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Chapter Text

There lives a young girl who dreams big and loves books far too much for her own good. One of her favorite series in the world is Ranger’s Apprentice by John Flanagan. One day, after writing a one-shot that made her absolute favorite Ranger’s Apprentice character Halt into a villain, an idea sparked and she decided to write a whole fanfiction about it. After a whole year has passed, she finally opens up a notebook and begins to plan. Weeks passed, and she is behind a laptop typing. 

As scared and excited this girl was and still is of writing this story, she is doing it. Many major changes from canon have been altered, and most of the original series we know and love have been eliminated.  

This young girl is me. I am terrified of letting this alternative universe go out into the world for millions to view. However, I am also thrilled to let others into a work of mine to enjoy. My dear readers, this story has been made by blood and tears. I really do hope that you love and cherish it. 

So shall you join me, my readers, to forget all that has happened in the original series? To forget everything that happened all the way up to the events at Nihon-Ja? Shall we ignore all of Araluen’s history? Join me, and enter this timeline of events in which Morgarath takes the throne. Join me, and enter a new Araluen.

With Love, 

Stacey(Pilindiel)

Redman County 

The Republic of Aralan States 

(formerly the medieval Kingdom of Araluen) 

July 1896 

Professor Giles MacFarlane laughed aloud as he gently fingered through the pages of the Lost Stories. Squirming like an excited puppy in his seat, he smiled widely. This was it. Proof that the famed Castle Araluen and the Ranger Corps actually existed at one point. The chronicles and legends had only spoke briefly on the four heroes, Will, Gilan, Crowley, and Halt, having mainly focused on Princess Madelyn, the first female ranger. 

Careful to not let the brittle pieces of parchment crumble, MacFarlane craned forward to decipher the thin, light lettering. Fully submerged in the tale of the pages in front of him, the professor’s usually heightened sense of hearing didn’t catch the steps of his assistants entering the room. Audrey, the young college student who had found the cabin that contained the chest of stories, was with them. 

“So what do you think, professor?” Audrey asked enthusiastically. “Is this it? The Lost Stories?” 

“I do believe so,” MacFarlane said. 

“And? What do they say?” 

MacFarlane smiled, deciding to tease the young woman. “Patience,” he said. “You mustn’t be hasty. After all, I’ve only just received it.” He gestured at the chest on the table, papers still stacked in it. 

Flushing, Audrey bit her lip, looking down. “Right,” she said. “Sorry.” 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” one of the assistants huffed, crossing his arms. “Stop messing around, MacFarlane! We want to know too.” 

Chuckling, MacFarlane laid down the parchment on the table, removing his spectacles. “Where would I start?” 

“The beginning, of course!” Audrey cried. “Don’t you dare leave out any details.” 

“Well, then I would have to start with Morgarath,” he said. “The rogue baron. He announced himself the heir to the throne after forging a decree disinheriting Prince Duncan. King Oswald passed away soon after.” Looking up, the professor found his companions fervently hanging on his every word. He smiled as he continued. “The Ranger Corps were officially disbanded when he took the throne, moving the capital to his own home, Gorlan. A man named Tiller became the baron of Araluen fief.” 

“How did they defeat him? Will, Gilan, Crowley, and Halt.” 

MacFarlane glanced at Audrey, sliding his spectacles back on, letting them rest on his nose. He moved to pick up the stack of parchment in the chest. He smiled. 

“Let’s find out.”

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Will slumped down in relief as his skin tickled at the slight drop in temperature. He grunted as he leaned back on his haunches, propping himself up with the palms of his hands. Looking up, he allowed himself a small trace of a smile. After sixteen years of living on the farm, he still found the sunset breathtaking. It was so much like an oil painting, he almost always thought it was fake. The reds and blues swirled together creating the strokes of a brush and the clouds always seemed to pop. 

Pushing himself to stand, Will dropped his sickle into the nearby basket of reaped grains and pulled off his gloves. He wiped his face with a towel hanging from his belt before letting it lay across his neck. His limbs ached as he hefted up the basket, but Will didn’t complain. He was used to the sores and pains of farmlife. Still, he hated summers. The days were longer, and the preparation for harvest season were hard. 

He lugged the basket of grains towards the storage area, setting it down quickly as if he had dropped it. Rubbing his shoulder, Will stepped onto the verandah of a small cottage. He stood still for a minute, throwing his head back as his mouth wavered at the aroma of dinner. 

“Will, honey?” The door opened. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?” 

Laughing, Will pulled the nimble woman into an embrace, pressing a quick kiss on her cheek. “Hello to you too, Mum.” He released her, looking around the small living area. “Is Dad back yet?” 

Will’s mother shook her head, moving back to the stove. “You know your father,” she said. “Always out working. Would you cut the bread, please?” 

It didn’t take long for the table to be set, and soon, the door opened to reveal Will’s father. “Dad!” he greeted, standing from his chair. 

“Will,” the man chuckled, shutting the door behind him. “Sophia.” He smiled at his wife. “Boy, I’m exhausted,” he said, ruffling Will’s hair as he took his seat. “Let’s eat!” 

The family dug into the hearty beef stew, all ravenous from the day’s work. “Why are you always out so late, Dad?” Will asked in between his gulps. “There’s only so much to do.” 

“Oh, Will,” Daniel shook his head. “There’s always something to be done. Better to do them now than later.” 

Will nodded, expecting the answer. He had asked the question many times, and the answer was always the same. There was always something to be done. 

“You’ll be the same one day,” his father continued. Will looked up. His father had never said anything afterwards. “One day, you’ll be out working even later than me.” 

“I don’t think so,” Will blurted. 

“Oh?” 

Will shook his head, mopping up the remains of his stew with some bread. “Don’t you ever get tired of the farm?” Daniel glanced at Sophia, who shrugged. Will continued. “I want to be a knight— ” he hesitated, shaking his head. “Nevermind,” he said. “It’s just a dream. Nothing else.” 

“Will,” his mother started, but he cut her off. 

“No, sorry,” Will said, standing as he collected the bowls and spoons. “I’ll do the dishes.” 

Heading outside, Will headed towards the small stream near the back of the house. He sighed, crouching down. He scrubbed the bowls long and hard. He just had to ruin everything. What would his parents think of him now? They loved life here. 

Will looked mindlessly at the woods across the stream. It had been so long since he went in them. He was just a child the last time. Perhaps he could go— no. Will gave his head a shake, setting himself straight. It was late. His parents would soon worry. 

He walked back towards the small cottage, freezing as he heard arguing. His eyes widened. His parents never argued. Were they arguing about him? Was this his fault? Sucking in a breath, Will pressed his back against the wall. After a moment, he exhaled. There was a third voice. It wasn’t about him. But who would be visiting so late? Leaning his head back, Will positioned his ear so that he could listen in.

“What do you mean there is a new tax?” Daniel asked loudly. “There was one issued last month!” 

“King Morgarath demands it.” 

“For what?” Sophia dared to ask. “Why does he need it?” 

“That information is confidential.” 

“This is outrageous!” Daniel exclaimed. 

“You have until next week,” the messenger firmly said. 

Will straightened up as he heard the footsteps. He furrowed his brows. Why would the King need more coin? He knew that his parents had paid much of their profit last month. 

Gathering the bowls, he quietly stepped on the verandah and stepped inside. His parents turned to stare as he set the bowls and spoons in their rightful place. 

“How much did you hear, son?” his father asked. 

“Enough,” Will sighed. “Good night, Dad, Mum.” 

Will walked into his room, shutting the door behind. Shimmying out of his shirt, he crawled under the blankets. He must have lain awake for at least half an hour, unable to doze off. 

“Will?” His door creaked open. “Are you awake?” 

Will pulled the blanket over his head. “No.” 

Feeling his mother sit on the edge of the bed, Will sighed and pushed the blanket back down. “Mum?” 

“I know you must be troubled about earlier.” Will said nothing, and she continued. “I just wanted to let you know that your father and I will accept whatever path you decide to take.” 

Will shook his head. “I don’t have a choice, Mum. You heard what that messenger said. We need to pay the taxes. I have to stay and help.” 

Sophia smiled softly. “Oh, Will. You needn’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.” 

“But you don’t have enough!” Will cried out. “You’d get kicked out of this farm. I can’t let that happen.” 

“Your happiness is more important, Will,” she said. “As long as you’re happy, we’ll be happy.” 

“But— ” 

“No buts,” she shushed him, leaning in to kiss his forehead before heading back to the room she shared with Daniel. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Mum.” 

“Oh! One more thing.” Sophia looked back at Will just before she left the room. “Would you mind going out to the market tomorrow? I have a list of things I need.” 

Will nodded, settling down in his bed. “Okay.” 

Will watched his mother leave, a thought surfacing in his mind. He pressed his lips into a thin line. The market wasn’t the only thing he needed to do tomorrow.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Overhand. Lunge. Block. Underhand. Parry. Side cut. Cross parry. Backhand side. Block. Underhand. Lunge. Overhand. Underhand. Side cut. Cross parry. Thrust. 

Gilan repeated the drill over and over, casually changing it up every round. He completely shredded the dummy he was using, annoying many of the knights and apprentices of the Battleschool. It was his twentieth one that day, but Gilan didn’t care. He needed to train. 

“Gilan.” 

He ignored the voice, knowing very well what his former mentor, the legendary swordmaster MacNeil, would say. Spinning around, Gilan met his practice sword with MacNeil’s. 

“Gilan, you’ve been practicing since dawn,” Gilan said at the same time as MacNeil, who sighed. Gilan parried MacNeil’s blow. “You haven’t eaten anything.” He thrust forward. “You’re driving yourself too hard.” He moved back. “I think you should take a break.” 

MacNeil frowned, driving the tip of his sword into the ground. “Gilan,” he said. “Stop. Please stop.” 

Shaking his head, Gilan continued drilling himself, this time shouted the moves as he did them. He felt MacNeil’s penetrating stare bore into him through the several layers of sweat dripping from his head and neck. Gritting his teeth, Gilan yelled, throwing his sword across the yard as if it was a spear. He grew slower by the day. 

“I’m getting slower,” Gilan said, breathing heavily. “Why am I getting slower?” He rounded up on MacNeil. “I’m in the peak of my prime, MacNeil! Why?” 

MacNeil calmly squeezed Gilan’s arm, raising it up. “Because my boy,” he sighed. “Your muscles are as taut as a bowstring. You need to relax.” 

Gilan glared at MacNeil, opening his mouth to protest. He closed it, however, knowing that he was right. MacNeil was always right. He sighed. Gilan followed MacNeil to his chambers, where he sat behind the table. MacNeil called for a meal to be sent up to the room before sitting across from Gilan. 

“Gil,” he said when the food arrived. “We need to talk.” 

Biting into the loaf of bread, Gilan mumbled as he chewed. “I don’t want to.” 

“Gilan—” 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

MacNeil sighed as Gilan exhaled in relief. “Come in,” MacNeil said. 

Gilan stiffened as Baron Fergus entered the room. He quickly stood to attention. “My lord!” 

MacNeil gestured Gilan to sit back down. “What can I do for you, Fergus?” 

The baron sighed as he shut the door. He looked at Gilan, still eating. “Gilan,” he started, unsure on how to handle the situation. The little optimistic boy he once knew was gone to be replaced by a short-tempered, serious one. “Can you—” 

“He can stay,” MacNeil said. “It’ll be fine.” 

Baron Fergus nodded. “MacNeil, I asked you this many times in the past, and I will ask it of you again.” 

“The answer is still no,” MacNeil said. 

“Will you not consider it?” the baron begged. “Caraway needs a battlemaster!” 

Gilan stiffened, pushing away his plate. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe deeply and not destroy anything.  

MacNeil glanced at Glian, suddenly doubting his choice of letting him stay. Frowning, he replied slowly. “Roger is doing a fine job as it is,” he said. “There is no need for me to replace him.” 

“Roger tells me the Battleschool has been a disaster ever since he was appointed. It’s been three years!” 

“That’s normal, Fergus,” MacNeil said. “Dav—the former battlemaster wasn’t perfect in the beginning either. It’ll take time. Roger is a slow learner. He’ll get it soon. Trust me.” 

Baron Fergus stared at MacNeil for a minute. “Alright. We’ll have it your way. Don’t be wrong.” 

Gilan watched the baron retreat out of the room. He looked at MacNeil. “Why don’t you take the job? You’re the best man for it.” 

Surprised, MacNeil blinked. He grabbed a biscuit. “I denied it before—” he trailed off. 

“You can say his name.” 

“I denied the job before David passed,” he continued. “And look at where that got your father. He became one of the best. I don’t see why not deny it again and let another young soul rise up in the ranks.” MacNeil paused. “You were on the list, you know?” he said. “You were considered to become Battlemaster.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Gilan pushed his chair back, crossing his arms. He bit his lip, thinking. He frowned before breathing out and slumping down. “Just as well,” he said. “You know I always wanted to be something more exciting.” 

“Gilan,” MacNeil started. “It’s been three years. You can’t keep living like this. You would train from sunrise to sunset if it weren’t for your mother and I. You would run yourself to your death. Your father’s death isn’t your fault.” 

Gilan pressed his mouth shut, gulping. “No,” he agreed. “It’s the doing of Morgarath.” 

“Your father always taught you to respect the King.” 

“My father always taught me to respect King Oswald and his bloodline,” Gilan said, raising his arms in exasperation. “I can’t be the only one to find it odd that Prince Duncan suddenly tried to kill King Oswald and start breaking his own treaty! Did anyone even see the document he produced at the Tournament up close? Haven’t you noticed how intent Morgarath is on getting Baron Arald off the seat of Redmont?” 

“I’m not going to stop you, am I?” 

Gilan smiled sadly. “No, MacNeil,” he said. “I won’t rest until I get to the bottom of this.” 

“Sir MacNeil! Sir Gilan! Sir MacNeil!” 

The door burst open after a few seconds of rushed footsteps. “Baron Fergus requires your presence at the castle.” 

“What is it?” 

Gilan straightened at his answer, his clouded eyes clearing. A start to his investigation. 

“A ranger, sir!” 

Gilan inclined his head, bolting up as his eyes lit up. “A ranger?” he said. “Are you sure?” 

“He had the oakleaf and all!” 

Gilan rounded up on MacNeil. “I thought you said Morgarath confiscated all the oakleaves.” 

Shrugging, MacNeil shook his head. “Some of them must have escaped before that even happened. And even if that didn’t happen, they’re rangers. They make them.” 

“So they’re still around?” 

“They’re not dead.” 

Gilan sprinted out of the room. He ran out of the Battleschool and towards Castle Caraway. It was your classic four walled castle. It was beautiful, looking out to the Narrow Sea. Though it was not a palance, five grand spires spiraled up. It was grand, and though it didn’t match the beauty of Gorlan and Araluen, Gilan loved it just the same. 

Passing through the wall, Gilan entered the grand hall to a gathering of diplomats, scribes, and department heads. He pushed through the crowd, gasping when he saw the ranger. He walked forward. Going in circles around the ranger, Gilan finally stopped in front of him. 

Red hair. Hazel eyes. Mottled cloak. Double knife scabbard. Gilan grinned. “You’re a ranger.” 

The ranger met his eyes. “Yes.” 

“Sir Gilan, if you would get back in line, I’d like to start this trial.” 

Gilan didn’t hear the baron. If anyone knew anything, it would be the rangers.

Chapter Text

~Crowley~

Crowley rode up front, leading the small group of rangers. It was one of those days where he held a heavy heart, the days where he looked onto the past. He had always wanted to serve his King, and the way to do that for him was to enlist into the Ranger Corps. Many others would argue that the way to go was becoming a knight or warrior, but Crowley wasn’t that type of person. He believed the Ranger Corps had much more potential, and it was disheartening to find it eliminated from Araluen. Especially so soon after he finally received his silver oakleaf. 

It had been a long sixteen years since all of it had happened. Every one of the “real” rangers had grouped together, and somehow, crazily, Crowley found himself the elected leader. He silently chuckled at the irony of it. He, the youngest member of the former Ranger Corps, was the leader. He would be Commandment if it wasn’t for Morgarath, but things weren’t ideal, and he was leading everyone through rounds across all fifty fiefs. Caraway was next on their neverending patrol. 

Crowley glanced back at his weary companions. Leander, Berrigan, Egon, Norris, Samdash, Lewin, Berwick, and Jurgen rode behind him, all lost in their own thoughts. His eyes softened as he spotted the two apprentices they had picked up along the road. He smiled to himself. Adri was an orphan they had found, naturally talented at shooting. He was about to start his fourth year apprenticed to Samdash. Then, there was Tommi, Berwick’s nephew. He was a young spirited apprentice starting his second year with Lewin. Berwick had insisted on finding him ever since news of his sister's death had reached them. 

Turning in his saddle, Crowley stroked Cropper’s mane. Many of the rangers were old. If it was going their way, Leander, Berrigan, Egon, and Norris would have already received their gold oakleaves. However, with Morgarath’s treachery, they refused to retire until he was put down. Their strength decreased by the day, and Crowley feared that they would soon cease to exist. Apprentices were hard to come by. 

“So,” Crowley started. He smiled. “You two ready for your assessments?” he asked Adri and Tommi. 

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Tommi said. 

Crowley laughed, remembering his own nervousness when he was accessed. Tommi seemed to not suffer the same conditions, and it refreshed him. 

“We’re almost to Castle Caraway,” he said. “We’ll find a place to camp before seeing what you two can do.” 

“Great,” Adri whispered. 

Crowley looked over his shoulder at the apprentice. He smiled encouragingly. Adri was Tommi’s complete opposite, but somehow, against all odds, they were the best of friends. 

Samdash looked at his apprentice. “Just remember everything I taught you,” he said, “and you’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll try.” 

That looks like a good campsite over to the left. 

Crowley’s head spun to the right at Cropper’s comment. Thanks. I’d be lost without you. 

His horse tossed his head back as Crowley snagged an apple from his pack and dismounted. “We’ll stop here,” he said as he held out the apple to Cropper. 

The rangers dismounted, filing into the small, secluded clearing. 

“Keep a lookout,” Crowley said to Cropper as he kneeled down to start pitching his tent. 

Don’t I always?

Soon, the camp was all set. Crowley nodded his approval as he took a look around. “No fires,” he said. “We’re too close to the village.” He raised his hands before everyone could start up yelling at him. “I’m not finished yet,” he continued. “We’ll go down to the village for coffee and a hot dinner. We’ll just have to stagger and go in rounds. Egon, Norris, Leander, you’re going to access Adri and Tommi.” Crowley stopped to think. “Berwick and Jurgen, you’ll come with me on the first round down. When we return, Samdash, Lewin, and Berrigan will go. Then Tommi, Norris, and Egon. And lastly, Leander and Adri.”  

The rangers nodded, getting to work. Watching the apprentices get ready for their archery test, Crowley felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Berwick and Jurgen, who had disposed of all the gear that made them known at rangers. 

“Let’s go,” Jurgen said. “We don’t want to keep the others waiting on their dinner.” 

Crowley nodded. “Lead the way.” 

Berwick frowned. “Are you not going to take off your cloak?” 

Jurgen doubled back. “Right,” he said. “We don’t want to cause attraction.” 

Crowley looked down at himself. He had wanted to take a look around the village before he settled down and relaxed. After all, that was their task. Making sure every fief was running smoothly. 

“You two go ahead and eat,” he said. “I’m going to take a quick look around.” 

“Be careful,” Jurgen said. “Don’t let anyone spot you.” 

“Don’t worry.” Crowley chuckled. “I won’t be long.” 

Crowley waited for Berwick and Jurgen to reach the village and enter the inn before pulling his cowl up over his head. Leaving his bow at camp, he crouched down and moved towards the village. Using the wind to his advantage, Crowley slipped behind a building. He checked up on every single building, smiling when he found everything alright. Crowley looked towards Castle Caraway in the distance, wondering what was going on inside. He looked back at the inn. It hadn’t been too long. Maybe he could fit in a quick slip into the castle and back out in time for dinner before the others got worried. 

Nodding to himself, Crowley looked around before sprinting towards the castle. It was hard to stay hidden on flat ground, and he preferred to get through it quickly. 

“Hey!” 

Crowley instinctively froze, cursing himself when he realized his cloak wasn’t going to save him out in the open. He looked up to see several guards running towards him from the castle. Gulping, Crowley spun around to see a wall of people. He stood up, gulping as he turned back to face the guards. 

“Afternoon,” he said. 

The guards didn’t appreciate his politeness, grabbing him by the arm. “Who are you?” one of them asked. 

“You don’t want me to answer that.” 

The guard narrowed his eyes but said nothing else. They led Crowley inside the castle, and soon, he was standing in front of Baron Fergus and Sir Roger, the Battlemaster. It wasn’t the most ideal way to get inside, but it worked. 

After a few moments of conversation between the guards and the baron, Crowley realized that they thought that he was pretending to be a ranger. He blinked. It was probably best to let them think that. It would make it easier to escape. 

“We’re talking to you, you—” 

With a start, Crowley realized that he had been asked a question. “What?” 

The Battlemaster grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, raising him up. Crowley resisted the temptation to kick up, raising his chin. That was a mistake. The chain of his oakleaf raised, and Sir Roger saw the movement. He released Crowley, only to grab the chain, pulling the silver oakleaf out from underneath his shirt. Glaring at him, Crowley crossed his arms. 

“Look at this, my lord,” Sir Roger said, pulling the chain over Crowley’s neck. “He’s a real one.” 

Baron Fergus took the oakleaf. He looked between it and Crowley. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. 

Crowley challenged the man, staring straight into his eyes. His hard eyes grew harder when the baron called for the guards. Handcuffs were chained onto his wrists. Crowley glared at Baron Fergus. “I’m not going to run, you know,” he said. “How could I? There are guards everywhere, and you’ve got my oakleaf.” 

The baron ignored him, promptly calling for men to fetch those important to hold a trial. “Bring him to the hall.” 

Shortly after he had been brought to the hall, people started to arrive. Crowley watched them all take their places in the sidelines. None of them caught his eye. They were all just average men who were more interested in coin. He rolled his eyes, hearing a few bets on how much Morgarath would pay for him. Then, Crowley straightened. Someone had caught his attention. Someone of worth and potential. 

Tall and clean shaven, the man was the first and only to fully observe him. Crowley almost managed a smile at him as he circled him with a childlike interest. He could already tell that this man would go far. What surprised him more was the cheerful tone of his voice as if he had finally triumphed after hours of hard work.         

“You’re a ranger,” he said. 

Crowley grinned. He nodded. “Yes.” 

To his disappointment, Baron Fergus called for him to step to the side. Crowley glared at the baron. He was beginning to like him less and less. He sucked in a breath as the trial began. 

Let’s get this over with.

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

There were two brutes watching him. People always watched him, but these two watched him with interest. Halt leaned back against his chair, pulling his cowl over his face. They weren’t even trying to be discreet about it. They turned their heads from their separate corners of the room simultaneously every ten minutes. Halt drained the coffee he had ordered, smacking his lips. He stared at the empty mug in disappointment but got up and left anyways. It was always uncomfortable to be watched.

It was a hot day. Hot and stormy. The air was dampened with moisture, sticking onto his skin. Rain pattered downwards like sharp arrows. Halt walked through the storm, a hint of a smile upon his lips despite the weather. His pockets jingled with coins and riches, a good day’s worth of work. 

