know what I’m going to do,” Garrick stated.
“What’s that?” Ward asked, wariness replacing anger.
“The right thing.”
“That so, in your eyes.”
“In my eyes.” Garrick’s gaze was steady, resolute.
Ward exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Well, I told Merina there was no talking sense into you, even if I could find you.” He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking older. “I did this for her, Garrick. I’m going back down.”
He picked up the pack he’d carried all this way and walked to the mouth of the cave, looking at the descent. From here, the trees formed a dense cover, hiding the path from unwelcome watchers. A curl of smoke from the dying fire wisped upward, barely visible against the white sky.
He wheeled around, walked back inside, then tossed the pack into the cave. It landed with a dull thud at Garrick’s feet.
“Keep it,” he said gruffly. Garrick just stared at the coals, the flickering orange light reflecting in his eyes. “There’s food for a few days, blankets, rope enough to hang yourself, if that’s what you’re going to do.”
Ward stood at the cave entrance, silhouetted against the snow-bright day. “And Garrick, don’t thank me.” Then he spun around to go.
“Ward.” Garrick’s voice stopped him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Tell her I’m sorry, sorry it turned out this way. And,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear, “if this goes badly, tell her… tell her I love her.”
Ward dropped his head, the weight of the message settling on his shoulders alongside everything else. Then, without turning, he slowly walked down the trail and disappeared into the fir trees.
The sound of Ward’s descent faded, replaced by what, Garrick wasn’t sure.