He had of course robbed Geoffrey Alard, the richest man in La Rivage. He chuckled to himself. No one had ever succeeded a robbery in his estate. No one except him, of course. Halt patted his pockets. Geoffrey Alard was a stupid man. He was fat, greedy, a great scumbag. The man probably wouldn’t even notice a thing. 

Halt walked in the forest, skillfully navigating through the thick foliage. Known by all of Gallica and soon the rest of the world, he was the greatest thief and assassin ever to have lived. He could even scare a Genovesan Assassin away. Halt prided himself in it, even if the world had dulled. 

After he ran away from Hibernia, he had traveled to Araluen in hopes of completing his ranger training. That, of course, didn’t go to plan. He found Araluen in a verge of a crisis with Baron Morgarath fighting to throw off the Ranger Corps. Halt shifted as he pushed away a tree branch to reveal a small cave, his home. He walked towards the entrance, wondering if he had perhaps made a mistake.

Baron Morgarath was now King Morgarath, and as far as Halt knew, the rangers were long gone. He frowned, brushing back his choppy hair that was beginning to gray. It was a shame, really. He had really wanted to join the rangers. He just didn’t have the chance. He had sailed to Gallica the first chance he got. Now, his life was full of thievery and performing dangerous tasks for others. Perhaps, no better than Ferris, but that's besides the point. He was happy, right? Happy to be free?

Halt sighed as he dropped his bow down next to his bed, which was just a few blankets and pillows pushed next to a cold stone wall. He shrugged out of his cloak, squeezing out the rainwater. Halt grunted as he lowered himself onto his bed. He grabbed a nearby apple that laid on the stone ground. Crunching into the juicy fruit, Halt chewed. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. 

Finishing the apple, Halt tossed the seeds across the cavern. He would plant them later. Then, suddenly, Halt felt a pit in his stomach. He frowned, not able to shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. His hand found its way to the saxe on his hip. “Who’s there?” he called out, sitting up. “Show yourself!” 

“Please don’t hurt us, sir!” a hurried voice said. 

Halt raised an eyebrow as he heard a shuffling sound and a yelp. Someone had hit the person. He stood, looking around. No one had ever found his home before. He cursed to himself. Had he been followed? 

He picked up his bow, waiting. After all these years, he had kept up with practicing. Pritchard would be proud. Halt stood, unmoving. “I know where you are,” he said aloud, even though he had no idea where they were. “Don’t make me shoot you.” He waited a few seconds. Silence lingered in the air. 

Halt drew an arrow. “Five,” he counted down. “Four. Three.” He nocked the arrow. “Two.” He stepped into the light and grimly smiled. “One.” 

Halt spun around, aiming the arrow towards the cave entrance. He knew every inch and crevice of his home, and if these people were smart, there was only one place to hide if someone were to ever to find him. He sighted and released the arrow, deliberately moving to the side to miss the shot. 

A screech. 

Halt nodded to himself, smirking. The arrow had landed next to one of the intruders, perhaps half a centimeter off. “Next time, I’ll aim for your eyes.” 

Two men, if you could even call them that, shuffled out into the light. One was short and scrawny, and the other was unnaturally buff. Halt raised an eyebrow when neither of them spoke. “Well?” he said, raising his hands. “Don’t just stand there. What do you want?” 

They looked at each other, neither speaking. The two waited for each other to say the first word.  Impatient, Halt shot an arrow. “Speak!” he boomed. 

It was the scrawny one who spoke. “Well sir, we come from Araluen.” 

Halt crossed her arms. “Oh, really?” he snarled. Their accents had already told him that much. 

The muscular one took over. “We have an offer for you.” 

Halt raised an eyebrow. Normally, those who requested him for tasks would find him in the inn. He looked the intruders from head to toe. His eyes narrowed when he realized they were the two brutes watching him earlier in the day. “Well?” he said. “What is it?” 

Unnerved, the two looked at each other. They didn’t want to make the same mistake, but instead of one person speaking, they started talking at the same time. Halt groaned, pinching his nose. He shot another arrow. “You!” He pointed at the smaller of the two. “You speak.” 

“Well sir. You see sir. Our—” 

“Nevermind,” Halt said. “You speak.” He gestured to the other. 

“King Morgarath of Araluen has an offer for you,” he said. 

Yet again, Halt raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting to be working for a king. “Cut to the chase,” he said. “What does he want?” 

The smaller spoke, looking at the larger for reassurance. Halt glared at him was talking out of turn but didn’t shoot. He wanted to hear the offer. “He wants you to perform an assassination.” 

“The price?” 

“Five hundred gold royals.” 

Halt allowed a look of surprise onto his well kept grumpy expression. He inclined his head. “Five hundred gold royals,” he echoed. “That is not Gallican coin,” he said, although that wasn’t what was bothering him.  

“He’ll pay five hundred gold royals worth of Gallican coin.” 

Halt bit down on his lower lip. Five hundred gold royals was more than he would ever expect from any task. No one was willing to pay that much, but Morgarath was. The victim must be well known. Important. “And who is this special person?” 

“Baron Arald, sir.” 

Baron Arald. Halt blinked. He didn’t know who he was, but he was a baron. That meant he needed to sneak into a castle. “Do I have a choice?” Halt asked. From his knowledge of Morgarath in his little time passing through Araluen, he knew that he wasn’t exactly kind, but Halt owed allegiance to no one. 

“Unless you prefer to rot to death.” 

Halt sighed. He couldn’t lie and say the coin didn’t tempt him because it did. However, breaking into a castle was dangerous and difficult. One mistake and all could be lost. Then again, he didn’t really have a choice unless he wanted to go on the run from Morgarath, and that didn’t sound fun. Morgarath was ruthless and not a person to be messed with. He wasn’t necessarily the person Halt would want to work for. But again, he had no choice. 

“Okay,” Halt finally said after a moment of silence. “Baron Arald needs to die.” Despite every muscle in his body telling him to kill the two messengers, Halt didn’t. Instead, he nodded. 

“So be it.”

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

“Did you hear the news?” 

Will glanced at the couple, looking away quickly as to not eavesdrop. The farmer’s market was littered with people, stalls lining the sides of the street. Gossip floated about the air at every corner and crevice. The murmurs were impossible to escape. 

Something had happened to get the whole village talking. Something big. Whatever it was hadn’t reached Will’s ear, and he was getting curious. 

Turning back to the pair, Will approached them. Their eyes snapped towards him, and he nervously smiled. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

“Morning,” they said in unison. 

Will halfheartedly nodded, suddenly nervous. Maybe he should have asked someone he knew. Though it was too late now. 

“I was just wondering what’s going on. Everyone seems to be talking about it.” 

“You don’t know?” the woman asked. “It’s huge! Absolutely enormous.” 

“What is it?” 

The man answered. “King Morgarath himself is coming here to meet with the baron.” 

Will sucked in a breath. “When?” 

“Noon today.” 

Noon. Will looked towards Castle Aspienne. His eyes darted to the sky. It was almost noon. His time was running short. He looked down at the shopping list in his hand. He gulped. They’d have to wait. 

The couple called after him when Will ran, and looking over his shoulder, he shouted. “Thank you!” 

From far away, Castle Aspienne looked bare and strategically well done. Built on top of a hill, any person would be seen coming, and that included Will. 

Standing on the base of the hill hidden away in the patch of trees, Will looked up. From up close, he could see the castle at its best. It was not the intricate details that made it beautiful, but the simplistic design. 

Somewhere in the castle was the financial records of his family, and he needed to find them. Morgarath’s arrival only made things more difficult. If he was caught, it would be over in a second. 

The bell that signalled rang, and the clopping of hooves slapped the ground. Will looked towards the village. Morgarath and his company were right on time. He inclined his head. Maybe Morgarath would make things easier. He could easily sneak through as a servant. He certainly had the right kind of clothing. 

Will frowned. He didn’t have a horse though, and from the looks of it, all the servants had one. 

Sighing, he turned back to the castle, walking along the treeline. The guards would all be focused on the king’s arrival, so there had to be a small chance he could run in without drawing any attention. 

Will made it behind the castle. Looking up at it, he frowned. There was no back gate, so he would have the scale the wall himself. He wet his lips. He hadn’t climbed anything in a while, but it was a skill and talent he was born with. 

A horn blew, a sign that the front gates of the castle were opening for Morgarath. Will breathed deeply. It was now or never. 

Another breath, and he sprinted. Will leaped onto a hill, racing up as fast as he could. His muscles burned, his face red. Working on the fields did not prepare him for this whatsoever. 

Collapsing on the back wall of the castle, Will struggled to catch his breath. Sweat splattered his forehead and neck, sore muscles hating him. He grunted. He had to keep going. 

Reaching up, Will grasped onto a stone, pulling himself upwards with all his might. With the added body strength from the farm, his climbing skill excelled even when his legs wanted to fall off. 

Will vaulted over the wall, rolling onto the ramparts. He wobbled onto his feet. That was one task done. Now, he just had to find his way through a castle he had never stepped foot into. Will pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. No big deal. 

No big deal. He could do it. He had to. 

He had no other choice. 

Ducking inside the nearest door, Will followed the stairs downward. He made a face at every creak and jumped at the slightest noise. “Come on, Will,” he whispered softly to himself. “Breathe. You can do this.” 

The stairs led to a door, and he opened it slowly and carefully. The courtyard. Will gulped, poking his head out. He looked at the castle doors, where two guards stood on duty. It was the only way he knew of to get inside. 

Crouching down inside, he let his head rest against the stone wall. He scratched his head, his fingers weaving through his hair. 

“My lord Moragarath!” 

A clear voice echoed across the castle grounds. Will peeked out as Aspienne’s battlemaster Sir Norman marched to greet the king. He inclined his head, and his eyes found the servants, who crowded behind Morgarath. He traced a path from their location to the castle doors, and he grinned when he realized that they would pass within close proximity of him. Then, he could blend in with them. 

He listened to Morgarath and Norman’s conversation in frustration. He clenched his fists. Talk about knighthood wasn’t anything he wanted to listen to. Not with what had happened the day before. A few more minutes, and they were finally moving. His heart pounded. It wanted out of his chest. 

Will timed himself, stepping out of the tower door as the last servant passed. He looked around, and thankfully, no one noticed. He kept his head down, watching his feet. His heart went faster with every step, and Will thought he was going to collapse with adrenaline. 

He could feel his movements growing stiffer by the second, his muscles getting tense. Somehow, it was worse than when he ran up the hill. He wanted to move around, jump until he couldn’t take it anymore. He felt the urge to wiggle around, but he couldn’t. It would only serve to give him away. 

And giving himself away meant that he would be caught. That couldn’t happen at any cost. It wouldn’t. 

Will looked back behind him. No guards. In front of him, unknowing servants. At the next turn, Will cut himself off from Morgarath’s company. After a minute of walking alone, he quickened his pace into a run. The castle was the largest thing he had ever seen or stepped in, and to his chagrin, he was already loss. 

At his pace, it would take the whole afternoon to find the financial records. But one thing was for certain. He had broken inside Castle Aspienne, and there was no leaving until he found what he was looking for.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Arms crossed, Gilan leaned back against the wall, watching the ranger’s trial through the slits of his eyes. He shuffled as people pushed passed him to see it up close. He huffed in frustration, getting off the wall. If everyone would just line up against the wall, everyone would be able to see. Not that it mattered to him. Gilan was tall enough to see above the people’s heads. 

“We are here today to undergo the trial of—” The baron’s assistant gestured his arm at Crowley helplessly. “Of the ranger.” 

“Please read the charges,” the baron said halfheartedly. 

The assistant continued. “This ranger has been found slinking around.  It has tried to break into this very castle.” 

“Any proof?” 

“You were there yourself, my lord. It was brought to you at capture.” 

The hairs on Gilan bristled in annoyance. He bit down on his lip as to not speak out, the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. They were talking as if the ranger was an animal and not a person. He glanced at the ranger whose stone face never wavered. It was amazing, really, how nothing seemed to phase him. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Ranger?” 

Gilan frowned when the ranger didn’t say anything. Did he not want to defend himself for a chance of release? 

Silence echoed across the hall, seeming to drag on for hours, and the ranger did nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and Gilan wondered if he was even breathing. 

Gilan straightened. If the ranger wasn’t going to speak, then he was. “How do we know this is even a ranger?” he asked, stepping forward. 

All eyes snapped towards him, even the ranger. Gilan blinked when he could have sworn he saw a flash of annoyance in the ranger’s eyes. He shook it off. “He doesn’t have the cloak,” he said, waving his hands like it was obvious. “Rangers are supposed to have a cloak.” 

“Gilan, I did not ask you to speak,” Baron Fergus said. “Back to the side.” 

“No!” he said. “He’s not a ranger.” 

“Evidence that he is a ranger.” The baron gestured at his assistant.

The assistant held out a silver oakleaf by the chain. Out of the corner of his eyes, Gilan could see that the ranger had tensed. He frowned. “How do we know it’s real?” 

“Because I say it’s real.” 

Gilan spun to meet the ranger’s hazel eyes. They glared at each other. 

“I’m trying to help you,” Gilan whispered harshly. 

“You’re only getting yourself in trouble.” 

“So you admit you were slinking around?” Baron Fergus smirked. 

“I didn’t say that,” the ranger said. “All I said was the oakleaf is real.” 

The assistant cleared his throat. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he repeated. “For slinking around?” 

Again, silence floated into the hall. It was interrupted by Baron Fergus’ fist, pounding on his throne. “We’re talking to you, ranger,” he snarled. 

The ranger slowly met his eyes. “I have no words,” he said. Gilan stared at him in disbelief, and the ranger continued. “I need not waste my breath on you, for you have already decided my fate from the beginning. I will be thrown into your dungeons and reported to Morgarath, ranger or not.” 

“You dare judge my fairness?” 

The ranger had nothing to say at that. 

Baron Fergus waved his hand. “Arrest him,” he growled. 

Gilan made a move to follow the guards dragging the ranger away, but a hand caught his wrist. “Let me go!” he said, spinning on his heels. His voice cut off. “Mother!” he gasped, straightening. 

His mother shook his head. “Don’t draw any more attention to yourself, Gil,” she whispered. 

MacNeil came up behind her, and he nodded in agreement. “Fergus would have you in chains with him.” 

“He wouldn’t,” Gilan replied. “I am his best knight, and he swore an oath at my father’s funeral. He wouldn’t.” 

“Don’t go pushing your boundaries, Gilan,” MacNeil firmly said. “You don’t know Fergus as well as I do.” 

“If the man cannot keep his promises, then should he be baron?” 

MacNeil glanced at Gilan’s mother, who released his hand. A wordless conversation was spoken between them, and Gilan sighed. “I’ll be home by dusk,” he said, turning away. No one stopped him this time. 

Gilan silently followed the guards at a five meter distance. Naturally talented at what the court would call “slinking” Gilan inched his way closer. He ducked behind a pillar when they started the path downwards. Gilan frowned to himself. 

It would be best to break the ranger out discreetly. Something that Gilan wasn’t exactly good about. He enjoyed the simplicity of things like any other man, but in his actions, he liked to go out in a bit of flair, of pizzaz. He inclined his head. Then again, he didn’t know what to expect in the dungeons. No plan and an open mind sounded like a much better option. 

He nodded at himself, setting him straight. Marching to the dungeons, his momentum was stopped by two guards. He placed his hands on his hips and blinked indignantly at them. “Yes?” 

“We need to log everyone that goes in and out,” the first one said. 

Gilan sighed. “Sir Gilan,” he said, digging through his pockets. After a moment, he found what he was looking for and pulled out an insignia. “Knight of the Evergreen.” 

The eyes of the second guard widened into saucers, and Gilan bit back a groan. He blinked to stop his eyes from rolling. 

“You’re Sir Gilan?” he said. “The second best knight in all of Araluen? Only just behind King Morgarath himself?” 

Gilan gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he muttered. In his mind, Morgarath would not be a knight. He had seen up close how he cheated, and he regretted to think that he had lost to his cheating ways. Gilan shook his head. “Let me through. I have important business to attend to.” 

The guards parted to let him through, and Gilan finally had his eye roll when the second one called down at him. 

“Sorry for any inconvenience, sir! Will you be competing in the next tournament, sir?” 

Morgarath’s next tournament was half a year away. There was no saying if he would be attending. Besides, if he wanted the ranger’s help in overthrowing Morgarath, there would hopefully be a new king soon. 

The dungeons smelled to say the least. The walls were rotting, and the floor was cracking. There was only one guard as the ranger was the only prisoner. “I’m to take your place,” he said. 

Bored out of his mind, the guard didn’t even look at Gilan before bolting up the stairs. Gilan tilted his head to the side. That worked better than intended. 

The creaking of the cell then echoed aloud, and Gilan spun around. His jaw dropped. “How did you do that?” 

The ranger stood outside the cell, ring of keys in hand. He smiled at Gilan, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dark magic.” 

“That’s a lie,” Gilan replied. He almost laughed, but the smell of mildew reminded him of his situation. “I’m Gilan.” He offered his hand. 

The ranger took it, and Gilan found that his hand was more calloused than his own. He looked at it in amazement, examining his own skin afterwards. 

“No sir or lord?” The ranger asked. “You seemed to be familiar with Fergus.” 

Gilan looked up. “Oh,” he said. “It’s Sir Gilan, Knight of the Evergreen.” The ranger inclined his head, brows drawing together. “Just call me Gilan, or Gil. What’s your name?” 

“I’m not sure you want to know that, Gil.” The ranger ran a hand through his hair. “It’s dangerous now to know any names of the once rangers. I for one think that my name should not be allowed to dignify such a room this is. It is far too disgusting.” 

Gilan choked back his laughter, steadying himself on the wall. “Alright.” He grinned. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Leading the way up the stairs, Gilan looked at the guard that had been in awe of him. “Hey, what’s your name?” 

“Alan, sir!” He practically jumped in joy. “Alan, can you and your friend go tell the Baron Fergus that we have a situation with the prisoner?” 

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” Alan dragged the other guard away by the arm, dashing across the corridor. 

“So that’s why I recognize your name!” the ranger said when they were out of sight. “The youngest knight to have come close to beating Morgarath! You bested Baron Arald by a smidge.” 

Gilan smiled. To have anyone else say it was nowhere as close as having a real ranger say it. “Thank you,” he said, pausing before he continued. “But don’t celebrate yet. I believe we still have an oakleaf to acquire?”

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

“Farewell, Gilan. Thank you for helping me today.” 

Gilan bowed his head. “It was a pleasure to work with a real ranger.” 

They parted ways, and Crowley looked back at Gilan whose demeanor seemed to dimmed at their parting. He pursed his lips. 

“Gil?” The young knight turned his head back, and Crowley smiled. “I never told you my name.” 

Backtracking his steps, Gilan found himself standing in front of Crowley again. “I’m listening.” 

Crowley smiled. He reached a hand and clasped onto Gilan’s shoulder. He squeezed it comfortingly. “My name is Crowley,” he said. He paused before continuing, voice lowering significantly. From what little Crowley knew of Gilan, he knew that he could be trusted. “If you want, you can find me in the morning,” he said. “On that hill right there. We can talk Morgarath then.” 

Gilan smiled the biggest smile Crowley had ever seen. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” 

Crowley watched Gilan walk away in the sunset. He sighed to himself. The knight had faced so much despite his young age, maybe even more than him. Crowley looked down at the silver oakleaf in his hand, squeezing it tightly. He closed his eyes, feeling Gilan’s pain. 

Gilan had lost his father, and he had lost Pritchard. Both to Morgarath. The more he thought about it, the more Crowley knew. Morgarath’s rule over Araluen needed to end. And he planned to make it happen. 

Sighing, Crowley disappeared into the trees. He had to make sure his friends hadn’t killed themselves yet by planning to storm the castle. 

Crowley’s arrival was marked with Cropper’s neigh. He stepped into the clearing, and all eyes snapped towards him. He shrugged it off, raising his arms. “Did you miss me?” 

“Miss you?” Samdash snorted. “We were going to leave your behind to rot in that cell.” 

“I thought I told you to be careful!” Jurgen added. 

“Well, I made it out alive,” Crowley said. “And I just so happen to—” 

“Will you guys shut up?” Norris snapped. “This is no time for your useless blabbering.” 

“Norris is right for once,” Berrigan sighed. 

Crowley blinked. “What happened?” he asked. “What’s going on?” 

The rangers glanced at each other before they wordlessly stepped aside for Crowley to see who was standing behind them. Crowley stiffened, automatically straightening. He sucked in a breath and bit back a gasp. 

He bowed, and his voice slightly shook as he spoke. “My lord,” he whispered. “Prince Duncan.” 

“No need to bow. I’m no longer a prince,” Duncan paused. 

“Crowley Meratyn,” Crowley said. 

“Crowley.” 

Studying Duncan’s ignoble appearance, Crowley frowned. Leaves and twigs were tangled in his hair, and mud stained his clothes. Dark bags sagged under his eyes. He was nowhere near to being the king he needed to be. 

“Go get some rest,” Crowley said. He gestured at his tent. “Take my tent.” 

“No, no,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I can’t.” 

“You’ll need it for the things to come, sir.” 

When Duncan finally surrendered into Crowley’s tent, Crowley turned to his companions. “Where did he come from?” he whispered. “I thought Morgarath had him killed.” 

Egon shrugged. “He says he’s been following us for a few days,” 

Crowley frowned. “Are you tell me someone, be it our Prince or not, with no experience in concealed movement has been following us?” He crossed his arms. “Not possible. Out of the question.” 

Norris frowned. “If you haven’t noticed, you guys can be quite loud at times. Who knows what unwanted company you’re attracting?” 

“I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Norris,” Crowley snapped. He turned. “Are we sure he’s the real Duncan?” 

“You’ve seen him,” Berwick answered. “If it were one of Morgarath’s croons, he would be massaging his feet. 

“But one of Morgarath’s could be decently trained in concealed movement!” Lewin said. “They could at least have some chance of following us.” 

“But that doesn’t explain how he found us in the first place!” Leander said. 

“Why not call it luck?” Berrigan retaliated. “We’ve all had a good look at him. Unless Morgarath is practicing dark magic, there is no way he’s going to have a lackey that looks exactly like Duncan.” 

“Okay,” Jurgen said. “What is to say Duncan turned on us?” 

“He would never!” Berwick explained. “This is Duncan we’re talking about. Why would he turn after all Morgarath has done to him?” 

“Say it is luck,” Samdash said. “But to follow us for days?” 

“What if he taught himself?” Egon suggested. “He is in exile. He’d be stupid if he hadn’t picked up some survival skills.” 

The arguing continued, and Crowley frowned. He blocked his ears from the conversation, letting drift away to listen to the horses grazing. He closed his eyes when the arguing grew louder. Looking to his tent, Crowley wondered if Duncan, or fake Duncan, was listening. His lips formed a thin line. 

“All of you, shut up!” His voice boomed across the clearing, louder than he expected. But it got the job done nonetheless. Sighing, he continued. “None of that matters right now. We’re getting nowhere. Duncan is here, and it doesn’t matter how. We’ll need to be more careful from now on.” 

Crowley turned to the edge of the camp, where Tommi and Adri silently sat with the horses. He smiled warmly at them. “But for now, I believe we have some apprentices to tend to.” 

Tommi grinned, jumping up to his feet. He pulled Adri up with him, and Crowley looked to their assessors. 

“I’m sorry,” Leander said. 

Crowley blinked, biting back a smile. The other rangers choked down their snickers, and Tommi’s face was crestfallen. Surprisingly, Adri grinned, having already been in Tommi’s position during his first assessment. 

Leaner continued. “But both of you are stuck with us for the rest of your life.”
Crowley snorted at Tommi’s expression, doubling over. He laughed, grinning when Egon spoke. 

“Not that you aren’t already stuck,” he said. “You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not. You all already know too much.” 

Fishing out a bronze oakleaf from his pocket, Crowley gently handed it to Tommi. He smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Welcome to the Ranger Corps, Tommi.” 

He looked to Adri, who hovered behind his friend like a shadow. “Congratulations to you too,” whispered before ushering the two to their mentors. 

The rangers dispersed into small groups, casual chatter rising here and there. Crowley stood alone, leaning against a tree. Cropper nudged him with his nose, and Crowley grunted. His fingers tangled into Cropper’s mane, gently massaging the back of his neck. 

He nodded at each of his rangers as they one by one retired for the night. He climbed a tree, propping himself up to take first watch. A smile graced his lips. What started out to be a bad day was turning around. With Gilan’s aid and Duncan around, it was the perfect time to overthrow Morgarath. Fate, maybe. It was meant to be.

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

Araluen was gloomier than the last time Halt had passed through. It wasn’t just the people, who now kept to themselves and whispered gossip. The surrounding environment seemed to be dimmer as well. Even the animals were jumpier than usual. 

Rain stormed down from the clouds like they were charging a battle. Halt lazily pulled up his cowl and sighed. Arriving at Araluen had only made him wish that he found a way to join the rangers. It made him think of what could have been, what could have happened if Morgarath had lost. Would he have been part of the Ranger Corps then? 

Halt shook his head, steeling himself. After all these years of mastering a stone face, he would not let it falter only by traveling through a kingdom. 

He had a job to finish. 

The elimination of Baron Arald of Redmont. Nothing else and nothing more. No emotion was required for the task, so none shall he have. 

If only it were that simple. 

The more he forced himself to ignore everything, the more he thought. Halt gritted his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching. Vigorously, he shook his head until dizziness overtook him. Halt squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his face upwards to meet the rain that shot down between the leaves. 

It was fine. Just fine. 

The sooner he finished the job, the sooner he could be on his way. 

Halt pushed through the thick forest foliage, grunting. Morgarath should have provided him with a horse. 

Redmont was close though. Just a couple hundred of meters, and the castle would be in sight. But for now, he needed a plan. A way to infiltrate the castle, find the baron, and to escape. 

When Castle Redmont finally reached Halt’s eyes, Halt grimaced in frustration. Peering through the treeline, Halt scanned the area. Wensley Village and the Battleschool was situated near the castle, and if things went wrong, the people would not hesitate to attack him on sight. But that didn’t bother Halt. Things would go just as planned. The castle, however, was not up to plan. 

Instead of the traditional four walls, Castle Redmont had three, just as effective and maybe even more. With less walls, the guards and soldiers on duty had less distance to cover, and Halt had little room for dallying. He frowned to himself and walked along the treeline. There was little to no chance he would succeed in scaling the walls without anyone seeing him. 

He needed a different plan. Running his hand through his graying hair, he frowned. Halt looked to Wensley Village, where he could see many of its people chattering while they worked. His lips drew a thin line. From what he had heard from Morgarath’s two servants, Baron Arald stood against Morgarath’s rule. He was a supporter of the Ranger Corps and wanted Oswald’s line to return to power. 

Halt sighed. If he killed Arald, there would truly be no chance of joining the Ranger Corps. The man was the only thing strong enough to stand in Morgarath’s way to true destruction. Halt leaned against a tree, pressing his palm against it. He let his head rest against it. It wasn’t like he could bail on his task. Morgarath would stop at nothing to see him executed, and if he wasn’t found, Halt would be running for the rest of his life. Besides, he was getting paid five hundred gold royals. That was enough to last him for over a year. 

Halt cracked his knuckles, getting off the tree. He dusted himself off. There was no way around Morgarath, so he had to go straight through. He had to assassinate Arald or run for the rest of his life. His eyes darted to the castle. He grimly smirked to himself. He had to kill the baron. He just had to keep telling himself that. 

Halt waved off a fly and crossed his arms. If he couldn’t scale the castle, then he would walk straight through the front gates and out the same way. No one would see him coming. No one would be looking. It was how he got into Alard’s estate. No one had ever robbed him, and everyone who attempted tried to get in through some obscure, complicated way. No one tried just walking in, and Alard himself had believed that no one would be daft enough to do so. Halt was pleased to prove him wrong.

Halt started his way to the village, where he would take the paved path straight into the castle. Baron Arald wasn’t exactly arrogant and foolish as Geoffrey Alard, but he wasn’t looking. Arald still had guards on duty and extra careful, but Morgarath hadn’t tried anything on Redmont in so long that they were starting to get bored. 

He pushed his cowl down to draw less attention to himself. The rain had slowed, and was only a drizzle. Halt smiled as we walked, and Redmont’s people thought nothing of him. He was just an average traveler who had stopped by Wensley Village for the day. Nothing strange about him. 

Halt slowly walked through the village, and soon he was on the path straight to the castle. In the distance, the Battleschool loomed, and even from the hundreds of meters separating them, Halt could still hear the drilling of the young knights. He looked to it in interest. Gallica had no such thing, its power corrupted. All the knights there were fools who carried weapons and shields for show and the ones who knew the footwork were egoistic and selfish. 

Halt didn’t stop to admire Castle Redmont as it drew there, walking through the gates confidently and with purpose. No one said a thing, and Halt almost laughed when he stood in the middle of its courtyard. The guards even opened the door for him into the main building. 

Smirking, Halt walked through the halls of Castle Redmont. He kept his back straight, demeanor important, and most importantly, his ears open. He needed to track Baron Arald quickly and efficiently. 

His hand found his saxe knife, his throwing knife next to it in different scabbards. It was comforting to have them near as he had left his bow outside in the hollow trunk of a tree. Halt smiled and nodded at all the servants that passed him, and before long he found himself in a dead end. No word of Arald’s presence at reached his ears. 

Halt frowned. The task was harder than he thought. Turning back around, he found another staring at him. He raised an eyebrow at his appearance. His saxe and throwing knife matched Halt’s own, but it had a double scabbard. A long bow was in his hand, and surprisingly, a battleaxe also hung from his belt. 

“Good afternoon,” Halt cheerfully said as he walked back down the hallway he came from. 

The man didn’t respond to him, and Halt could feel his eyes burn the back of his head. He breathed, feeling a tinge of panic kick in. The person had to be a ranger, but rangers were no longer in Araluen. And from the way he looked at Halt, Halt knew that he was suspicious. He needed to find the baron. 

Halt quickened his pace, ears catching every word that was said around him. More panic came to him, and he looked back at uneven intervals to see if the ranger was following him. Halt must have ran through the entire castle before he found himself standing behind the door of Baron Arald’s study. He breathed deeply before placing a hand on the door knob. As he turned the doorknob, Halt swiveled around at the thrum of a bow, ducking down. The arrow embedded itself into the door, where his head was moments ago. 

From behind the door, Halt heard the sound of books falling to the ground. He didn’t care, already lunging at the supposed ranger with his saxe and throwing knife. The ranger raised his battleaxe, dodging Halt’s blow. 

“Where did you get those?” the ranger grunted, blocking Halt’s advances. 

“None of your business,” Halt replied, thrusting the throwing knife forward at an opening. 

The ranger rolled out of the way and the study door slammed open. Halt didn’t pay attention, parrying to the side. They fought, Halt at a disadvantage. Knives against a battleaxe was never a good thing. “Why are you here?” 

Halt dodged a blow, matching it with his own. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in a fight before,” he said, “but there usually isn’t this much talking.” 

Cries echoed across the castle, and the baron, standing underneath his door frame, held a sword. He dove into battle, and Halt frowned. His movements became quicker and simpler, fending off both opponents.They were tiring him, he thought. He needed to end the fight. 

Halt set his eyes upon Baron Arald. If he killed him, he could run and escape over the ramparts. However, the baron was hefty with his sword, so he needed another way to kill. Halt jumped back when the ranger advanced forward. He kicked him back, and sweat splattered onto his face. 

Halt swung at the ranger, ducking when Arald swung at him. He backtracked, giving him enough time to control his breathing. Halt reset his stance and parried the baron’s blow. His eyes shot towards the longbow that was slung around the ranger’s shoulders. A quiver of arrows was attached to his back. 

Yelling, Halt pushed the baron back, and kicked at the ranger’s knees. He immediately fell, and Halt grabbed an arrow, moving to stab the baron with it. A jolt of pain shot down his leg and Halt sucked in a breath. He dropped the arrow, and kicked the ranger again with his other leg. Throwing his knife at the baron, he grabbed more arrows, yanking the longbow away from the ranger. 

Halt doubled back, and the ranger got onto his feet. A dark glint lit in the ranger’s eyes, and the baron breathed heavily next to him. Halt inclined his head, eyebrow raising. He nodded to them. “Good luck,” he whispered. 

Halt stuffed the arrows into his boot with his hurting foot, keeping one in his hand. Instinct took over and he fired them one by one. His opponents gasped in surprise, his speed matching a ranger’s. It could have even overmatched a ranger. 

He drove forward, more and more arrows going to the baron’s. Each of his arrows were just barely knocked aside or avoided. Halt gritted his teeth. He only had one left. 

Seeing this, baron Arald called out a battle cry and ran forward. A stampede of footsteps made the ground shake, and as Halt dodged Arald’s blow, the knights and guards of Redmont surrounded them. 

Arald stepped back, mixing into the ranks and Halt growled in frustration. 

It was over. 

He couldn’t fight all the soldiers with a saxe. 

And one arrow. 

Halt looked down at the arrow, grabbing it. He could feet all eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He needed to kill the one responsible for his fall. Halt skillfully drew the arrow against the taut bowstring. Aimed, then released. 

The arrow found its mark into the chest of the ranger. 

Gasps rang in his ears as he fell. 

The nearest soldiers yanked his arms up. 

It was over.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Will sank down onto his knees, laughing. He grinned, hugging the chest that he had found laying in the dark basement. He finally found his family’s financial records amongst the chests of the other families. Unlatching it, he beamed at all the old papers inside. 

He found the most recent one that showed that the tax had been left unpaid. He held it up towards the dim light, glancing at the others. Now, all he needed to do was forge the baron’s signature. Will breathed, closing his eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the quill and inkwell he had brought from home. He got to work, leaning down over the parchment. 

Will didn’t know how long it took to get every curve and bend perfect to match the baron’s. But by the time he had finished, his legs were asleep and his neck was sniff. He grunted, stretching out, careful not to step on anything. He yawned, but it ended as a gasp. 

Light flooded his vision and he stumbled back, covering his eyes with his hands. He peeked through his fingers as his eyes adjusted to his brighter surroundings. He blinked a few times before jumping again. 

There were voices. Two voices. The first, he recognized as the baron’s. Will sucked in a gasp, ducking down in panic. That meant the second voice was King Morgarath’s. Closing his family’s chest, he gathered his quill and inkwell. He peered over a chest to find the two talking right next to the only way out. He breathed a curse, scrambling as quietly as he could for a hiding place. Vaulting over a chest, Will dove behind a shelf and began to climb up. He situated himself on the top, resting his stomach onto the wood. 

Will looked over the edge, pulling himself back when they began to move deeper into the room, and closer to him. Sweat began to form on the back of Will’s neck, and he looked around the room to find the torches being lit by servants. He didn’t feel any relief when they left, leaving the two people he was most frightened of with him. Peeking over the edge again, Will had to pinch himself from crying out. 

They were walking along the chests now. Will snapped his gaze as his own, and a feeling of dread sank into a dark pit of his stomach. He had left the forged financial record on the floor in his frenzy. 

Will covered his face, nervously looking between the record and the baron with the King. He wiped the moistness away from his eyes, steadying his breathing. He couldn’t even focus on their conversation. With every second that passed, they were closer to his chest. 

What would happen if they found his record laying out in the open? Would they be cruel enough to arrest the culprit? Would they arrest him ? Or his father? Mother? If they ever found out, they would take his place with less than a second. He couldn’t let that happen, could he? 

Making himself as small as possible, he watched the two walk. They seemed to be so engrossed in their conversation that they weren’t looking around. No matter. They would catch him.

His breathing hitched. Will wished he could run and sob. He hated this, staying still while the nervous energy built up inside of him. It was painful in a sense to do nothing when there was so much to do. 

He covered his mouth. They were three chests away. 

Will squeezed his eyes shut, terror instilling itself into him. Two chests. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Things may have gone differently if he hadn’t done it. Maybe they wouldn’t have seen him.

But he couldn’t take it anymore. 

He couldn’t. 

He just couldn’t. 

Letting himself fall backwards, Will rolled onto the ground. He could hear the startled exclamations of his oppressors, but he ignored it, grabbing the nearest torch. With a yell, he threw it into the shelf. Flames erupted out like a blossoming flower, and Will ran. Everything in the room was flammable. It was all wood. 

He grabbed every torch he passed, sending them into the chests and shelves. Will had never ran so fast, bolting out the door. He could hear the shouts of alarm from the baron and the yells of fury from the King, and he pushed it to the back of his mind. 

Will burst out of the castle. There were no guards. His fire had caught all their attention. But he didn’t stop to rest. Not there at the scene of the crime. Not there where he could be caught. Will ran without pause all the way back to the little cottage he called home. 

Bursting inside without knocking, his mother jumped up in surprise and dropped her sewing needle and shirt she had been fixing. “Will?” 

Will didn’t reply, sprinting into his room. He slammed the door behind it, slumping down against it. He locked it, bringing his knees to his chest. He waited a minute, breathing deeply. In and out. 

Just when he was about to calm down, all his barriers came loose. Floods of tears streamed down his face, and Will cried out, sobbing. Burying his face into his knees, he cried. He ignored his mother, who had tried to open the door in vain. He didn’t know how, but he felt her sit behind the door against his back. He heard the small thump of her head leaning back, and he cried harder. 

Guilt coiled up his arms like snakes and anxiety ran down his legs like a waterfall. Will sniffled. What had he done? He didn’t know if King Morgarath and the baron had escaped. His face flushed red at the possible prospect of him having killed. Even if he hated them for the wrath that was brought upon his family, Will couldn’t justify killing them. It just didn’t seem right. Would he be any better than them? 

Will choked on a sob, pulling his hair as if he wanted them to grow and cover himself. And what if they had managed to escape? He had committed arson, and he didn’t know what would happen. He would be hunted for, and who was to say that more taxes wouldn’t be placed? 

“Will?” It was his father.

Will cried. He may be able to keep his mother away from what he had done, but he had always told his father everything. Bad or good, it was always him. 

“Will, can you open the door? Your mother is worried sick.” 

He obliged, and his father slowly opened it, careful not to hit Will on the floor. He closed it behind him, sitting down next to Will. 

No words needed to be said as Will leaned against his father, who wrapped him into an embrace. He cried into his shoulder and into the night. Neither spoke.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Gilan’s hand moved slowly and deliberately across the parchment. His script was elegant and legible, unlike the other men his age. Gilan poured his thoughts onto the parchment, explaining and apologizing. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his mother and MacNeil face to face. He didn’t even want to imagine their reactions on him leaving. But he had to. He needed to. 

His thoughts wandered to Crowley, the ranger he had met the day before. He smiled. Excitement tinged his fingertips, and he laughed aloud. It was the first day in three years that Gilan truly felt relaxed and knew that everything would be okay. It was also the first day he wasn’t up drilling himself. He had instead spent the morning preparing. 

Strapping on his lightweight armor, Gilan attached his scabbard with his sword onto his hip. He picked up his shield. The evergreen insignia looked as if it were glowing, an effect of the cleaning frenzy Gilan went through the night before. Gilan picked up his helmet, leaving his note on the kitchen table. He stepped out onto the streets. 

His horse waited for him behind the house where Gilan had left him. Taking its reins, Gilan walked away from the village. He looked up the hill, where Crowley was supposedly waiting. Squinting his eyes, he found no trace of him. Not that he could. Crowley was a trained ranger, and it was impossible for Gilan to see him unless Crowley wanted him to see. 

Trudging up the hill, Gilan fastened his helmet onto the pack on the back of his horse. He looked around at the scattered trees, eyes narrowed. Still no sign of Crowley. Was he early? 

Suddenly, he jumped. A hand was on his shoulder. Spinning around, Gilan stumbled back. His horse neighed in amusement, and Gilan glared at Crowley. “Don’t do that!” he said, catching his breath. 

Crowley only chuckled, shaking his head. Gilan studied him in awe. It was the first time he’d seen Crowley in his full uniform. In fact, it was the first time he had ever seen a ranger in full uniform up close. 

Gilan blinked several times as it looked like Crowley was shifting between worlds. It was uncanny how he disappeared and reappeared like a ghost. 

“Gil?” Crowley snapped his fingers in front of Gilan’s face. “You’re staring.” 

“Sorry.” He shook his head, regaining his composure. Gilan ran a hand through his hair. “So what’s the plan?” 

Crowley grinned. “Prepare to be wowed.” 

Gilan inclined his head, following him deeper into the forest of trees. Before long, they came upon a clearing. His jaw dropped at the sheer number of people, rangers. “Whoa.” 

Crowley’s grin turned. “You’re supposed to say “wow.” 

Gilan laughed. It ended short when every single eye in the clearing simultaneously turned to him. He awkwardly waved, glancing at Crowley. 

Crowley then proceeded to introduce everyone, and surprisingly, Gilan felt right at home with them. It was like it was meant to be. Gilan rubbed the back of his neck. Then again, he did want to be a ranger when he was younger. 

Gilan turned when Crowley called for his attention. He blinked at the person behind him, the only person he hadn’t met. 

“Gilan, this is Prince Duncan.” 

His words took a moment to sink in. Gilan stiffened, his mouth opening and closing. Helplessly, he stared at Duncan, hands raising and lowering. A thousand thoughts rushed through his brain in a few seconds. Questions, exclamations, confusion. He couldn’t put any of them into words. So instead, Gilan settled with kneeling. “My lord.”  

Duncan gestured Gilan to rise. He smiled warmly. “You are David’s son, aren’t you?” 

Gilan weakly smiled at his father’s name. “Amongst other things, yes.” 

“He was a good man,” Duncan continued. “I couldn’t believe it when word of his death reached my ears. A man of so much talent gone suddenly and by brick toppling over him.” 

Gilan resisted the urge to protest. He nodded, jaw tightening. This was Duncan he was talking to. Prince Duncan, the true King of Araluen. He needed to remember his place. Gilan bowed one last time before turning to Crowley. “Wow.” 

Throwing his head back, Crowley laughed. He slapped Gilan’s back, arm wrapping around his shoulder. He grinned. “Great. Now, we can talk about our plans.” 

“I assumed you already have one,” Gilan said. 

“And you assumed right.” 

Crowley called for everyone to gather around. Gilan smiled when Adri and Tommi came to stand next to him. He squeezed their shoulders comfortingly, having taken an instant liking to the two apprentices. 

Crowley stepped onto a small rock. “So I was thinking last night,” he said. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that we should split up. One group should go to Gorlan to figure out Mogarath’s plans. The other would go to Redmont. I hear Baron Arald has a grudge against Morgarath, and we could use that to our advantage.” 

“Who are the groups?” Duncan asked. 

“I figured Gilan should go to Redmont. He knows Arald, and could—” 

“Well, hold on.” Gilan crossed his arms. “I should be going to Gorlan.” 

Crowley turned to face Gilan, frowning. “I think a ranger would be better off sneaking around Morgarath than an inexperienced knight.” 

“Well, let’s just say you were caught!” Gilan protested. “A ranger would be killed on the spot.” 

“We don’t get caught,” Crowley said. “It’s not what we do.”

“Let’s say you do! I’d be much better off than you.” 

“He’s right,” Leander said. “Let him go.” Murmur of agreement arose, and Crowley was outnumbered. 

He sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. But at least bring someone.” 

Gilan shook his head. “The less people there are, the better. We don’t want to draw too much attention.” 

“But—” 

The horses neighed, and the rangers turned in alarm. Crowley hopped down. It only took a few strides before he got to the edge of the clearing. He frowned, peering out. 

“We should go,” he quietly said. “Fergus will be looking for me.” 

Gilan nodded, mounting his stallion. He nodded at the rangers and Duncan. “I’ll report to Redmont afterwards.” 

“Be careful,” Crowley said. “Get in and out. If you aren't to Redmont in five days, I’m sending someone.” 

“You won’t have to.” 

Crowley grinned. “We’ll see. Knights are pretty clumsy.” 

“Until next we meet then?” 

“Until next we meet.”

...

Gilan’s stomach rumbled. He sighed, urging his horse to go faster. One day of hard riding, and he was already tired of the tough jerky he packed. The next village was close. It had to be. 

Gilan reached back to his pack, pulling out a map. He traced the path he had traveled and frowned thoughtfully. He had journeyed all the way to Aspienne fief, and the main village was nearby. Just a few more minutes. 

A small fief, Gilan expected Aspienne to be peaceful and welcoming. However, he arrived at the village to find the people frightened and the patrols strict. He blinked as he dismounted, leading his horse to the inn. 

It was eerily silent, and Gilan could feel the tension ready to snap. When he stepped inside the inn, he found it nearly empty, a rare occurrence in any village. 

“Hello?” 

The owner of the inn didn’t meet his eye when he approached. “How may I help you?” he asked quietly. 

“Stew and coffee for now,” Gilan answered. His eyes darted across the room, head inclined. “What happened here?” 

“Someone has commited arson at the Castle, sir,” he said. “All the financial records are gone, and King Morgarath wants everyone to pay all his taxes a second time.” 

A vase shattered onto the ground, and Gilan turned to find the one other person in the inn scarily pale. He met their eyes for a split second before snapping down to clean his mess. Gilan turned away from the owner, leaving him to prepare his meal. 

He found the person shaking violently. Guilt practically radiated off of him, and Gilan instantly knew he was looking at the arsonist. He bent down to help him clean up the vase he had knocked over. “What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Will,” he answered quietly, taking a seat after the shards had been disposed off. 

Gilan sat across from him. He studied Will, taken off guard at how young he was. He couldn’t be older than sixteen, he thought. Gilan clasped his hands together. “I’m Gilan,” he said, offering a hand. 

Will took it, and Gilan almost smiled at how naive he was if it weren’t for his situation. Will was too trusting, almost childlike. But at the same time, Gilan saw a man in him. Someone who would stand up against all odds. 

A servant brought Gilan’s meal over, and he gratefully took it. He glanced at Will, tossing him the biscuit that had been provided to him. He smiled at him when Will looked at him in surprise. “Go on,” he said. 

Digging in, Gilan studied Will. He reminded Gilan of himself when he was younger, or even himself a few days ago. He cleared his throat. “You know,” he started. His voice lowered. “It’s obvious you were the arsonist.” 

Will snapped up at him in surprise, sputtering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Gilan glanced around the inn. Satisfied when he was for sure no one was listening, he spoke. “Stop shaking,” he said. “You’ll only cause more attention to yourself.” 

Nodding approval when Will took a deep breath, Gilan grinned at him. Will was one of the people that Gilan instantly knew would be trusted. There was this air around him, like an aura. He couldn’t explain it, only that he was someone that he would trust completely in watching his back like Crowley. Gilan supposed he had an intuition of sorts. A gift. Or maybe it was because both Crowley and Will were the spitting image of what he wanted. 

Or because they all despised Morgarath. It was probably the latter.

“Why are you helping me?” 

Gilan looked at Will in surprise. Perhaps, he was wrong about his innocent side. “Because,” he whispered. “I don’t like Morgarath either. And you are one of the first people I’ve met that dared to wrong him.” 

Right at that moment, the door to the inn slammed open. Gilan jumped, freezing when he saw that it was a handful of guards. His eyes widened, and he turned away. Facing Will, whose face was even paler, Gilan hissed at him. “Stop staring. Look at me.” 

Will looked Gilan in the eye, and Gilan smiled comfortingly at his fear. “Talk to me,” he whispered. “About anything.” 

Will opened and closed his mouth, his mind blank. Gilan could see the beads of sweat sliding off him, so instead, he laughed as if Will had told him a silly story. He felt the stares of the guards burn the back of his head, and he ignored them. “How about another one then?” he said to Will. “Another story about your misadventures.” 

“No.” Will gulped. “I think that’s enough for one night, Gilan.” 

Gilan sighed in mock disappointment. Raising the mug of coffee to his lips, he drank. He felt the effects almost instantly. He felt alive. As Gilan set the mug down, he heard the door swing shut. They were gone. They were safe. 

Gilan stood up. “What do you plan on doing, Will?” he asked. “Baron Borin will eventually find out.” 

Will sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “My parents want me to stay. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“You want to run.” 

Will looked at him, frowning. “When you put it that way, it sounds bad.” 

“Don’t run then,” Gilan said. 

“I can’t stay!” Will said. 

“Then don’t stay.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without thought, and Gilan was surprised at himself for what he was going to say. “Come with me. I’m going to Gorlan. I’m going to stop Morgarath once and for one.”

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Crowley wished he had gone with Gilan to Gorlan. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to Redmont, but more the fact that he hated walking long distances. Without a horse for Duncan, the rangers had decided to travel by foot. They had sent out Lewin and Berwick to scout ahead on their horses, and Crowley guessed that they wouldn’t be back until nightfall. 

In the meantime, Crowley focused on putting one front in front of the other. The afternoon sun blazed down at them like a scorching flame, and the summertime didn’t help it. The gusts of wind were the only thing keeping Crowley from collapsing, hitting him like a blanket of purity. He could almost taste the iciness of the wind blowing like fresh pillows. 

Walking also forced Crowley to get lost in his mind more. He supposed riding did the same thing, but it was different. He felt more vulnerable walking. At least while he was on Cropper, he didn’t need to pay attention to things he could trip over. 

Crowley shook his head in frustration. He replayed the different possibilities that could happen at Redmont, but Crowley didn’t know what to expect. He couldn’t just have everyone show up at once and alarm the soldiers, could he? He doubted Baron Arald would like it any more than Morgarath. A crowd of rowdy rangers wasn’t exactly a nice gift to anyone.

And what about after Arald allies with them? When Gilan finally arrives? What would they do? How would they carry on? Then, there was Duncan. The people of Araluen still had no idea that it was an imposter who broke the treaty, causing havoc. They didn’t know that Duncan had been imprisoned. 

Crowley frowned. How had Duncan escaped in the first place? Morgarath would have executed him in public to show the kingdom he was worthy. Crowley looked over his shoulder at Duncan, who walked alone. He slowed down until he was walking beside him. 

“What is it?” Duncan asked. 

“How did you escape?” Crowley blurted without thinking. “Morgarath would have never set you free.” 

Duncan weakly grinned at him. He cleared his throat. “I had help,” he said. “The servants managed to set me free.” A dark expression came over him, and he shuddered. 

Crowley squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. Knowing Morgarath, those servants must have died. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “They knew what they were getting into. It was their choice.” 

“They died, Crowley,” Duncan whispered. “They died for me.” 

“As they should. You were their rightful prince, after all.” 

Duncan shook his head, but he said no more. Crowley sighed, knowing fully well what it was like to have someone sacrifice themselves for him. It was the negative side of being a leader, and it could very well outweigh all the positive things.

Touching his nose, Crowley remembered one of the last days when Oswald was still King. He was in a tavern, and a few of Morgarath’s supporters had him pinned down. They were going to cut off his nose. He remembered the day vividly. 

He had escaped the same way as Duncan: with the help of servants. Crowley scratched his head, sighing. Servants may be poor, but they could be some of the most loyal and trusting people there were. They deserved a better life, a better salary. 

Closing his eyes, Crowley remembered the exact moment when the servant pushed the giant brute off of him. He had been beaten to the ground, and it gave Crowley just enough time to regain his footing and send the lackeys to a place in the world of unconsciousness. 

He remembered how he threw them out into the crisp winter air onto the muddy streets, and the deep wound on the servant’s leg. 

Crowley shuddered. The intensity of the wound was so severe, the local doctor was forced to amputate his leg. He had never walked again, and Crowley felt as if he had ruined his life. He later learned that his name was Bertram, and the last time he saw him was almost a year ago. 

He had been passing through the fief with his friends, and Crowley found him sitting on his porch. He didn’t approach him in fear that he now hated him. 

Crowley bit onto his lower lip. Rubbing his temples, he blinked. He needed to stop thinking about Bertram. He needed to take his own advice and accept that it wasn’t his choice to make. 

“Crowley?” 

Crowley looked up at Duncan’s voice, blinking. He brushed his hair out of his eyes startled at the disappearing sun. In the distance, he could make out the silhouettes of Lewin and Berwick. He cleared his throat. “Let’s find a place to camp,” he said. “If we start early, we’ll reach Redmont in two days.” 

The rangers made haste in finding a formidable place to camp. They found some scattered boulders standing on the clear, grassy land. Lewin and Berwick joined them, blending into the crowd with ease. Crowley dropped down to the ground, the tall blades of grass tickling his ears. 

He yawned, kicking off his boots. With all the walking and thinking they had done, Crowley felt as if he could pass out. He didn’t even want to pitch his tent. His eyes fluttered shut for what may have been one minute before his name was called. 

“Crowley!” Egon shouted, sliding down from one of the boulders. 

Crowley sat up, back aching. He groaned when he stood up, regretting lying down. “What is it?” he asked, shaking out his feet. 

“There’s a girl!” he whispered quietly, pointing to the boulder he had came from. “Those two boulders have created a hole in the middle of them, and there’s a sleeping girl in them.” 

Crowley frowned. “A girl?” he echoed, pulling his boots back on. He jumped up, lifting himself up on top of the boulder. Sure enough, there was a small cave-like hole. And in it, like Egon said, was a small girl. “Hello?” he softly called to her as the other rangers gathered around the boulder. 

The girl almost immediately woke, head snapping up at Crowley like he was a monster. Her seagrass green eyes flashed in fear, but behind it, Crowley could see a layer of boldness. He glanced back at his friends before offering a hand. 

She didn’t take it, shrinking down as far as she could. “Who are you?” Her voice shook, hollow as if she hadn’t used it in a long time. Her words sounded foreign even to Crowley’s ears, but she didn’t have an accent. 

“I’m Crowley,” he said. “My friends and I are just stopping by.” He gestured for everyone to go back to their tasks. “Where are your parents?” 

“Parents?” She didn’t speak for a long time, deep in thought. Crowley took a seat as she finally spoke. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t—I don’t know—I don’t have them.” 

Crowley looked at her in surprise. From the way she looked, she could match a ten year old, but the more she spoke, he thought she was older. Sixteen? It was a reasonable number, for it was the amount of years Morgarath had been in power. “What’s your name?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

Sixteen and with no name? Crowley gaped at her in disbelief. How had she even survived? He helped her out of the hole. “May I name you then?” 

Her eyes lit up like a candle, and she smiled. She nodded. 

“How about Evanlyn?” 

“Rosalind?” 

Crowley turned to find Duncan climbing the boulder to join them. His eyebrows shot up into the air. “Rosalind?” he said. 

Duncan looked as if he had seen a ghost. “We’re in Wildriver aren’t we?” he asked. 

“Yes?” 

“This is the fief where Morgarath holed me up.” He looked at the girl. “You look like her, like Rosalind. She was one of the servants who helped me. I think she had a daughter named—named Cassandra.” 

Crowley looked at the girl, who’s eyes widened. She bit her lip. “You knew my mother?” 

Duncan gulped, and Crowley could see the guilt written all over his face. “I did.” 

“Was she a good person?” 

Duncan looked away from her, his eyes wandering to the setting sun. “She was the best. Fair, loyal, trustworthy.” 

Crowley slid down the boulder, leaving the two to talk. Wordlessly, it was decided right there and then. Cassandra would be joining the rebellion, and Morgarath was going to be cast away. He had killed too many and had left too many alone. He needed to be stopped.

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

“He’s dead, my lord.” 

“Damn. How did he get past the guards?” 

“Apparently, he just walked in.” 

“And they let him?” 

“The doors are open, my lord. Anyone is allowed within the castle walls.” 

“Close them. I want identification checked for every visitor.” 

“Yes, sir,” a chorus of voices answered before their footsteps faded away. 

Another voice spoke. “I know how much you respected him.” 

A snort. “Oh for goodness sake, Rodney. Farrel was your friend too. Don’t act like you’re not angry, devastated.” 

“Oh, I am angry, my lord. I’m going to show that hooligan what he’s done.” 

“And I with you.” 

The footsteps came closer, and Halt knew they were coming for him. He moved his ear away from the wall, cracking his knuckles. He ran a finger through his unruly hair, bracing himself. Light shined in the room, blinding Halt. He pulled up his cowl, his cloak the only thing that hadn’t been taken from him. It may not be as effective as a mottled cloak, but it did the job right in the shadows of a cell. 

“You!” It was Baron Arald who spoke first, pointing a finger at him. “Stop hiding and face me like a man.” 

Halt sighed. “It’s not like I can face you behind bars,” he said. “Let me out.” 

The other man, Rodney, snorted. “That’s not happening. You’re to stay there and rot.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arald said. “I think I would like to punch him senseless.” 

“You can try, but you won’t succeed.” They glared at him, and Halt shrugged. “I speak the truth.” 

“Oh, you little—” 

Rodney grabbed the bars of the cell, and Halt stepped back so quickly that Rodney almost did the same. Startled, he blinked. Arald narrowed his eyes. “It’s almost like you were a ranger!” 

“Impossible,” Rodney retorted. “He killed one of his own. He can’t be.” 

Halt rolled his eyes. He almost wished he had stuck with the plan and killed Arald instead of the ranger. Almost. He was still salty about being caught. “I’m standing right here,” he said. 

Arald waved his comment away, whispering back and forth to Rodney. Their anger seemed to dim, confusion and professionalism taking its place. Their adrenaline was gone, replaced by tiredness. 

Halt knew the feeling well, it finding him after every task he set his mind too. Except this one. Morgarath's task was the first and only task he failed in his new life. 

"Who are you?" 

Halt narrowed his eyes. "Arratay," he said. It was the Gallican translation of Halt, or rather, Arratez was, but Halt was never good at his pronunciation even if he had spent sixteen years in Gallica. Maybe it was his Hibernian roots.

"Arratay?" Rodney echoed. "What kind of name is that?" 

Halt crossed his arms. "My name." 

"Okay, Arratay. Who are you?" 

"I've already told you my name!" Halt snapped, but the baron shook his head.

"Not your name," he said. 

Halt glared at him, challenging him with his eyes. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "I am Arratay." 

Rodney threw up his arms in frustration. "Oh, forget it Arald. Leave him here until he's ready to talk." 

Arald muttered in agreement, and they turned away. Right before they left, Halt whispered something. "I doubt that would ever happen," he softly said. 

And when he was sure they were gone, Halt sighed and let himself fall backwards onto the stack of hay. Redmont's dungeons were one of the more luxurious ones that Halt had been thrown into. He supposed that Arald was more merciful than any other noble he had met, but he'd seen him fight. Baron Arald would not hesitate to kill when it was necessary. 

And for some unthinkable reason, that fact sent chills down Halt's spine. His hair fell over his eyes, and he brushed it away. Arald was not someone to be underestimating. He had to be killed with time and precision. But Halt had to escape the dungeons before anything else. 

That would be a problem. Even if he was merciful, Baron Arald was careful. With someone that had wronged him like Halt, he wouldn't dare make a mistake. 

Halt sighed, cutting it short when two guards took their place beside his cell. His eyebrows raised. Perhaps, it wasn’t over. Guards were always a weak point. They stood in the same position for long periods of time, and Halt didn’t know a single guard who didn’t get drowsy. It was the fault for being human. Arald’s fault was having too much faith in people, and the guard’s was their inability to stay awake when they’re bored. 

Halt smirked to himself. He had recognized human error many years ago when he first settled down in Gallica. He found himself to be too sensitive. He fought long and hard with himself to cease all his feelings. Halt frowned. Only, the feelings of past were beginning to emerge. 

Curse his job. Curse Morgarath. He wanted to go back home. Maybe not to Gallica, he realized, but to Hibernia. He could handle Ferris. Even if he couldn’t, Pritchard was still there. He wanted to see his mentor again. 

No. 

Halt rubbed his temples. 

He couldn’t. He just needed to stop thinking, stop feeling. Everything would be okay if he would just stop. 

Just stop. 

Halt closed his eyes, slamming himself into the stone wall. The guards turned to look at him in surprise, but he ignored them, banging his head. He needed to stop thinking. 

When blood finally started to run down his head, Halt stopped. He breathed heavily, the metallic tang exploding on his tongue. He buried himself under the hay. He had never felt such turmoil or despair. Why was this happening to himself? 

Why? 

Curse Morgarath. 

Halt screwed his eyes shut. It was all Morgarath’s fault. All of it. He was doing fine before he showed up at his door, looking for an assassin. It was all his fault. Everything. 

But it wasn’t over yet despite his failure. 

It wasn’t over. 

Was not over. 

He just had to wait. Someone would slip up sooner or later. 

He just had to wait, the worst pastime of them all.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Will couldn’t believe what he was doing. What was he thinking by leaving home with a stranger to rebel against the King of Araluen? What was Gilan thinking by inviting him? He rubbed his neck. He had spoken to his parents after Glian stubbornly insisted that they wouldn’t leave until he did, and he felt as if they were more worried now that they knew. 

He sighed, shifting uncomfortably on his horse. It had been a long day of riding, and he hadn’t spoken a single word to Gilan, who seemed to be lost in thought. Will didn’t blame him as he was doing the same.  

“You alright there, Will?” 

Will blinked, turning to Gilan. Perhaps, he wasn’t so lost like he thought. Shurgging, he replied. “Yeah.” He trailed off. 

Gilan looked at him in a manner that made Will flush red. He was waiting for him to speak, having sensed a question coming on. 

“Are you sure we should be headed towards Gorlan was King Morgarath?” Will asked. 

Willing his horse to stop, Gilan inclined his head. He faced Will. “I won’t bring you into danger if you do not wish it,” he said. “Once you step foot into that castle, there is no turning back.” 

Will hated the choice Gilan had presented to him. Sighing, he played with his horse’s mane. “I do want to end Morgarath’s reign,” he said. “But I do not think it is possible with just the two of us. 

“Oh, there is more than just us.” 

Will tilted his head in question, but Gilan shook his head and continued. “But I can’t tell you any more until you make up your mind. Are you in?” 

Gulping, Will nodded. 

“Say it out loud.” 

“I’m in Gilan,” Will said. “I’m in.” 

Gilan smiled, and they started on their way again. “Have you heard of the rangers?” 

Will blinked in surprise. What did rangers have to do with anything? “Not much,” he said. “All I know is that they were all exiled when Morgarath came to power.” 

Gilan’s smile only grew. “Well, you’re in for a treat,” he said. “Let me explain. It started with King Herbert when he established the Ranger Corps…” 

Will listened to the stories in awe. He wondered how such a formidable force could be exiled with a snap of a finger even if it was from the King. They felt like a legend to him, too good to be true. But according to Gilan, they had come together to fight off Morgarath. 

When Will looked up, he realized that he must have drifted into his thoughts. He hadn’t realized that they had arrived at Gorlan’s main village. Startled, he looked towards the castle. It was so much bigger than Castle Aspienne. 

Graceful and elegant, the complex, magnificent architecture overthrew Castle Aspienne’s at least a hundred times over. Will could even see the intricate designs from far away, and it blew his mind how something could be so beautiful. He couldn’t even imagine what Castle Araluen would be like if this was Gorlan. 

The towers rose from the ground and shot upwards through the sky, higher than Will had ever been before. He wondered what it was like on the inside. He wondered why anyone would need such a big living space even if it was the King he was talking about. 

“Ready?” 

Will glanced at Gilan. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

...

There was no going back. 

Will gulped, rubbing his neck as he looked around the castle. They had gotten in as guests: Gilan as the knight, hoping to learn from the best and Will as his servant. 

Trailing after Gilan, Will could feel his sweat building up. It was nerve-wracking. Gilan must have sensed his unease as he placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will breathed deeply, nodding his head at Gilan. They walked deeper into the castle. With every step, they were moving further away from escape. And further away from safety. 

They were brought in front of the main hall, where Morgarath sat on his throne. Gilan looked back at Will, dragging him aside for a moment. “This is where we must part ways for now,” he said. Gilan lowered his voice. “Good luck, Will. I should be able to keep Morgarath’s attention for some hours. Rendezvous in the forest at sunset.” 

Will didn’t get to reply as Gilan spun around, his cape following him. He watched Gilan stroll into the hall, his back straight and his walk confident. Will bit down on his lip. He wished he could have as much confidence as him. 

He waited outside the hall for a few minutes before looking around. Will didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he needed something that would bring Morgarath down. Sighing, he straightened. Gilan was counting on him. His parents were counting on him. He could do this. He needed to do this. 

His walk was slow at first, and gradually, Will moved faster. His strides grew longer with every step, and subconsciously, he straightened, mimicking Gilan. He could do this. 

When he wasn’t panicking, Will found the insides of Castle Gorlan to be even more grand than the exterior. He had to agree that Morgarath had great taste in decor, but he preferred the simple life where the only things he had were the things he needed. Will opened a door, blinking. He doubted anyone really needed a closet full of different vases for the different months. Why would anyone need to switch out vases anyways? 

He scratched his head. This would not do. What kind of servant would he be if he just bumbled around aimlessly? He frowned to himself when a bell started ringing. Stopped. Then started again. He furrowed his brow when all the servants in the hallway turned simultaneously and hurried past him. Was there a kind of servant’s code? 

Will turned. A lack of servants meant there was a less chance of someone seeing him. He froze. “I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. 

There was only one other person in the hallway. Tall and blonde, Will found her beautiful and fair. A lady, maybe? Slowly, he met her silver-gray eyes. He almost flinched at her calculating stare. After a few moments, Will bowed down and hastened away. 

He felt her gaze burn the back of his head, and he almost reached up to touch his hair. Will mumbled a curse. He wasn’t good at this at all. Someone would catch him, whether the servants were all around or gone. His footsteps seemed to echo as they touched the marble floor.

“We continue moving our forces down. Celtica is weak. They would rather dig than defend their land.” 

“Celtica? Why Celtica? We should move up to Picta.” 

“The King specifically said Celtica. We should follow his orders.” 

“But we’ve already angered Picta when Tiller raided their villages. We can’t afford to be fighting two wars, especially since we’re caught in between. We’d be sandwiched.” 

Jackpot. 

Will pressed his back against the wall. He peeked through the crack of the open door. His brown eyes widened as he strained to hear the quiet voices. If Morgarath intended to fight a war, Araluen could be thrown into ruins. It didn’t matter who was fighting, but everything would change. Will bit down on his lower lip. He stiffened when he realized that most of the knights would be sent to fight. He softly gasped. 

Will blinked as he raised his head to look between the door he hid behind and the hallway he came from. Gilan was a knight, and he was walking straight into Morgarath. Will could feel his face reddening. Morgarath would surely ask Gilan to the war, and Gilan couldn’t reject him. The King’s orders overruled anything and anyone. 

“We should call for some troops from the plateau.” 

“Are you out of your mind? No! I will not call upon them even over my life.” 

Jolting, Will brought a hand to his forehead, brushing his hair back. He scrunched up his face in frustration. How could he have been so stupid to get lost in his thoughts? It didn’t matter if Gilan was going to be sent away. If it came to that, Will knew his friend would be able to keep an eye on the battlefront and somehow steer it to his advantage. He sighed, pressing an ear to the door, which to his dismay, creaked and opened a little wider. 

“What was that?” 

Will sucked in a breath and froze. He felt as if his knees had given up right then, but his feet had frozen to the ground, keeping him from toppling over. 

“Hey, why’s the door open?” 

“Is someone out there?” 

“I’ll check.” 

A hand wrapped around Will’s slack arm, pulling him back. Spinning around, Will almost yelped. He barely managed to stumble back when his savior clicked her tongue. 

“Come on,” she whispered, taking Will’s hand and dashing away. 

With a blink, Will realized it was the same girl that he had made eye contact earlier. His already wide eyes widened even more when he spoke. “Who are you?” he asked. 

She didn’t even look back. Her voice was sharp and left no room for questions. “Lady Gwendolyn.” 

Gwendolyn led Will behind a corner, far enough from the consulting noblemen where they wouldn’t be suspected. “Why are you helping me?” Will panted when they stopped. “You’re on their side.”

“Well, I’m obviously not if I led you away from them.” Gwendolyn smiled warmly. Straightening, she adjusted the collar of the blue overcoat that she wore over her white dress. “My turn, now. Who are you?” 

Will blinked. Gilan had said nothing about telling others his name, let alone even talking to others. He hesitated. Then again, Lady Gwendolyn told him hers. Perhaps, he should. “It’s Will,” he said after a moment. “I’m—I’m a farmer.” 

“Will,” Gwendolyn repeated. “Will. That’s a pretty name. But you don’t seem happy to say you’re a farmer.” 

Will stumbled back. “Am I really that easy to read?” 

“Oh, no. No no no,” she laughed. “I’m just a good mind reader.” 

“You made that up.” Will grinned. 

“Maybe.” 

“Hey, Will?” Her voice quieted. 

“Yeah?” 

“I lied.” 

Will blinked, processing her words. Was Gwendolyn on Morgarath’s side? Did he run himself into a trap? He shouldn’t have said his name, and even occupation for that matter. 

“My name’s not Gwendolyn. And I’m no lady.” 

Oh. Will let out a breath of relief, relaxing. “Who are you then?” 

“Alyss,” she said. “Alyss Mainwaring.” 

“I think you could still be a lady.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

“No!” Will almost shouted. “I meant it as—as a compliment.” 

“I know.” 

Will looked towards a nearby window, frowning at the sun. “I should go,” he said, a pang of sadness hitting his chest. “I have to meet… a friend soon. You know how it is, all this secret mumbo jumbo.” 

Alyss sighed, nodding. “Yeah. Goodbye, Will. See you in the future maybe?” 

“I’d like that.” 

They shook on it, and Will rubbed his neck when he turned away. He took a few steps forward before looking over his shoulder. “Hey Alyss?” 

Alyss inclined her head. “What is it?” 

“You don’t happen to know your way to the front gate, do you?” 

She giggled. “Yeah, come on. I’ll show you.” 

Alyss led Will straight to the front gate where a yell disturbed the peace of the silent halls. 

“You did what?” 

Will spun around. He knew that voice. 

“You heard me the first time.” 

“You can’t do that! That’s murder!” 

It was Gilan. And that other voice–it was Morgarath. All color drained out of Will’s face as he reached for the door to the throne room. He gulped. 

“I can do anything! You forget that I am King.” 

“More like a tyrant! You would not care for any of us.” 

“What did you just say?” 

“You heard me the first time.” 

“Guards!” 

Guards pushed passed Will into the room, swords drawn. 

Gilan was surrounded. 

Will looked back and met Alyss’s also pale face. “I don’t think it’s goodbye yet.”

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Gilan hoped he had put enough a good enough performance. The moment he felt Will’s eyes drop from him, he had slumped down only to be met with Morgarath’s herald. It wasn’t that he wanted to put up an act in front of the boy, but that he needed to. Will was young and growing up was a big problem as it was without the whole breaking the law thing. Gilan could only hope that he had nudged Will into the direction of the courage he needed to find to not only survive the whole ordeal but thrive. 

“Name and fief, sir?” 

Clearing his throat, Gilan straightened up. He held back a grimace. His acting wasn’t done just yet. He still had Morgarath to get past. “Sir Gilan,” he said, straight to the point. “Knight of the Evergreen. I come from Caraway.” 

Gilan inclined his head and frowned when the herald turned away but not to announce his arrival to Morgarath. He wrinkled his nose in frustration, raising his head to look around the room. To say that it was grand was an understatement. Morgarath had gone all out when he had become King, and the grand room had changed to be unnecessary and extra even to Gilan’s taste. 

Now, Gilan agreed that it was always essential to have flair and dramatics, but Morgarath had a knack for taking things too far. When his eyes finally wandered to the throne, he had to resist scowling. Morgarath sat on the throne, seemingly watching the wall. What was he waiting for? What was the herald waiting for? If this was a show of power, Gilan didn’t like it. It meant that Morgarath had become too arrogant, too cocky. But he doubted that it was that. Morgarath had some sort of plan; he always did even if he had come unappointed. Before he had the chance to open his mouth, the herald stepped forward, and Gilan rolled his eyes in exasperation. 

“My King Morgarath,” he said, bowing. “I present to you Sir Gilan, Knight of the Evergreen, traveling all the way from Caraway fief.” 

Gilan shifted in his armor, setting himself straight with a nod. He walked down the black carpet that contrasted the gold-colored walls and pillars, and his cape beholding the colors of Caraway flew after him as if he was a hero out of a book. He rested an arm on the hilt of his sword, and his other went limp against his side. 

Steadying his breathing, Gilan began to bow, and he lowered himself down onto one knee. He looked to the floor, closing his eyes for a brief second. The first steps were always the hardest, he thought. It was the time when he wasn’t yet comfortable with how he was to act and that was especially dangerous with Morgarath. 

“Sir Gilan,” Morgarath started, rising from his golden throne. He walked forward, and Gilan almost winced at the sound of his shoes clicking on the ground. “What pleasure do I owe you for visiting unannounced?” he asked. 

Gilan didn’t look up when he spoke. “Nothing, my lord,” he said. 

“Rise.” 

As if it were a habit, Gilan stood to attention, keeping his head straight and eyes forward. He met Morgarath’s eyes for a split second, but it was enough to send him into a state of unease. Gilan inwardly cursed himself for being so stupid to do something so bold. Morgarath didn’t seem to notice, stepping forward and circling him. 

“Why have you come, Gilan?” 

Gilan took a moment to think before responding. “I have come to learn, my lord,” he said. 

“Learn?” Morgarath echoed, inclining his head. He stopped walking, turning to face him. “My, Gilan, you are the second best knight in this kingdom. What more do you have to learn?” 

“Second best is not best,” Gilan replied, gulping. “Besides, my lord, you should not speak so highly of me. I won based on luck, not skill. As the capital of Araluen, Gorlan houses the best knights of the realm.” 

“I don’t think you beat Arald based on luck,” Morgarath said. “That man is too cunning for luck.” 

“My lord?” 

“Oh, don’t be so humble!” Morgarath threw his hands up. “You’re one of the best, and you’re young! Don’t waste your time on schooling when you could have so much more!” 

“That is not in the knight’s code, my lord,” Gilan said, his calm expression breaking. His eyes narrowed, and he couldn’t help but to hold onto the hilt of his sword for comfort. This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to have Morgarath train with him, but he denied the request. He was supposed to lead the conversation and yet Morgarath had. 

“You are better than every other knight in this kingdom with the exception of me,” Morgarath said, ignoring Gilan’s uncomfort. “You can do whatever you want. I can give you anything, Gilan.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“Sir Gilan, I am offering you a job.” 

Whatever Gilan expected, it was not that. His eyes widened, and Gilan wished he was wearing a helmet. “W—what?” He managed to sputter out a word. 

“I want you to work for me, Gilan,” Morgarath said. “You know.” He waved his hand.  “Lead an army, have the status of a noble.” 

“I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with that, my lord,” Gilan said, stepping back. He drew his eyebrows together. 

Morgarath wasn’t having any of it. He began to drone on and one about the “rewards” of working on him, of being one of the most powerful men of the kingdom. Before long, Gilan had blocked him out. 

His brain raced to keep up with all the information that had been presented. What had happened? What had gone wrong? How did the conversation turned to be about him? Gilan reached his hands up to rub his temples. He blinked when he realized that Morgarath had stopped talking and was instead staring at him intently. 

“King Morgarath?” 

Morgarath inclined his head, his long, platinum blond hair falling over his face. He pursed his lips. “Why do you hold out on me, my dear Gilan?” he asked. 

“Whatever do you mean, my lord?” Gilan sucked in a breath. Had he been found out? 

“You’re hesitant,” Morgarath said. “Why? Is it your father? My deepest regards, I’ve heard how much his death has plagued you.” 

Gilan screwed his jaw tight, narrowing his eyes. “My lord?” 

“Or is it that dratted Arald?” Morgarath continued without much attention to Gilan’s words. “Do you fear joining me because of him?” 

“No, my lord.” 

“Because I’ll have you know, Gilan. He won’t be a problem soon.” 

“What?” 

“He’ll be dead soon,” Morgarath said, crossing his arms. “I’ve sent an assassin to Redmont, so you needn’t worry.”

“You did what?” Gilan covered his mouth with his hand when he realized he had yelled. His eyes widened.

“You heard me the first time,” Morgarath said. “Arald will be dead soon. And if you take this up, you’ll become the baron of Redmont fief and will be leading one of the most formidable army of this world.

“You can’t do that! That’s murder!” Gilan gasped. Blood drained out of his face when he realized that he was actually thinking about the possibility of being baron despite his own words. He cursed under his breath. 

“I can do anything! You forget that I am King.” 

“More like a tyrant!” Gilan blurted. “You would not care for any of us.” 

“What did you just say to me?” 

“You heard me the first time.” Gilan muttered, repeating what Morgarath had said for the first time.  

Morgarath balled up his fists. “Guards!” 

Gilan drew his sword, letting the metallic noise echo across the room. He stepped back as guards encircled him. “Morgarath,” he warily called. “What is the meaning of this?” 

“Take up the job, Gilan,” he said. “Just do it.” 

Before Gilan had a chance to reply, the doors to the throne room burst open. He spun around, eyes widening to see Will and a girl. His brows knitted together, and he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing, Will? Get out of here!” 

A guard jumped for him as he shouted the last word, and Gilan ducked with a hair of a second to spare. Will’s reply was drowned out with the clashing swords and shouts. Bringing his sword out, Gilan hit the nearest guard with the flat side of his sword. He didn’t want to kill them, only knock them out.

Gilan let out a cry as he dove forward, tackling a massive brute by the legs. He scrambled up onto his feet and brought his sword up to parry a blow from another. His breathing was ragged, and Gilan heaved to the side when someone tried to tackle him. However, as he did, his side was left open and vulnerable. 

It didn’t register to him that he had been stabbed until his attacker pulled the sword out of his flesh and struck him. Gilan couldn’t believe his scream when it reached his ears. He crumbled onto the ground, his sword clanging onto the ground. He rolled when a guard tried stabbing him, instead driving his sword into Morgarath’s fancy floor. 

“Gil!” He faintly heard Will’s cry. 

Blood gushed out of his left side, coming out thick and fast. Gilan groaned, pressing it down with his right hand. He reached for his sword with his left hand, but someone had kicked it away. 

Black dots danced in his vision, and blood rushed to his ears. Gilan felt tears dripping down his chin as he crawled away in an attempt to dodge all the sharp points being aimed at him. He struggled with getting back on his feet. 

“Will,” he said weakly. Disgusted at his weak voice, Gilan pushed himself harder. “Will! Get the hell out of here!” 

“Not without you!” came the strained answer. 

Gilan gritted his teeth. “Will!” he gasped. 

When he realized that Will wouldn’t leave, Gilan clenched his fists together. If that were the case, he would need to be strong. He would need to stand up and fight. This was what he had been training for the past three years, right? 

Gilan yelled, sweat pouring down his face as he crawled towards his sword. He let his hand go from his wound, grasping his weapon with both hands. Hauling himself onto his knees, Gilan swung his sword in a wide arc, splattering more blood onto himself. 

He wobbled onto his feet, swaying unsteadily as he lunged forward to attack. It all came as a blur, and Gilan managed to fight his way to Will and his companion. He collapsed onto his knees, gasping. “I said,” he gulped, “get out of here.” 

Will’s companion caught him as he fell forward. He heard her speak, her voice somehow calm and collected despite the whole situation. But no matter how hard he tried, Gilan couldn’t decipher any of her words. They were all just meaningless sounds and noises, blended together in a rise and fall of pitches. 

Gilan could see Will’s mouth move in swift panic, but he couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t even hear the girl anymore. Gilan felt himself drifting out of his body. The black dots returned tenfold, and his vision closed in on him. 

He went limp, struggling to keep his eyes open. Gilan opened his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he managed to croak. “I’m sorry.” 

Will’s friend yelled something, and confusion clouded Gilan the second before he went unconscious. Was there two girls instead of one? He could have sworn Will only had one companion when he burst into the throne room. Was he hallucinating? Was he looking at the girl’s older, future self? 

Black. 

All thoughts slipped out of Gilan’s brain as he finally let himself go into the void of darkness. Everything went black.

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Crowley’s arrival to Wensley Forest was marked with singing birds and peaceful harmony. It was a welcome change to the bleak and haunting environment that the rest of Araluen held. However, Crowley had celebrated too soon. His arrival to Wensley Village was instead met with suspicious glares and uncomfortable whispers. 

He had decided to keep his weapons, but now Crowley wondered if that was a bad idea. His bow stuck out like a sore thumb, and the double knife scabbard did wonders by causing people to give him the stink eye. Scratching his hair, Crowley humorlessly chuckled to himself. He should have thought more instead of brashly making decisions. 

Beside him were Duncan and Cassandra, who refused to leave Duncan’s side. The rest of the rangers had decided to make camp around the old ranger cabin. Unlike Crowley, his companions donned a dark cowl to cover their faces. Crowley had left his mottled one with Cropper to avoid any trouble. He pursed his lip, his own actions ceasing to make sense to him. 

Crossing Tarbus River and passing the village, Duncan broke the silence. “Look at them,” he whispered. “Something has to have happened. They’re scared.” 

Cassandra glanced back. “Everyone is scared,” she said. “No matter where you go.” 

Crowley frowned, silent. He led the way down the winding path to Castle Redmont. “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s been more guards stationed than the last time I’ve been here.” 

Cassandra shrugged. “Maybe.” 

They were silent for the rest of the way, and the Redmont guards stiffened when they appeared. Standing in front of the gate, they spoke roughly. “State your name and purpose.” 

Crowley blinked. Cursing under his breath, he glanced back at his two companions. He should have known this was coming. Both his and Duncan’s names were widely known across the kingdom, his for being one of the exile rangers and Duncan’s for being the former prince. 

“William Morris, aye,” Crowley said after a moment. “The name is William Morris. This right here is—” 

“Albert Crump,” Duncan blurted. Crowley blinked in surprise at the name but nodded along, opening his mouth only to be cut off again. This time by Cassandra. 

“And I’m Evanlyn,” she said even though she had no use hiding her name. She continued on. “We’re here to talk to the baron. We have concerns over King Morgarath.” 

“My apologies, girl,” one of the guards said. “Baron Arald will not be talking to… “ He glanced at Crowley and Duncan, who had slouched down to play their respected characters. “To illiterate folk.” 

“Who ye calling illiterate?” Duncan asked. “I’ll have ye know that—” 

“You wouldn’t turn away a small girl that has just been attacked by Morgarath’s cronies, would you?” Cassandra asked. “These two men saved my life, and I expect them to be treated right.” 

The guard glanced at his friend, who shrugged. He gulped. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Right this way.” 

Cassandra smiled sweetly, following the guards. Dumbfounded, Crowley and Duncan trailed after them. 

“Wait here,” the guard said when they reached a pair of enormous doors. 

Crowley inclined his head when the guard disappeared, turning to face his companions. He frowned and listened to their quiet chatter. Now that he was inside of the castle, it was clear that something had indeed happened. But what? 

He didn’t realize that he had moved from his spot until Duncan and Cassandra took their places at his side. He blinked. 

“Where are we going?” Cassandra asked. 

“I have no clue,” Crowley whispered. “Stay close. It would do us no good if we were caught wandering.” 

They nodded, and Crowley set his jaw. They moved quietly through the halls. Not a single servant was seen dallying, and guards were stationed at every turn. It was impossible to go anywhere without at least two pairs of eyes following his every move, and Crowley soon found himself going in circles. 

Soon enough, they found themselves back at where they started. The guard that had brought them there still hadn’t returned, and Crowley huffed in annoyance. “Maybe you two should stay here,” he muttered. “I can get around easier.” 

Duncan shook his head. “And if the guard comes back? I rather none of us be here than just two.” 

Crowley didn’t get the chance to answer. He turned at the sound of falling feet though it wasn’t the running that caught his ear. In fact, it was the sound of the running that slowed. It was the change that caught his attention. 

In front of him stood a man with graying hair that had been sloppily chopped. Holes and tears were spotted across his tunic and trousers, and his boots were worn from use. Crowley met his eyes, and silence settled down like fog that dropped from the sky. A mosquito could have flown by, and he would have heard it even if it was at the far side of the hall. 

It was the clanging of bells that broke the silence, but it was the man running that snapped Crowley to attention. Upon instinct, he ran after the man. Crowley swallowed hard. This was the man that had caused the raised security. He was sure of it. 

The man was fast. Crowley breathed through his nose as his shoes slapped against the floor. His heart echoed the sound as blood rushed to his ears. The wind worked against him, but Crowley only pushed harder. 

No guards followed them, and even Duncan and Cassandra had fallen behind. Crowley gritted his teeth when the man had begun to set obstacles between them. He throwed chairs and tables, destroying potted plants. 

Luckily for Crowley, the man had grown too distracted in stopping him to realize another man that cut him off in front. Crowley slowed to a stop when they collided with each other, catching his breath. He straightened when he realized that he recognized one of the men. Baron Arald. 

With a start, he moved to pull the running man off of Baron Arald. Crowley glanced at him when he cursed. “Sir?” Crowley shook his head and faced the baron. 

The baron took one look at him before snorting. He waved his hand, and short spurts laughter seemed to come out of him. “You rangers sure have a way with appearing out of nowhere,” he said as he regained his composure. “I can never get rid of you all. I’ve only just lost Farrel.” 

The puzzle pieces in Crowley’s clicked immediately. “Ranger Farrel?” he echoed. “He’s dead? Since when?” 

Farrel was one of the few people Crowley had contact with outside of his small group of rangers. His station at Redmont had allowed him to skip over the fief, only scouting it once or twice a year. 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

Crowley rounded on the other man, his hand gripping his ragged tunic. One look at him gave him all he needed to know. Growling, Crowley tossed the man onto the ground. He brought his foot over his chest to prevent him from standing. He supposed it was best not to cause a scene in front of the baron. He needed him to overthrow Morgarath, after all. 

“Wait.” Crowley stiffened. “How did you know I was a ranger?” 

“Farrel told me about you before he passed.” The baron sighed. “And Morgarath sent flyers with all of your faces. You’re Crowley, aren’t you?” 

Crowley nodded. “I am.” He paused. “What happened here?” 

“Arratay over there decided to waltz in and try to murder me,” Arald muttered. “He got Farrel instead.” 

Crowley didn’t even blink as he placed more force into his foot that rested on top of Arratay. He glared daggers at him, eyes narrowed. He tore his eyes away only when another person ran up to them, guards on his heel. 

“My lord!” Crowley recognized the man as Sir Rodney. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine, Rodney. Thank you.” The baron nodded at Crowley. “Thank Crowley. He’s the one who found Arratay.” 

Rodney turned to him, and Crowley nodded his head. He offered a hand. “Nice to meet you.” 

Rodney didn’t take his hand, his eyes focused on something behind him. Or someone. “Is that?” 

Crowley turned and smiled to find Duncan and Cassandra out of breath. “Baron Arald, Sir Rodney, meet Prince Duncan and Miss Cassandra.” 

Baron Arald stared. He opened his mouth only to close it. It amused Crowley to find him speechless. Even Arratay who lay beneath seemed to shift in awe. 

“I knew it,” Baron Arald suddenly exclaimed. “Prince Duncan, you’re alive!” 

“So it wasn’t you at Picta’s borders!” Rodney said. 

The celebration was short-lived when yet another person came sprinting down the halls. 

“Baron Arald! Baron Arald!” came the quick, panicked voice of a guard. “My lord! Lady Pauline has returned from Gorlan! She’s brought someone with her! They’re wounded!” 

Crowley stopped listening at Gorlan, already bolting towards the courtyard. Baron Arald and Duncan were on his heels, and Arratay was left with Rodney. Crowley didn’t stop until he pushed out the doors and leapt outside. 

His heart jumped to his throat, and Crowley slid to a stop at the sight. It was as he feared. 

Gilan. 

He was the wounded man.

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

Brown eyes stared at him, unwavering and steadfast. If he was any other man, Halt would have withered away into a puddle under Sir Rodney’s stare, but he was not. In fact, he didn’t give the slightest care to him. Instead, he lay on his back, repeatedly throwing a pebble up into the air. 

After his failed escape, he had been thrown back into his sorry cell. The guards had doubled much to his disdain, but much to his amusement, Sir Rodney had been watching him for the past hours. The guards had already changed two times. Halt laughed. He wondered how long the man would last. 

Besides, by not giving him a response, Halt was probably irritating the man. Flicking the pebble up into the air, Halt sat up. He turned to face Sir Rodney, a slow smile growing on his face. He caught the pebble as it made its way back down, or maybe the pebble had fallen into his hand. Cocking his head to the side, he leaned back and crossed his arms. 

He yawned, smacking his lips as loud as possible. Halt could have laughed at Sir Rodney’s obvious scorn. It wouldn’t be much longer now, he thought. Soon, the man would have been so infuriated he would have thrown himself into the moat. 

Halt smirked, slumping down against the wall. He met Sir Rodney’s eyes for a split second. It was enough to catch the man off guard, and Halt threw the pebble as he blinked in surprise. His aim was perfect, and the pebble tapped him on the nose. 

That certainly got a reaction. 

“Arratay!” he boomed, eyes seeming to turn to fire. “You stinking son of a—” His voice suddenly faltered when a pair of light footsteps suddenly made themselves known. It was almost as if the change in volume was intentional and deliberate. 

Sir Rodney narrowed his eyes at Halt before straightening up. He spun on his heels, clasping his hands behind him. “Lady Pauline!” 

Halt snickered. Even from behind, he could see the shame that had dawned on the man. His skin had become so red, he thought he was going to explode. Halt wished he could see the look on his face. However, he should have been concerned with his own, for he was not prepared when the tall, graceful lady appeared before his eyes. 

She was beautiful. Her ash blonde hair was pinned on her head in a bun. It almost looked silver, and perhaps there were already streaks of silver in it. But Halt couldn’t tell. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her eyes. They were stunning. They were so blue, he thought he was drowning in an ocean. Unlike the rest of her face that screamed of innocence, her eyes were old of wisdom. Halt could see a trace of mischief hidden deep within them.  

Realizing that his jaw had loosened, Halt snapped his mouth shut and bit down on his tongue. He swallowed hard and looked down at the moss growing between the cracking stone. What in the world was this feeling? 

When he looked back up, he fell to the side in surprise. He hadn’t realized that Sir Rodney had left. He blinked, cursing under his breath. He would have liked to have been the one to have prompted him to leave. 

Lady Pauline watched him carefully. Her expression was no longer sweet-looking. It was more stern, but even then, Halt could see a lightness in her. His chest fluttered, and he grimaced when his heart skipped a beat. 

Was he sick? 

He made a face. It wasn’t exactly a great time to have fallen ill. Really, it was a terrible time. 

“Your name is Arratay?” she said. 

Halt’s coughed, standing. He brushed off dirt, trying his best to subtly freshen up. He swept his uneven hair out of his eyes. His voice came out lower than usual, and his accent seemed to flower. 

“Yes,” he shakily said. “Well, no. But yes?” 

Pauline didn’t seem phased. She only smiled, causing Halt to freeze. “What is your name then?” 

“My name,” Halt echoed. “My name. It’s uh Arratay Halt, I mean—” He gritted his teeth, cutting himself off mid sentence. What in the world was wrong with him? 

“Halt,” he managed to utter after much struggle. 

“Halt?” Pauline tilted her head to the side, thinking. “Was that what you meant with Arratay?” 

Halt nodded, thankful for the yes-or-no question. 

Pauline laughed softly, but it was enough to make Halt’s chest somersault. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists together. Where was this sickness even coming from? 

“Well then, Halt,” Pauline said. “I’m afraid that Arratay isn’t quite the correct pronunciation. I believe it would be “arretez”. It was a valiant try though.” 

“Oh.” 

Good grief, why did he say that? He had already known about his poor pronunciation for some ages now. He had given up on correcting it long ago. Halt cleared his throat. 

“Arretez,” he repeated meekly. His heart bloomed when Pauline smiled at that, and Halt found himself smiling back at her. 

“You are from Gallica,” she said. 

It was more of a statement than a question. If Halt was back in Gallica, he would have been thrilled to find his name well known across the countries. But now, he didn’t think he liked it. His past would surely not gain Pauline’s approval. 

Halt frowned. Since when did he care about getting other people’s approval? 

Pauline continued. “From what I’ve read, you’re a criminal, thief, and an assassin.” 

Halt had to wince at that. He looked away, suddenly finding the walls interesting. His eyes trailed over the cracks, and he bit down so hard he tasted blood. 

“But I have also found that you’ve only targeted the rich.” 

That was not what Halt was expecting. He swiveled back around and stared at Pauline. His eyes widened in disbelief, and his mouth dropped down once more. No one had paid attention to that detail before. 

“And from what I’m guessing, you weren’t exactly happy to assassinate the baron. Morgarath didn’t give you a choice, did he?” 

Halt’s throat went dry. He didn’t say anything. How had she known? They hadn’t even spoken before now. 

“So what do you say I give you a choice right now?” 

The silence drew out for several minutes before Halt finally responded. “What kind of choice?” he asked. 

Pauline smiled, nodding knowingly. “You can stay here until the end of your days…” 

Halt scrunched up his face at that, drawing back. Pauline immediately knew she had won. 

“...or I can set you free and you’ll help take down Morgarath.” 

A choice. 

It was the first one he had gotten for weeks. And it was wonderful. Halt had never realized how much a choice could change things. 

But this wasn’t a mindless choice like picking out attire for the evening. 

Halt had his doubts about joining the rebellion. He had never wanted to be caught up in Araluen’s fight, but maybe… just maybe it was what he was meant to do. After all, he had left Hibernia at just the right time to find Araluen in ruins. 

And he didn’t want to upset Lady Pauline. He didn’t think he would be able to survive that. 

Halt frowned. Then, there was the alternative. Rotting for the rest of eternity didn’t seem like a good way to go. 

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Halt sighed. He had made his choice. 

“I’ll join your rebellion,” he said quietly. 

Pauline took a ring of keys from a nearby guard and smiled. She unlocked the cell. “Good choice.”

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

“Tell me again what happened.” 

Will looked up from his seat. It was the hundredth time Crowley had asked him to explain what happened at Gorlan. Letting out a breath, he leaned back against his chair, allowing the sun to hit his face. 

Gilan lay on the bed in the far corner of the infirmary, and bandages were wrapped around his torso. As the days slowly trickled away, the rising and lowering of his chest gradually became steadier. The healers were certain that he would survive. 

Unfortunately, he had yet to wake, and Crowley had grown worried. Will didn’t blame him. He was also worried. It had been several days, and Baron Arald was ready to hold a war meeting without him. Time wasn’t something that they could spare to waste. 

“King Morgarath was onto him,” Will said. “It was my fault. I’m sorry.” 

Crowley hummed to himself. He scratched his chin, leaning against the wall. Will watched him anxiously, waiting for an answer. His eyes didn’t give anything away, guarded with care and practice. Will fidgeted in his seat. He wondered if Crowley even realized what he was doing. 

“Why do you say that?” Crowley finally spoke after what seemed like a lifetime. 

“What?” 

“Why was it your fault? You said earlier that he was already surrounded when you went in. You were only causing the inevitable to happen sooner.” 

“But I distracted him!” Will said. “If I hadn’t gone in, he might have gotten out of it.” 

“If you hadn’t gone in, he may not have escaped. He could be dead right now, so thank you. The stupid idiot would have gotten himself killed.” 

“Who, me?” 

Will froze at the voice. He met Crowley’s eyes, widening his own before jumping onto his feet. He rushed towards Gilan’s bed. “Gilan!” 

His bleary eyes were barely open, and his face was red as color rushed back into his it. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he attempted to sit up. 

“Don’t listen to him, Will,” he slurred, coughing. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I knew what I was doing.” 

Crowley huffed in annoyance. “If I’d gone, this wouldn’t be a conversation.” 

Will looked between the two of them, eyebrows knitting together. His mouth opened in confusion. How could Gilan speak to Crowley like that? He was a ranger. Who knew what they had under their sleeves? 

“You’d be dead if you’d gone,” Gilan said. “I think that means I saved your life.” 

Crowley lightly slapped Gilan right at his wound. He smiled to himself. “Dream on,” he laughed as Gilan squirmed. 

Will watched the two men banter for a moment longer before slipping out of the infirmary, forgotten. In all his days there at Redmont, he had been offered nothing but hospitality. The baron and his staff always took into consideration his needs, and Alyss had always been kind. However, everyone was busy with preparation. And that left Will with nothing to do. He didn’t have a job at Redmont. And unlike Crowley and Gilan who were capable adults, there was no use for him. He was only a farmer. He didn’t know how to fight, much less strategize a war. He was a burden. 

Stumbling out into the courtyard, Will found himself standing under a tree. He looked up at its branches, cocking his head to the side. He raised a hand and wrapped his fingers around the lowest branch, lifting himself up. 

“This tree is taken.” 

Will yelped in surprise, and he tumbled down to the ground. Landing on his back, he gasped. His eyes searched the leaves, and a mix of confusion and fear spread into his body. He stiffened, crawling back as he sat up. 

It was only when the person moved did Will see him. His eyes widened, recognizing the man as the assassin named Halt that had apparently changed sides. “S—sir!” he said. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t… please don’t kill me.” 

Halt dropped down onto the ground. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, boy,” he deadpanned. 

“Sir?” 

Halt stared at Will for a moment before sighing. “I’m kidding,” he muttered. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s annoying.” 

“Yes, sir.” Will looked down at the floor. His hands shook like earthquakes, and dust started flying up around his feet as his body started trembling too. 

Halt raised an eyebrow. “Stop that,” he said. 

“Yes, sir.” Will bit on his tongue, clenching his fists together in an attempt to stop shaking. Sweat began to drip down the side of his head. 

Rolling his eyes, Halt sat down at the base of the tree. He crossed his legs together and ran a hand through his uneven hair. “Are you scared of me?” he asked. 

Will looked back up at him. His throat went dry, and the trembling stopped. He shuddered as he took in a shaky breath. “Yes, I am, sir.” 

“Least you’re honest,” Halt sighed, letting his head drop against the tree trunk. “What is your name, boy?” 

“Will, sir.” 

“Do you know mine?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then, use it.” 

Will blinked in surprise, taking a step back. He studied Halt and pursed his lip when he made no motion against him. Gulping again, he stepped forward and took a seat next to him. If Halt was surprised, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even spare Will a glance as he settled down. 

Silence elapsed over them, and after a while, Will had even forgotten that he was sitting next to Halt. Instead, he observed the courtyard. No one came in and out of the castle with the exception of guards. Will frowned. There were an abnormal number of guards, but nothing had happened for some days. He didn’t think King Morgarath would be making his move so soon, but he supposed that it was better to be safe than sorry. 

After another moment, Will noticed that most of the guards were looking his way. He blinked when he realized that they were all watching Halt. He scratched his head, glancing at the assassin. 

“What?” Halt said roughly. 

“They’re all looking at you,” Will said. 

“Yes,” Halt let out a huff. “It appears that they are.” 

“Doesn’t that bother you?” he asked. “Aren’t you uncomfortable? Why are they watching you?“ 

”No,” Halt said, crossing his arms. “Don’t you know who I am?” 

“But didn’t you change sides?” 

“If you ask another question, I’m going to—” 

“Assassin!” 

Halt cut himself off, jumping onto his feet. He turned to face the man that called his name. Raising an eyebrow, he motioned him to continue. 

“The meeting starts in an hour,” he said. “Don’t be late.” The man stopped and glanced at Will. He frowned as if only just realizing how young he was. “Your presence was also requested,” he said less harshly. 

Will got up to his feet. He looked at Halt, who was already walking away. His brows furrowed together as he rubbed the back of his neck. Loitering behind, Will glanced back up at the tree where he had found him. 

“Aren’t you coming?” 

Will jumped, spinning back around. His jaw dropped down at Halt’s call. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, sir. I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Leaning against a wall, Gilan watched as Baron Arald’s most trusted entered the study. His hand rested subconsciously over his side, acting as a protective shield. The fresh clothes that had been provided for him were a godsend, and he had never thought that clothes would have such an impact on him. 

Gilan hissed when something bumped into him. He steadied himself, turning to face a rather rugged man. Unlike everyone else in the room, he held himself with ease. However, when Gilan met his eyes, a shiver ran down his spine. They were hard, laced with tension and irritation. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, quickly brushing past him. Will was on his heels, and he gave Gilan a nod before following. 

Taken aback, Gilan stared at the man as he took his place in a corner. Confusion was an understatement on how he was feeling. The man carried himself with an easygoing manner, but one look at his face proved the opposite. Then, there was his voice. It was neither of the two personas he exemplified. Instead, it was quiet. Borderline harsh even. Gilan didn’t know what to think of him. 

“Do you want to sit down, sir?” A voice drew him out of his thoughts.

“No thank you,” he said, clearing his throat. 

The girl was almost as tall as him, and her hair was golden as if the sun was upon it. Gilan smiled back at her when he realized that he had seen her before. 

“I should thank you,” he said. “I don’t think I would have gotten out of Gorlan alive without the help.” 

“It wasn’t me,” she laughed. “Thank Will. He fought off the guards as we tended to you.” 

Gilan hadn’t heard that part of the story before. He cocked his head to the side, glancing towards the corner where Will was still standing near the man. “I will,” he said thoughtfully. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“Did you know he wants to become a knight?” she said. “He’d be a good student.” 

“A knight, you say?” 

“That’s right.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. 

“Do you think that could be possible?” 

Gilan eyed the girl, narrowing his eyes. “I’m afraid I am the wrong person to be answering that.” 

“But you’re a knight, aren’t you? Sir Gilan?” 

Sighing, he nodded. “Not by choice,” he said. “I—why are you so interested in this?” 

The girl smiled innocently. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 

Gilan stared at her, silent for a moment. Then, he laughed, wincing as his side began to ache. “You’re a good courier,” he said. 

“Apprentice,” she said. “Courier’s apprentice.” 

“Still very good,” Gilan said. “I’m impressed.” 

Beaming, the girl nodded. “Thank you.” 

Gilan nodded, turning away to face the baron who was just about ready to begin the meeting. He paused, looking back. “I haven’t caught your name,” he said. 

“Alyss Mainwaring,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” Gilan trailed off as the baron clapped to get everyone’s attention. 

“I’m sure you know why we’re here today,” Arald started. “But before we start, I’d like to preface that the topics of this council are highly confidential. Everything discussed today will remain private.” 

Gilan nodded. That made sense. Redmont was a big fief, and Morgarath was bound to have spies everywhere. Even the guards couldn’t have been trusted, and the ones near their vicinity had been replaced by Crowley’s rangers. 

Tapping on a map that laid on his desk, Baron Arald cleared his throat. He met the eyes of every single person in the room before continuing. 

“Morgarath’s tyranny has gone on for long enough!” he said. “He needs to be stopped.” 

“Who’s going to take his place?” someone quietly asked. “You?” 

The baron grinned. “No, Nigel. Not me. That would be Prince Duncan’s job.” 

Gilan almost laughed at the collective gasps. He smiled at Duncan, who had stepped out of the crowd. If it weren’t for his wound, he would have bowed. 

“ The Prince Duncan?” someone said. 

“Indeed,” he said. “I am not dead like some of you believe, and it was not I who raided the villages at Picta.” 

“How do we know he’s telling the truth?” 

Duncan smiled sadly. “You don’t,” he said. “You just have to trust my word.” 

“But you’re going to be the king!” 

Duncan sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. “That is not the problem we face today,” he said slowly. “The task at hand is defeating Morgarath. That must be handled first before we settle the matter of king.” 

“But why would you go against Morgarath?” Nigel asked. 

This time, Will stepped in. Gilan straightened as he spoke. He smiled at the boy. 

“He isn’t lying,” Will said. With each word, Gilan could hear his confidence growing. “When Gilan and I were in Gorlan, I overheard some of Morgarath’s men talking about the raids at Picta. They said it was Tiller who did it.” 

“Tiller?” Sir Rodney said. “You mean Baron Tiller? From Araluen?” 

“The same.” 

“He’s telling the truth.” Alyss stepped forward. “I was there as well.” 

Whispering started to emerge from the group, and Baron Arald had to ring a little bell to get everyone’s attention. “Now that all of that is settled, we need to talk strategy. We have to be smart about this. Our forces are incredibly small compared to Morgarath’s.” 

“Sir, that may not be as much of a problem,” Crowley spoke. “You have a group of rangers on your side. We can get the job done.” 

“Your little group can’t possibly fight off the whole kingdom! And from what I’ve been told, Morgarath has an army marching to Celtica at this very moment.” 

“I didn’t say we’d fight an army,” Crowley said. “As you said, we have to be smart about this. I’m sure there are a few fiefs that could be swayed to join our cause. Morgarath’s taxes have done a lot of damage.” 

“What about Morgarath himself?” Gilan piped up. He shifted as everyone turned to face him, moving his hand away from his wound. “Gorlan is also heavily guarded, and Morgarath is cunning. He knew of my intentions from the moment I stepped into his castle. An army isn’t going to be enough to get through those walls.” 

“What if…” 

Gilan spun around at the voice. His eyes found the man in the corner. His lips parted at his next words. 

“What if I killed Baron Arald?”

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Crowley blinked when the room went silent. Everyone seemed to edge away from Halt and towards Arald. He couldn’t tell whether it was fear of the assassin or the need to protect their leader, but he didn’t care. He was more intrigued than frightened. 

“Explain,” he said, nodding at Halt. A flash of surprise seemed to flash in his eyes, but it was gone before Crowley could confirm it was ever there. 

“There is no way to get into Gorlan. Morgarath would have upped his security by now, and you would be fools to try to split up your little army and fight on two fronts. What you need is a man on the inside.” 

Crowley hummed in agreement. “So what are you suggesting?” 

“I was sent here to kill Baron Arald,” Halt said. “Once that is done, I am to go to Gorlan to collect my payment. Morgarath will be expecting my arrival.” 

“But you can’t possibly be suggesting we kill the baron!” Sir Rodney exclaimed. “Blasphemy, that is!” 

“But what if we fake it?” 

Crowley sucked in a breath at the suggestion. The corners of his lips quirked up. The thought was so crazy that it could’ve worked. And with the council being private, only those in the room would know. Everyone, even the castle staff, would be inclined to believe that Arald was dead. It was almost perfect. 

“If we fake Baron Arald’s death, Morgarath would think that he has won. Power like that will lead him to lower his guard. Then, we make our move.” 

“Baron Arald is popular amongst the barons,” Crowley added. Excitement bubbled underneath his skin, and it took all of his control not to release it. “Even if most of the fiefs are with Morgarath, he is well-known, and they recognize him as a good leader. His death would cause an uproar. Especially if we announce that it was the doing of Morgarath and mention the army marching towards Celtica.” 

“Okay,” Pauline slowly said. “What happens when Halt enters Gorlan? Then, what?” 

“I can lead him on,” Halt said. “I can provide false information and draw his gaze away from Celtica.” 

“A distraction,” Gilan murmured from where he stood. “It’ll buy us time to deal with the army marching towards Celtica. Once that’s over with, our forces would have multiplied. There is no loyalty in his army. They are being led by fear and false promises.” 

“Where should we lead him?” Duncan asked. “Surely, he’s not going to leave his castle for a rumor Halt provides him.” 

“He won’t,” Sir Rodney agreed. “But he’ll have to send a group to investigate. We can lower his defenses.” 

“I could give him a location and tell him that it’s where the rangers are hiding. On the way there, I’ll even spread some word around the villages.” 

“That’ll give him a scare,” Crowley chuckled. Cracking his knuckles, he mused out loud. “I suppose we’ll have to announce Prince Duncan’s existence.” 

“Yes.” Pauline nodded. “Better to have the people know about his role in this revolution. The sooner he is trusted, the sooner we can restore the kingdom. And what better way to gain trust than placing him in a heroic position?” 

“I’ll go to Araluen fief, then,” Duncan said. “Tiller will have to be removed.” 

Crowley smiled to himself. Everything was finally coming together. Through Halt, they could send Morgarath on a wild goose chase while they sort out the situation of the army at Celtica’s borders. At the same time, Duncan would begin the journey of claiming back his honor by proving his innocence. His rangers would go around the major fiefs to inform the other barons of the situation, and from there, the people’s gossip would do the rest. 

“I’ll accompany Prince Duncan to Araluen,” Crowley said. “It’s only right to also announce the return of the King’s Rangers. We’ll only need a small group with us. I don’t think Tiller’s going to be a big problem. It’s the people we need to convince.” 

“I’ll gather our troops and march to Celtica,” Rodney said. 

“I’m coming with you,” Gilan said. “We should leave as soon as the baron is discovered “dead”. Otherwise, the knights wouldn’t have the motivation that we need them to have.” 

“I can tag along with the group to Araluen,” Halt said after a moment. “Gorlan’s on the way.” 

Everyone nodded in agreement, each lost in their own thoughts. There would be much to prepare, and they didn’t have long before a war erupted with Celtica. Time was not their friend in this endeavor. 

Crowley looked around the room. Everyone was fully capable of their skills, and he was confident that they could pull it off. He paused when his eyes found Baron Arald. He inclined his head, realizing that he had said nothing the whole time. 

“Sir?” he said. “What do you think?” 

All eyes went to him, but Baron Arald didn’t move. He only stood there, leaning against his wooden desk. Crowley could clearly tell that he was thinking, his eyes swimming in thoughts. 

“I think we have a solid plan,” Arald finally said. 

Breaths of relief were emitted, and everyone seemed to relax. Ironic given the fact that they were about to make their revolution public. 

“But…” Arald spoke again. “I do not like the idea of hiding while you lot set yourself to danger. I will ride with the army.” 

“My lord!” Rodney said. “Your body needs to be here. The people must believe that you are truly dead.” 

“That won’t be a problem.” Crowley scratched his chin. “If he’s here, there is more chance that one of the staff will discover him. We’ll make a dummy and switch their places at the last minute.” 

“Great!” Baron Arald clasped his hands together. He grinned. “So when do I get to die? I would quite like to have a bit of fun in my performance.”  

Laughing, Crowley shook his head. He rubbed at his forehead, nodding to himself. “And a grand performance it will be.”

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

Baron Arald was scheduled to die within two days, leaving Halt with no idea of what to do during the time leading up to it. The stares he got when he had attempted to help the preparation were insufferable, and the whispers seemed to magnify by a hundred. To be frank, Halt was slowing down the process by trying. His dark and gloomy presence was enough to distract many. 

With the sun high in the sky, Halt walked slowly through the green forest. The morning dewdrops still clung onto the leaves, showering onto him when a gust of wind tore through. Sunlight filtered down between the leaves, illuminating the soft, glossy grass. Thick tree roots burst through the ground, and the soil that it uprooted spilt into the little stream that trickled down the hill. 

Halt hopped across the stepping stones and crossed the stream with ease. The breeze went against him, and he didn’t even bother to readjust his cowl when it fell. Pressing his palm against a tree, he stopped to listen to the wildlife. The birds sang their songs, and the fuzzy squirrels darted across the tree branches. 

Then, there was also the snapping of a tree branch. 

Sighing, he shook his head. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was. The quick bustling afterwards only confirmed his suspicions. 

Will had been following him around ever since they had met in the tree. Halt assumed that the boy also had nothing else better to do, and surprisingly, he wasn’t annoyed at him for choosing to spend his time by tailing him. He was actually quite impressed with the way he moved through the shadows, using the wind to guide him. It was as if it was second nature. 

“I know you’re there,” he said ominously. “You can stop hiding.” 

Halt could imagine the stricken look on Will’s round face, the heat that would rise to his cheeks. Turning to face the bush that Will was crouched behind, he raised an eyebrow. “Come on.” 

Will scurried up onto his feet and brushed the leaves off of his head. “I’m sorry, sir!” he gasped. 

“Halt,” Halt muttered. 

“Sorry, Halt!” Will quickly corrected himself. He sheepishly clapped his hands behind his back. “I uh… I didn’t mean to start following you?” 

Halt stared, and he could see the slight movement of his throat gulping. He shook his head at him, crossing his arms. “You’re a terrible liar,” he grunted before walking away. “Are you coming or not?” he called over his shoulder when Will didn’t follow. 

They walked in silence for quite some while before Will asked his first question. 

“So you’re going to Gorlan?” he said. 

Halt glanced back at him. “Yes.” He nodded once. 

“What are you going to tell Morgarath?” Will asked. “Wouldn’t he see through your bluff?” 

Halt shrugged. “I’ll tell him that I’ve stumbled upon a group of rangers that were planning to overthrow him,” he said. “It isn’t too far from the truth.” 

“But what if he does find out? How are you going to escape him?” 

“Questions, questions,” Halt tsked. “You sure have a lot of questions for someone who isn’t going anywhere.” 

“Can I come?” 

Snorting, Halt stopped in his tracks. “No,” he said. “You weren’t the one tasked with murdering Baron Arald. Besides, Morgarath would recognize you.” 

“Oh.” 

They walked a little longer, and this time, the silence wasn’t as uncomfortable before. Halt found himself relaxing in Will’s company. He would never admit it if he was asked, but it was nice to be in the company of a young person. Now, that was not to say that he had become attached to Will in such a short time. Because he hadn’t. Halt was sure of that. 

“So why do you have that?” Will asked, pointing at the two scabbards on Halt’s hip. “Aren’t those ranger tools?” 

“That would be another question,” Halt said. 

Will shut his mouth to that, but to his surprise, Halt answered the question. 

“There was a ranger that came into my hometown,” he said. “He trained me.” 

“Do you want to be a ranger, then?” 

Halt hesitated. “That was a long time ago,” he said. “Morgarath was barely king.” 

“So this is the perfect chance for you!” Will exclaimed. “Surely, Crowley will let you become a ranger when all this is over.” 

Would he? Halt didn’t know Crowley well enough to know. He doubted it though. Who would want an assassin as a ranger? He didn’t have the trust of anyone in Araluen, save Will and perhaps even Pauline. However, it would be strange to just return to Gallica after everything that had happened. Halt didn’t know if he could kill another person after this failure. 

“I want to become a knight,” Will continued on his chatter. “But I don’t think that can happen until Morgarath is gone. My parents need all the help they can get right now.” 

“A knight?” Halt mused. He glanced over at Will, who wasn’t much taller than him. They were around the same height, shorter than the average man. Unlike most knights, Will was slim, not bulky. Halt had a hard time imagining him in a full suit of armor. 

“You could make a good ranger,” he said out loud. 

“Really?” 

“You seem to have a talent for sneaking around.” 

Will flushed at that. “I don’t mean to,” he muttered. “At least, I don’t think so.” 

“Then, don’t think,” Halt said. “You’re not ready to think yet.” 

By this point, they had circled back around to walk back to Castle Redmont. The sun wasn’t ready to set, but Halt knew it would have been well below the horizon by the time they returned. 

“You were using the cover of the shadows,” Halt began explaining, pointing at the various spots that he would have hidden. “And then there’s the wind. It creates a pattern that resembles motion, allowing you to go from the first hiding place to the next without being seen.” 

Will nodded along, following Halt into the shadows. He mimicked Halt’s maneuvers as best as he could, and the slight nod that he received sent a jolt of excitement through his body. 

Practicing their unseen movement, Halt and Will didn’t manage to return to the castle until late at night. With the stars watching, they finally walked into the grand doors of Castle Redmont and parted ways. Halt allowed himself a small smile as he retired into his room.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Will sat in the far corner of the dining hall. He ate his porridge slowly, wincing as the hot clump of oats touched his burnt tongue. Blowing at his spoon, his eyes wandered the room. Halt was nowhere to be found, but he never showed up for breakfast. The craftmasters and rangers weren’t there either, and that was when Will realized that it was the day.  

He downed a glass of milk when a spoonful of hot porridge went down his throat. Will coughed, covering his mouth as he sputtered. His cheeks were rosy, and the color only deepened when Alyss slid into the seat next to him with her own bowl. Three others followed her lead and sat around the table. 

“Good morning, Will,” Alyss cheerfully said. “I hope it’s alright that we sit here. You seemed a bit lonely.” 

“All good with me.” He nervously grinned. “Thanks.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Will!” the girl besides Alyss said. She was a bit on the plump side, but that didn’t stop her from being incredibly pretty. Her hair was golden like the sun, darker than Alyss’s, and it was tied back into a petite ponytail. Blue eyes alight, she raised a woven basket and pulled out a delicious looking pie. “I’m Jenny,” she said, passing it towards him. “This is for you.” 

Will’s mouth watered as the pie made its way before him. It looked heavenly, and it took a lot to not devour it down right there. He cleared his throat and tried to smile. “Did you make this yourself?” he asked. “It looks great!” 

Jenny beamed from ear to ear. “I did!” she said excitedly. “I’m Master Chubb’s apprentice.” 

“Why does he get a pie?” someone bitterly asked. “He’s only a farmer.” 

“Horace!” Both girls gasped at once. 

Jenny nudged the person, Horace, on the shoulder. She frowned in exasperation. “I made one for everyone,” she said, showing him the basket. “Here, take one!” 

Horace grunted, but he didn’t take his pie. Instead, he shrugged it away, swirling his spoon in his porridge. “Whatever,” he muttered, and Jenny’s lower lip jutted out. She looked as if she was going to cry. 

“That wasn’t nice,” Will said. “She put time into making you a pie! You should be thankful.” 

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Horace snapped. Jenny withered at his voice, scooting closer to Alyss. “Mind your own business.” 

Even Alyss wasn’t sure what to say to that. 

Will stared at Horace, blinking. He gulped at his glare, looking away. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting to the others. 

“So I’m George,” the last person said. His voice was quiet and uncertain, and a flash of regret shone in his eyes immediately after he spoke. Will had a feeling that he had been practicing his lines in the mirror, but it was all wasted with Horace’s outburst. 

He forced a smile at George’s direction. “Nice to meet you, George,” he said, holding out a hand. George shook it, and Will blinked at how firm his hand was. He wasn’t expecting that from someone so quiet. 

Clearing her throat, Alyss gave Horace a look before speaking. “Do you have any plans today, Will?” she asked. “We’ve been granted a day off, so we could do something together.” 

Horace coughed. “ You guys have been given a day off,” he muttered. “The Battleschool only gets an hour.” 

“Then, we better get going!” Alyss said. “You only have a little over half an hour left.” 

“No, I’d rather we not.” 

“You’re in the Battleschool?” Will asked, interest piqued. He forgot about Horace’s hostility for a brief second. “That’s so cool!” 

Snorting at his exclamation, Horace barked out a laugh. “What?” he asked. “Do you want to be a knight?” 

“I do.” 

Horace snickered. “Are you serious?” he said. “You? You’re kidding right? Just look at yourself.” 

“What’s wrong with how I look?” Will asked, eyes hardening. “I can be a knight.” 

“With those short legs?” Horace said. “I’d like to see you try.” 

“I’ll do it,” Will said firmly. He lifted his chin and scowled. “Just you wait.” 

“Boys,” Alyss warned, but her voice was drowned out with Will’s yelp. 

A sticky, warm substance splattered onto Will’s face. He blinked as a pie slowly slid down his face before landing on the table with a plop. Will looked up and faced Horace, and his jaw dropped down. Horace had taken his pie from Jenny’s basket and had hurled it straight at him. 

“Horace!” Jenny gasped. She grabbed her basket, moving it out of his reach. “What’s up with you today?” she asked. “You’re never like this! You love my pies—” Jenny squeaked and ducked down when Will threw his own pie towards Horace. “Will!” she exclaimed. 

“He started it.” Will crossed his arms. 

Alyss huffed, frowning. “That doesn’t mean you should do it back!” she said. “Both of you, apologize. Now.” 

“No,” Horace growled. “I’m not apologizing to him.” 

“Horace.” Alyss gave him a pointed look, but he didn’t budge. 

“I’m not apologizing if he’s not—” Will choked mid sentence as glop was flung onto his face.  It didn’t take one second for him to toss some of his porridge at Horace. 

“Guys,” George tried to intervene, but he had to duck away when they began a full on fight. “Guys,” he said a bit louder. 

They didn’t seem to hear, and it didn’t take long before Alyss, Jenny, and George had to step away from the table to avoid the splash zone. They shared a worried glance. None of their words were going to get to them. 

It was only when Jenny drew in a sharp breath did they stop. They turned to meet her round, widened eyes. Her face was tomato red. 

“What’s going on here?” came a mild voice. 

Will recognized the voice, and his shoulders slumped. His face mirrored Jenny’s as he turned, wincing at Gilan’s stern look. He swallowed. 

Horace seemed to recognize him too because he straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. His awfully loud voice was at a loss when he was under Gilan’s shadow. He bowed his head down in shame. 

“What is this?” Gilan asked, gesturing at the mess that they had made. “A food fight?” 

No one answered, and Gilan crossed his arms. 

“Speak!” he boomed. 

“Yes, sir,” Horace gloomily said. 

Gilan sucked in a breath, setting his jaw straight. “If this was under any other circumstance, I would let it slide, but have you seen their faces?” He pointed at Alyss, Jenny, and George. “They were pleading with you two to stop,” he said. “Don’t bother saying it was just a little bit of fun. If it was fun, you would all be laughing.” 

“I’m sorry, Gilan,” Will said quietly. Ashamed, his head hung to the side. 

Gilan took one look at him. “I expected better from you, Will,” he said. “We’re on the brink of war, and you’re here starting childish feuds. There are bigger problems out there.” 

He turned to give Horace the same look. “The same goes to you, young man,” he said. “You are training to be a knight, are you not? I know for a fact Sir Rodney and the other senior knights taught you better. This is unacceptable.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Horace said. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Good.” Gilan nodded. “Now, I want you two to clean up this mess.” 

“But sir!” Horace looked up. “Drills start in five minutes!” 

“Then, you better hurry up,” Gilan muttered. “Don’t try making Will do it all,” he said, stepping back to stand with the others. “I’ll be watching.” 

Will sighed when Gilan motioned them to start working. He grabbed a towel and started to mop up the goo as Horace started picking up the big pieces of food. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Horace scowl at him. Turning away, Will shook his head and continued to clean. 

To the side, Gilan was laughing at something Jenny had said. The girl was blushing profusely, and Alyss smiled. Even George seemed to be engaged in the conversation, chattering away without a single worry. 

The moment they finished cleaning, Horace stood and ran out the hall. Will had no doubt that he was late for training, and he didn’t feel a twinge of sorry for him. He deserved it for being a prick. 

Brushing himself off, Will started his way off. He jumped when Gilan stepped in time with him, walking beside him. He looked at the older person in surprise. Gilan was acting as if nothing had happened between them. 

“Did you need something, Gil?” he asked. 

“Just wanted to say thank you,” Gilan said. He grinned at Will and ruffled his hair. “Alyss tells me you fought off Morgarath’s guards after I fell. That’s no easy feat.” 

Will cleared his throat, laughing nervously. “It was nothing,” he said. 

“No, it’s definitely something.” Gilan laughed. “Not everyone can fight like that.” 

“I’m nowhere near being a good fighter,” Will muttered, sighing. He thought back to Horace and his remarks. Even if he didn’t like it, he was right in saying he would never make it as a knight. What battleschool would want a scrawny guy like him? 

“I was just desperate,” he said. 

“That may be part of it,” Gilan agreed, “but even with luck you cannot have done that. Someone must have taught you.” 

Will thought back to the afternoons on the farm. He smiled softly at the memories that surfaced from the depths of his mind. “Yeah,” he said, imagining himself falling onto the muddy ground. “My dad did. It was only the basics though. And I haven’t practiced in a long time.” 

“Still very impressive.” Gilan nodded. “We may make a knight out of you, after all.” 

Will froze. “How did you know I wanted to be a knight?” 

Gilan chuckled. “Also Alyss,” he said. “She was quite intent on getting you into Battleschool, you know? Is something going on between you two?” 

Will stiffened as heat drifted into his cheeks. Red, his eyes widened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. 

Hitting him lightly, Gilan smiled. “I’d be careful if I was you,” he laughed. “She has quite the way with words.” 

“Gil, we’re not—” 

Gilan waved his words away. “Oh, would you look at the time!” he said. “I have to meet Sir Rodney for the thing.” 

Will opened his mouth, but nothing came out before Gilan winked. “Congratulations,” he said before briskly walking away. 

Will watched him go, his heart beating rapidly. Biting down on his lip, he sighed and shook his head. Gilan was just talking nonsense. There was nothing between him and Alyss. He just liked making fun of him. Nothing else. 

Walking off, Will steered away from where he last saw Alyss. His chest grew hot at the thought of her, and he shook his head, telling himself it was only embarrassment from Gilan’s comments. Yes, Will nodded. It was nothing else. There was nothing going between them. 

Absolutely nothing.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Gilan walked slowly through the grassy field with Sir Rodney beside him. His sword brushed gently against his left leg, thumping in rhythm with his step. It was comforting to feel the blade against himself, and Gilan couldn’t remember the last time he had gone anywhere without it. It had always been there for him, and really, it was the only thing he could truly rely on. 

It was hotter than usual, and beads of sweat dribbled down the side of his head. It wasn’t nearly as much as the knights and cadets drilling a little ways off had. Their faces were drenched, and Gilan was almost relieved that he wasn’t one of them. 

One of the cadets particularly caught his eye, and Gilan had to stop in his tracks to watch. To his surprise, he recognized the boy. Horace. That was his name according to Alyss. He was the boy that had fought Will just earlier that day. 

His build was typical for a knight: tall and muscular with broad shoulders and narrow hips. What wasn’t typical was the way he moved. As Gilan watched closer, he realized what it was. Horace was adding an extra sword stroke to the sequence he was drilling. It was quick and swift, and an untrained eye would have missed it. 

It took Sir Rodney a few steps to realize that Gilan had stopped walking. Turning, he followed his gaze to Horace. Nodding, he made his way back to where Gilan stood. “The boy’s a natural,” he said, confirming Gilan’s thoughts. 

“Does he know?” Gilan asked, thinking back to the way he fought Will. It made sense to think that Horace’s ego had inflated with the knowledge. 

“No,” Rodney sighed. “No, he doesn’t. To be frank, I’m quite confused by him.” 

“How so?” 

“His work is always late,” Rodney explained. “Always sloppy. All the other cadets avoid him, and he always has some bruise. It’s like he gets into fights.” 

Rodney pursed his lips as he watched Horace. He stroked at his chin and shook his head. “But he’s a bright boy. Has all the qualities of a good knight.” 

Gilan frowned thoughtfully. It was strange, he agreed, and he couldn’t help but think that they were missing a very important piece of information. Horace’s story simply did not make sense. 

“I guess we’ll find out when we march out,” Gilan muttered under his breath. 

Rodney nodded in agreement, and the two watched the training cadets a bit longer before turning away. 

“How long do you think until we can move out?” Gilan asked. His voice had lowered down to a whisper. 

“Dawn at the latest,” Rodney said. “The knights and cadets won’t take long to set up, but it’ll take time to draft the common folk. They’ll be making up most of the army, you know.” 

Gilan frowned but nodded. That had always been the case in Araluen’s army. The main force were simple men, usually farmers, that had little to no skill in combat. And they would pay the price for it. Their casualties would be heavy, and Gilan had no question that the majority of them would be the soldiers. The knights, on the other hand, would survive as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t fair, and Gilan didn’t know if the system would ever change. It was just how things were. 

“We’ll be able to make it to the Western Woods tomorrow evening,” Rodney continued. “It’ll take another day to reach the Solidary Plain. We’ll meet Morgarath’s army on the morn of the third day.” 

“That’s only if horses are provided for everyone,” Gilan replied. “We’re not going to have enough for all the soldiers, and if we work them twice as hard to get there in time, they’ll be too tired to fight. There has to be a different way.” 

“You underestimate the people,” Rodney said. “They’ll want Morgarath gone as much as we do. Perhaps even more than us.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” Gilan said. “I guess they are the ones suffering the most right now.” 

“Everything will be fine, Gilan,” Rodney said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s going to work out.” 

Gilan chuckled halfheartedly. “Yeah,” he said. “It will.” 

Looking out into the forested area that surrounded the Battleschool, Gilan’s eyes found a cloaked figure sitting under a tree. He watched the training knights, and Gilan would have missed him if he hadn’t moved. He frowned. 

“Is that Halt?” he said. 

Sir Rodney whipped his head around. “What? Where?” 

Gilan started forward. “Right there.” He pointed. “What’s he doing out here today?” 

Running forward, Gilan didn’t stop until he stood in front of Halt, who looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow. Gilan mimicked him, arching his own brow. He sat down, cross-legged, beside him and leaned back against the tree. Rodney gave him a look, but Gilan ignored it. He looked to the side at Halt. 

“Hello,” he said. 

Halt didn’t look amused. “What do you want?” 

“That’s no way to speak to a knight, assassin!” Rodney warned. “Try anything, and we’ll stop you.” 

“Be my guest,” Halt said, rolling his head to the side. “I’d like to see you try.” 

“You little—” 

“Peace, guys,” Gilan said, holding up his hands. He smiled. “We’re on the same side, now. No need to argue.” 

“You don’t believe him, do you?” Rodney stared at Gilan in disbelief. He scoffed. “He’s going to run back to Morgarath, and we’re helping him! Who’s to say he isn’t just warning him?” 

Halt let out a snort, and Gilan blinked. “But he could also be telling the truth,” he said. “We have no choice but to trust him. Besides, Prince Duncan easily won over your loyalty.” 

Rodney blinked a few times, and Gilan smiled at him, knowing that he had convinced him. He leaned forward and glanced up at the sun. It was above the utmost tower of the castle. A red light glinted off it, casting a subtle signal to all those who knew of Baron Arald’s death in advance. Nodding to himself, Gilan cracked his knuckles. Halt stood from where he sat, pulling up his cowl. 

It was going to happen at any second now. 

Three… 

Two… 

One… 

Three quarters… 

An ear-splitting scream pierced through the day, slicing at the air. Goosebumps ran on Gilan’s skin, and he jumped to his feet in surprise. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed an “o”. Even Halt seemed to lose his nerve. 

“Good heavens, is that Lady Pauline?” Rodney exclaimed as the training knights and drillmasters started running towards the castle. 

“Sure sounds like it,” Halt muttered, voice thick. He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s my cue to run,” he said before disappearing in the trees. 

Trying his hardest to hold back his laughter, Gilan gulped down a big breath. He wondered how the performance went. It certainly sounded wonderful. 

“Sirs!” A cadet came running at them. 

Gilan choked, holding his breath. He waved for Rodney to do the talking, knowing fully well that he would burst out laughing if he spoke. His face tinted red. 

“What is it?” Rodney snapped. “What’s going on?” 

“It’s Baron Arald!” he gasped as Rodney shared a look with Gilan. “He’s dead!” 

“Dead?” 

“Yes! He’s dead! Murdered, I tell you.” 

“Murdered?” Gilan sputtered. “How?” 

“The assassin!” A voice shouted from the distance. “We can’t find him anywhere!” 

“Halt?” Rodney said. “That pompous, scruffy idiot? I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him!” 

“Should we send someone to go after him, sir?” 

“No need for that,” Rodney muttered. “He’s practically a ranger. We’ll never find him.” 

“Our orders, then, sir?” 

Rodney shared a glance at Gilan, who bit down on his cheek. He turned to face the sun. “Prepare the troops,” Gilan said. “Make a public announcement. All those able to take up arms will join us.” 

“Sir?” 

“We ride for Morgarath at dawn.”

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Faking a death was harder than Crowley had anticipated. It was a good idea, but there were so many layers behind it that it quickly became complicated. For one, they couldn’t really make it a bloody death. No one liked the idea of wounding the baron; it would have created several problems, and it could have easily ended with actual death. 

That was why they had chosen poison. 

Of course, the baron wouldn’t actually be consuming the poison. He would fake it. It was a faked death for a reason, after all. 

Leaning against a wall, Crowley held tightly onto a vial. He stroked the glass with his thumb. It was cold in his hand, almost burning. Even with the poison on the other side of a wall, Crowley couldn’t help but to be a little nervous. 

He didn’t show it though. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, and he stood like a statue. From underneath his cowl, he watched the shadows move with the sun. And in his head, he counted. 

Two eighty-seven. Two eighty-eight. Two eighty-nine. 

The corridor was silent, but Crowley didn’t move. His head rested against the wall, ear beside a door. He continued to wait. 

Two ninety-two. Two ninety-three. Two ninety-four. 

He gripped tighter onto the vial. With any more force, the glass would have shattered. 

Two ninety-seven. Two ninety-eight. Two ninety-nine. 

Crack! 

Pain exploded in Crowley’s face. He bit back a gasp, hot liquid running from his nose. Tears blurred his vision, and he could just about make out the two servants that had emerged from the kitchens as the door bounced off his face. 

Using his free hand to cover his bloody nose, Crowley wedged his foot against the door before it could slam shut. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment, drawing in a breath. Then, he slipped inside.  

There were only two chefs on duty, leaving the kitchens quieter than normal. Master Chubb had given the apprentices a day off, and the others were on lunch break. 

Crowley crept forward. His boots made no noise as he placed each of his steps down, careful and vigilant. Pressure weighed down his shoulders, and Crowley restarted his counting. It wouldn’t have been long until a few servants came back. Someone needed to serve Baron Arald lunch. 

His eyes found a group of silver platters sitting on the edge of a table. To his relief, they were all labeled. Crowley quickly found the baron’s, which was situated next to Lady Pauline and Nigel’s. It made sense, considering that they would be the ones dining with him. 

Crowley glanced at the chefs, who had their backs facing him, before reaching out a hand to lift the lid off the platter. He suddenly froze, fingers less than an inch away from the lid, and he stepped back. But not before a drop of blood had fallen, tainting the flawless metal. 

He had forgotten about his bloody nose. 

Looking around the kitchen, Crowley searched for a napkin or towel. It should have been easy with it being the kitchen and all, but it wasn’t. Such was the case with missions. 

Counting forgotten, he pressed his back against a wall. His eyes focused on a towel, which laid on a windowsill. It sat right in the line of the sun, a bit too close to the chefs for his liking. 

Crowley prowled forward, careful as to not let any more blood spill. He stepped into the light, resisting a flinch when the shadows changed. He quickly grabbed the towel and crouched down. 

The sweet scent of honey drifted into his nose, and Crowley looked back at the windowsill. Beside where the towel had been was a plate of sweetcakes. His mouth watered, and his eyes widened when he sensed a growl coming from his stomach. Cringing, he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. 

When his stomach growled, Crowley pushed down the temptation to escape through the open window. He clenched his fists, the cold glass of the vial now hot. Sweat hung from the tips of his hair, brushing against his skin. He held his breath. 

“Didn’t you already have lunch?” One of the chefs said. 

The other turned to him in surprise. “You mean that wasn’t your stomach?” 

They eyed each other suspiciously before spinning around. Crowley forced his body to relax. Trust the cloak, he told himself. He had to trust the cloak. It should have been second nature by now, but Crowley didn’t think he would ever get used to the feeling of unease that would hit him. 

When the chefs finally turned back, Crowley hurried across the room back to the table. Thankfully, they hadn’t spotted the speckle of blood that he had left behind. 

Lifting up the lid for real this time, Crowley stepped back at the steam that bellowed out. He waved it away, blinking out the moisture. He popped open the vial and tipped it over. The poison slowly dripped out, melting into the chicken and dissolving in the rice. Crowley looked up when the doorknob turned, dropping the lid back down. 

He pocketed the empty vial, diving into a corner. The shelf next to him offered a sense of security as he shrunk himself down, making his body as small as possible. He watched the servants walk toward the table, offering the chefs a greeting. They took the silver platters, and like a dream, they left. 

Left to deliver Baron Arald’s final meal. 

Standing, Crowley’s shoulders slumped in relief. He nodded approval to himself, patting himself on the back. As he made his way to leave, his eye caught the sweetcakes again. He grinned to himself. 

Crowley walked towards the window and stared down at the sweetcakes. The chefs wouldn’t mind if he took one, right? Or two? He grabbed a nearby basket and began piling the cakes in them. It didn’t take long for him to have nicked all the cakes. 

It was only when he was halfway out the door he was finally caught. 

“Hey!” came one voice. And then another. 

This time, Crowley bolted down the hall. His boots made the loudest noise it had in years. Cloak flying behind him, Crowley slid around the corner. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, and he laughed to himself. 

Soon, Crowley found himself on the parapets. He hooked his leg over the wall, sliding down onto the soil, outside of the castle boundaries. Running, he bumped straight into Egon, who had been waiting. He would be joining him, Duncan, Pauline, and Berrigan to Araluen. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed when Crowley shoved the basket of sweetcakes into his hands. 

“Maybe they’ll think it was Halt,” Crowley muttered. He dragged Egon out to where Berrigan had prepared the horses. 

“Did you steal these?” 

“Of course not!” Crowley exclaimed. “I repurposed them.” 

Berrigan looked up as they approached, already on his horse. He frowned. “Halt’s not with you?” 

Crowley froze in his tracks. “I thought he was already here.” 

“He’s not—” 

Pauline’s scream shattered the air. She and Duncan would be out soon. 

Turning, Crowley looked back in the direction of the castle. He frowned. “He’ll be here,” he said. 

“How do you know for sure?” 

“Because…” Crowley bit down on his lip. His eyebrows knitted together. Why did he know? He wasn’t anywhere near close to Halt. The most they had interacted was at the meeting, and even then, there was something about him that he wanted to trust. It was strange, considering the dark air around him. Sighing, he climbed onto Cropper. 

“Because I trust him,” he said. “Or, at least, I trust him to do the right thing. He’ll be here.”

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

Winter was quickly approaching. With summer waning, autumn spread across Araluen on voiceless winds. The trees were already changing. Their leaves were of little flames, scarlet and gold. Some had already browned, shriveled up on the forest floor. They lined the pathways, and Halt took special care to avoid them. The last thing he needed was someone to discover him and ruin the whole operation. 

The sun had already burst into color, washing the sky with pink and violet. The days grew shorter. With it, time. There was little to waste and even less to spare. Still, Halt took his time. He knew the others weren’t ready yet. Lady Pauline wouldn’t have been able to escape the castle until after dinner. 

The forest was silent, eerily so. Void of song, the birds had flown south to more merciful days. Halt peeked up at the darkening sky, where a flock passed overhead. If he wanted to bail, this was his last chance. And he almost wanted to. 

So he didn’t. 

Halt wandered deeper into the forest, eyes forward. He focused on his next step, one foot ahead of the other. Never backwards, never away. Forward. 

Because he had run away from Hibernia. He had run away from Araluen. And he hated to admit it, but he had run away from Morgarath too, choosing to follow his commands in order to avoid his ruthless hand. All along, Halt had been running. Not avoiding it like he had told himself so many times. 

He had fled death, escaped treachery, and he had cheated himself along the way. But now, he promised himself that he was done. He would go through with everything, with all the consequences, the punishments, and he would fall. Not run. 

The nicker of a horse told Halt that he had finally made it to the rendezvous point. He nodded once at the waiting rangers, finding a spot against a tree. Crowley smiled at him. Halt wasn’t surprised when the sandy-haired ranger slid up next to him. 

“What took you?” he asked. 

Shrugging, Halt responded. “Nothing important,” he said. 

Crowley hummed to himself, crossing his arms. Then, he blinked. “Hey, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I may or may not have taken some sweetcakes in your name.” 

Halt raised an eyebrow. The corners of his lips threatened to quirk up. “Is that so?” 

“They were delicious.” 

“I’m sure they were.” Halt shook his head. It was his turn to cross his arms. 

“Actually, I saved a few for you.” 

Halt glanced at Crowley, cocking his head to the side. “Really? I didn’t think you had it in yourself.” 

“Do you not want them? I will gladly eat the rest.” 

Halt pushed himself up. “I never said that,” he said, following Crowley to the small campfire they had running. His mouth watered at the coffee. Crowley seemed to notice because he grinned and poured a mug for each of them. 

“Thanks,” Halt muttered, sliding his bag off his shoulders. He quickly found the jar he was looking for, spooning a large glob of honey into the hot drink. 

Crowley watched with great interest, slightly leaning forward. He inclined his head when Halt took a long sip, frowning. “Doesn’t that ruin the taste?” 

“No.” 

Crowley watched him a minute longer, nose scrunched up and all. He caught Berrigan and Egon’s eyes from where they sat, shrugging. Shaking his head, he grabbed the basket of sweetcakes and took a seat. 

“Cheers,” he said. 

When Lady Pauline and Prince Duncan finally emerged, quick work was made to put out the fire and pack up. Halt soon found himself on a horse, riding next to Crowley in the back. Berrigan led the way, and there was little talk. 

In the dark, it took a little over two hours to reach the Redmont borders. From there, camp was made and sleep was found. Surprisingly, Halt didn’t have much trouble falling into it. 

But it felt like he hadn’t slept a wink when he was rudely awoken. The sun hadn’t even risen, and the forest was silent. Sitting up, Halt yawned and rubbed his eyes. He winced. A terrible trill trembled in his ears. Strident and high-pitched, it interrupted the usually harmonious balance of the wild. 

Halt stood, brushing himself off. He walked carefully across the camp, making sure not to make anyone. Coming to the base of a tree, he looked up. Crowley had taken last watch. 

“Crowley,” he hissed. “What in the world are you doing?” 

Crowley looked down at him from his branch. “Whistling,” he said. “It helps me think.” 

“That is not whistling.” 

“Yes, it is.” Crowley frowned. “Do they not have it in Gallica?” 

“Of course they do!” Halt scoffed. “Why wouldn’t they?” 

“Well, if what I’m doing isn’t whistling, what is it?” 

“It is the impression of a wounded bird,” Halt said. “Better yet, it is a scream for help.” 

“No. It is an art.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“It is not. Just stop doing it.” 

“My whistling is the highest form of music in this country,” Crowley mumbled. “You’re just jealous.” 

“I am not!” 

“Then, you whistle if you’re so good.” 

“No.” 

“Scared?” 

“No.” Halt placed his hands on his hips. “I just happen to have the decency not to wake the rest of our company.” 

Crowley snorted, jumping down from the tree. He gestured at the sun, which had begun to rise. “Well, it’s dawn. We’re going to have to wake them anyway. It’s time to move out.” 

Nodding, Halt began to clean up the area as Crowley woke the others. It didn’t take too long for them to get ready. Tearing off a piece of jerky, he chewed on it slowly as he mounted his horse. He met Crowley’s eye when he began whistling again, and sighed when he started louder. Shaking his head, Halt allowed himself a smile. Crowley smiled back before turning in his saddle and leading the way. 

Halt took his place in the back. It was only a few minutes later before he realized that Crowley had stopped whistling. He laughed quietly. Hope blossomed in his chest for the first time in years. Maybe he really did have a chance at a life there in Araluen. A second chance. Halt smiled again, wider this time. And he pursed his lips, releasing a small whistle. 

Crowley whistled back.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

It was a cold morning. Gray clouds blotted out the sun. The walls within Castle Redmont were silent. Despite Baron Arald’s death, there were no guards on duty. The castle was completely empty, bare and exposed. A shell of what it had once been. 

Will kept his head down, watching his feet. The castle staff walked beside him, silent with the exception of tears that stained just about everyone’s faces. Baron Arald had been kind, and everyone loved his sense of humor, even if they failed to show it in his presence. Guards, craftsmen, servants; everyone had been invited to attend the funeral. Even the knights, who planned to ride into battle after they paid their respects. 

It was an odd feeling to be walking in the funeral procession of someone that was still alive. It gnawed at Will’s insides, and he had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from shouting. Everyone was so sad; it hurt him to think of their reactions when they found out the truth. There would be backlash, anger. No one liked being lied to, not even lies that benefited the better good. It was especially worse since the lie was no small matter. It hurt people; it cut deep. And it was one of those lies that would spin and spin, growing bigger every second. 

Will could feel his resolve breaking the longer he thought about it. Baron Arald wasn’t dead. He was alive. Alive and well. Clenching his fists, he let out a breath. He could hear the sound of doors closing. More and more people merged into the crowd. They must have reached Wensley village now. Soon, they would come to a stop. There would be speeches, memories, and there would be more tears. Wasted tears that could have been spent on something or someone of actual worth. 

Will let his eyes close when they finally arrived. He took in a slow, shaky breath. The cold bit into his skin, frost touching his fingertips. He shivered, freezing when the voices of the choir drifted up in the cool air. They sang a solemn song, and their harmonies sent chills down his spine. 

He kept his head down, refusing to lift it up. If he did, he would have truly broken. He would have ruined the whole operation, and he would have been disgraced for the rest of his life. To everyone, he looked lost in his grief, mourning for the lost baron. And they pitied him. Will didn’t want to face that. 

He did, however, force himself to look up when a hand squeezed his shoulder. Alyss smiled sadly at him as Jenny fell in place on his other side. George stood beside her, and Will looked further down the line, expecting to find Horace. Except he wasn’t there. 

Will hated to admit that he let out a breath of relief at that. He didn’t want to have to deal with him that day. Glancing at Jenny and George who were captivating at the choir, Will straightened. They didn’t know. Jenny and George weren’t there. And Alyss… she was there, but she seemed to have no problem hiding the truth. 

There were plenty of others who knew too, Baron Arald included. Will wondered how he was feeling. It must have been strange to watch his own funeral. 

“Are you okay?” Alyss whispered to him. 

Will looked at her. Was he okay? 

It was a good question, and he didn’t know the answer to it. He was on the brink of ruining everything. Will parted his lip as he looked around at all the people. He was nobody compared to them. He was a farmer. A farmer mixed in with a crowd of scribes, couriers, knights, and rangers. Maybe that was why he was no good at lying. Why he was put off to the side without a part to play. 

“I have to go.” 

Alyss looked at him like he was crazy. “What?” 

“I have to go,” Will repeated. “I don’t belong here.” 

He broke away from her, leaving the cemetery. Alyss looked like she wanted to go after him, but she didn’t. Unlike Will, she was somebody. She would have drawn attention. 

Will sprinted away once he was out of sight. Out of instinct, his feet took him into the forest. There, he let Halt’s teachings lead him. Will didn’t know where he was going, but if he had stayed, everything would have gone wrong. Will sighed. What was Gilan thinking when he brought him all the way out here? Did he really think that he could be useful in the revolution? 

He let the question sit in his head, festering until he couldn’t take it anymore. Stumbling forward as his foot was caught on a tree root, Will gasped as he fell on his face. 

Dirt covered his nose, leaving a blemish on his cheeks. His hands were all scratched up. Will coughed, rolling onto his back. Wiping the sweat off of his brows, he sighed. He forced himself to relax, swallowing a gulp. 

When he finally sat up, Will found that he had fallen into a clearing. A small wooden cabin sat in the middle of it. There was a stables to the side of it. Standing, Will blinked in confusion. Where in the world was he? 

Will stared at the cabin. Something was telling him to go in. He stepped onto the veranda. He raised a fist and knocked on the door. Will wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but there was no answer. He frowned. 

The door was unlocked, and Will jumped at how loud it creaked. He winced and rubbed his ears. The hinges hadn’t been oiled in a long time. 

The cabin was empty. The furniture was dusty, worn out, and one chair even had a broken leg. Will cautiously wandered inside, the littlest sound making him startle. He walked across the room, freezing when his step seemed off. 

He looked down, expecting to find that he stepped on a poor animal, but it was just the floor. Will lifted up his foot, stepping down on it again. It sounded hollow, emptier than the other floorboards. Was it a secret compartment? 

Will bent down, lifting up the board with ease. Too much ease. Someone must have been there recently. Inside, there was an envelope. There was no name on it, simply marked with a date. Will looked up, letting his eyes flicker around. The hairs on his arm bristled, and his heart lurched. 

He tore open the envelope. 

Your Royal Highness, 

Today, Baron Arald held a meeting with his close circle. We have undoubtedly risked our lives to listen in. You see, those rangers that we wrote to you about last time were guarding the doors. It was due to our skill in espionage that we were able to survive, and we feel as if we deserve a raise. A big raise, to be clear. 

Anyway, Baron Arald plans to fake his death. He believes that this act will cause the whole kingdom to revoke against you. And you wouldn’t believe who suggested it! It’s that assassin you hired. He has grown soft. You made a mistake choosing him. You could have easily given us the job. We would have never dreamed of betraying your trust. 

That traitor is going to report to you at Gorlan. He will lie to you. Do not trust him. They also have an army preparing to march to Celtica to meet yours. To top it all off, the rangers are going to separate and ride to the other fiefs. They think that they will be able to turn against you, but don’t worry, my lord. You have us to tell you everything. 

You should act quickly. Time is running out. 

ABJ.

By the time he finished reading it, Will’s face had whitened. The letter dropped onto the floor, its words burning into his mind. His throat went dry. 

There was a spy. There were spies at Redmont. 

Morgarath knew about the rangers. He knew about—no. He didn’t. Not yet. No one had delivered the latest letter. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t know. 

As Will reached out to tear the letter to shreds, a hand clamped over his mouth. His arms were pinned back, and his eyes widened. He screamed into the hand.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Gilan took a deep breath. He stood under a great tree, looking out at the crowd. His hair was swept to the side, brushing against his eyes in the gentle breeze. Underneath his armor, he shivered. 

He recognized the scene. He knew that light, a red sunrise that cast a fire on the grass, illuminating the flowers and stones that had been pushed into the ground, marking a memory. A body. Gilan knew that red. He knew the stones, the red flowers. And he was ashamed. Furious. 

The last funeral he had attended had been three years ago, and it was still fresh in his mind. Gilan squeezed his eyes closed, ears ringing. His heart ached. It had been Sir David’s funeral. His father. 

He didn’t cry that day, not like his mother. He had only stood, underneath his armor, underneath a great tree, underneath a red sun. Underneath everything, drowning in air and breathing in water. Never coming out on top. 

Gilan bit down on his tongue. He tasted blood. How in the world did he find himself standing in the same spot he had three years ago? 

His fingers itched for a sword. Any sword would have done. He wanted to tear someone apart, rip something into shreds. He needed a dummy. He needed to train. 

Gilan mentally kicked himself. He clenched his fists, hands trembling. How many days of training had he missed? How many days had he spent lazy and ignorant? He had already lost to Morgarath thrice. How many more scars did he want? How many more battles would he lose? 

There were too many to count. 

Stumbling backwards, Gilan fell against the tree. He gasped. Red. He saw red. The sun, flowers, blood. His fingers found his sword. 

No one seemed to notice. 

His knuckles were white, his face pale. He held onto the hilt of his sword as if it was a lifeline. More than a lifeline. He held onto it as if the whole world depended on it, as if he was holding up the sky. Underneath the sky. 

Gilan looked to the side, facing away from the crowd. His eyes trained onto the casket, polished wood ornamented with leaves and dry berries. He could see his father’s bleak eyes, dead and unmoving. Everything had been sucked out of him, all joy, all meaning, all spirit. Only the body was left. A piece that wasn’t even his anymore. 

“And now, we have a speech from Sir Gilan, Knight of the Evergreen.” 

Gilan didn’t answer. He fiddled with his sword, the shadows masking his face. He made no move. 

“Gilan?” 

Gilan forced himself to turn. He blinked, suddenly aware of everyone’s stares. He let go of his sword. “Yes,” he murmured to himself. “Yes, of course.” 

He stepped forward, taking Sir Rodney’s place at the makeshift rock podium. Smiling, he stood tall. 

“Hello,” he said, reminding himself that time hadn’t gone back. This was Baron Arald’s funeral. It was a fake funeral. It wasn’t real. Nothing was real. “I’m Gilan.” 

Gilan took a deep breath. He forced his muscles to relax. He exhaled. 

“I’m going to be honest. I am not from here. I didn’t know Baron Arald well, and it is very unfortunate that he has passed during these trying times. But he was a good man, and he was a good leader.” 

Gilan paused, looking around the clearing. He gulped. To the side, Lady Sandra wept. She, of course, knew of the situation, but Gilan almost forgot. She was a good actress, Lady Sandra. Better than he was, at least. 

Across from her, Baron Arald stood in his armor in line with the calvary. His helmet covered his face, but Gilan could feel his questioning eyes. He nodded. 

“I remember the tournament,” he said. “I remember mounting my horse and dreading the moment I would lose to Baron Arald. As you all know, I didn’t. I won that battle, but not without a fight. Your baron was an honorable man. I know people who would have held grudges against me for getting so close to winning. But Baron Arald didn’t. He shook my hand and offered his congratulations. He wasn’t mad, only happy to have been a part of it all.” 

Gilan searched the crowd, letting his eyes wander. He cleared his throat. 

“So for him to have been killed is a blow to all of Araluen. And it is a shock to us all that he was killed by an assassin that our dear King Morgarath hired.” 

Gilan faltered when he found Jenny in the crowd. Alyss and George were beside him. Will, however, was nowhere to be found. Gilan furrowed his eyebrows, but he couldn’t stop and think. He had to boost everyone’s morale. 

“We shouldn’t stand for this from our king, our ruler. If this is how he treats the honorable men of this good country, then what kind of people are we? We must fight this. We must stand up and fight for our rights. We must avenge Baron Arald.” 

A cheer went up from the crowd. It was followed by many others, and one from the baron himself. Gilan smiled, bowing before he stepped off the podium. The moment he stepped underneath the shade, his face dropped. He drew in another breath, reaching out to catch himself on the tree. He cursed to himself as Sir Rodney took up the podium again. His ears barely registered his orders, shaking underneath his armor. To any outsiders, he looked perfectly fine. His armor made sure of it. 

It felt like seconds when Sir Rodney appeared behind him. “Are you alright?” 

Gilan jumped, tripping over himself as he spun around. He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Are you sure? You’re being weird.” 

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m fine.” Gilan nodded at the knights that were all settling down on their horses. “Are we ready to go?” 

“Just waiting for you,” he replied. “I’m having Sir Morton and Wallace on foot with the soldiers. We’ll ride ahead.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Gilan smiled, following Rodney to their horses. The crowd had already disappeared, leaving only a few stragglers. Still no Will. It was a shame. Gilan would have liked to say goodbye. 

Climbing onto his white stallion, Gilan allowed Sir Rodney to lead. He fell behind, riding to the side of the parade of knights. They paraded through the main street of Wensley village, and Gilan sighed at all the flowers that the family members threw. He wondered how many of them would get the chance to see each other again. He wondered how many fathers would be lost, how many sons. 

How many men would he lead to their deaths? 

Gilan tangled his fingers into his horse’s mane, mindlessly stroking his head. He pursed his lips, tilting his head up to the sky. He couldn’t look at the villagers they passed. Not when the chance of death was so high. Every single flower was a goodbye, a farewell for good. They weren’t blessings. They were memories that were being thrown out and forgotten, a memorial in advance. 

So it was a surprise when one landed in his lap. 

Gilan froze; his blood was ice. He stared at the white flower. It was nothing big—small, simple, pure. The yellow bulb at the center was a sun. But who could be saying goodbye to him? He had no one in Redmont to come back to. 

Gilan looked up. He paused. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Jenny. Clearing his throat, Gilan smiled at her. “Jenny,” he said. 

She returned the smile, but her eyes betrayed her. “I just wanted to wish you luck,” she said. 

Gilan looked down at the flower. He twirled it between his fingers, deep in thought. 

He didn’t need luck. Luck was what got him there in the first place. It was luck that he had been born. Luck that he had survived his apprenticeship. It was luck that he had beaten Baron Arald, that he’d survived Morgarath. It was luck meeting Crowley and traveling all the way to Redmont to start a revolution. 

It wasn’t luck Gilan needed. It was skill. Practice. 

“Thank you,” he said, scratching the back of his head. He looked away. “But I don’t have anything for you.” 

“Just promise me you’ll survive?” 

Gilan blinked. He hesitated. “That’s a dangerous promise, Jenny.” 

“Yes.” She looked away. “I know.” Jenny sighed. “Farewell, then.” 

Straightening, Gilan nodded. “Farewell.” 

He motioned his horse to continue on walking. He rejoined the parade with ease. But when he was about to leave the borders of Wensley Village, her voice reached his ears once more. 

“Wait! Gilan!” 

He looked back. 

“Just—just try!” she said. “Just try to live.” 

But he couldn’t answer, for the parade of knights pushed him further down the line. Gilan clenched his fists, looking back ahead. He sighed. 

Survival. 

If only they knew how hard it would be.

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Crowley glanced up at the horizon. After a day of hard riding, he had long lost track of time. There was only a few hours left before the sun would set. Halt would be able to make it to Gorlan by then, but the rest of them would have to wait until the next day to reach Castle Araluen. 

Turning in his saddle, he looked at his companions. They seemed to be holding up well for being stuck on a saddle for hours on end. Crowley frowned when he turned back around, stroking Cropper’s mane. Even if they didn’t show it, he knew that they must have been tired. Plus, he was tired himself. Throughout the whole day, they had only stopped once for the horses. It wasn’t even a long stop. Just long enough for everyone to gather their bearings and munch on a few pieces of jerky. 

Crowley sighed. He unscrewed his canteen and took a swig. Cool coffee ran down his throat, bitter with just a hint of sweetness. It wasn’t as great as a steaming hot mug, but he couldn’t complain. Coffee was coffee. Well… 

Crowley straightened in his seat. He could name one person who could ruin a good coffee. And he just so happened to be the very one who would be parting with the company that afternoon. 

Tugging on Cropper’s reigns, Crowley nodded at Egon, who took his place at the front. Cropper slowed, letting everyone pass. Crowley smiled when Halt reached his side. It didn’t surprise him that he had an eyebrow raised, his eyes giving off the same beady look it had whenever he did so. 

Crowley huffed a laugh, leaning forward. He pressed his fist into his cheek, grinning when Halt rolled his eyes. 

“I think I’d prefer it if you whistled instead.” 

Crowley let out a snort. Shaking his head, he settled back down into his saddle. “I think I will,” he said, making no moves to start up a song. He looked up to check the time again, his smile falling. He took a breath. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

“Probably not,” Halt said. He shook his head, looking forward. “No one’s ever going to be ready for what happens.” 

“Speaking from experience?” 

“What makes you think that?” 

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “You just look as if you’ve had a rough past.” He paused, tilting his head to the side. “You sound like it too.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Am I wrong though?” 

Halt didn’t answer. 

Chuckling, Crowley reached out to give Halt’s shoulder a pat. “Let’s play a game.” 

“You want to play a game now?” Halt gave him an incredulous look. 

“Why not? Everybody loves games.” 

“I don’t.” 

Crowley ignored him. “We take turns asking each other questions. Answers must be truthful. You can start.” 

“Do I have to play?” 

“Yes. My turn.” Crowley paid no attention to the glare Halt shot his way. He scratched his chin. “You came here from Gallica, but your Gallican is terrible and your accent doesn’t add up. Where are you from?” 

“Hibernia.” 

Crowley waited for an explanation, but it never came. He blinked. “You’re not going to explain?” 

Halt crossed his arms. “You didn’t ask.” 

Crowley groaned, dramatically raising his hand to his forehead. He grunted when Halt looked away, muttering to himself. They went on in silence for a few minutes before Crowley spoke. “It’s your turn.” 

“I know.” 

“Then, ask a question!” 

“If I ask a question, then you’ll end up asking me another.” 

Crowley choked on his spit. “You’re unbelievable.” 

Halt, once again, didn’t answer, and Crowley sighed. He shook his head, turning away. The silence went on until he had forgotten that they were playing a game. However, when Crowley finally decided to go back up front, Halt spoke. 

“Why do you want to remove Morgarath from the throne?” 

Crowley spun around in surprise. He blinked. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“You can’t answer a question with another question.” 

Crowley met his eyes, his mouth forming a thin line. He bit down on his lip. “Morgarath doesn’t deserve to be king,” he said. “He cheated his way to that position, and nothing good has come out of it. He wastes our resources and drains the worth out of our coin. He has our army out on a field, where they are expected to fight for something that no one but him wants. Our treaties have been broken, and there has been more crime during the last sixteen years than the hundred before. 

“All Morgarath wants is power. He is too ambitious, too greedy. He’ll turn Araluen into dust.” 

Halt nodded, deep in thought. He frowned to himself. “I see.” 

“Why did you leave Hibernia?” 

“There was nothing for me there,” he said. “I figured I could start a life here, but things didn’t go as planned. I didn’t become an assassin on purpose, you know.” 

“I never said you did.” 

Halt nodded, and it didn’t take long for him to ask another question. “Why do you trust me?” he said. 

Humming to himself, Crowley drew his brows together. He thought for a second. “If you were lying to us, you would've already slain Baron Arald. And I have no doubt that Lady Pauline would have gone down with him, seeing as she let you out.” Crowley didn’t miss the flush of Halt’s cheeks when he mentioned the courier, and he smirked, storing the information for later. 

“I don’t think you’re as frightening as other people think, Halt. I don’t think you’re as frightening as you think. You deserved a second chance whether you think it or not.” 

“It was a gamble.” 

“Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t regret it.” 

Halt looked down at his hands. “Thank you.” 

Crowley smiled. “Thank you for joining us,” he said, pausing before his next question. “Someone must have taught you what you know. You have the skill of a ranger. Who?” 

“There was a ranger,” Halt confirmed. “He came to Hibernia after Morgarath removed him from power. We met, and he agreed to train me.” 

“What was his name?” 

“That’s two questions,” Halt said, but he answered it anyway. “He called himself Pritchard.” 

Crowley couldn’t believe his ears. He stopped Cropper in his path, frozen in shock. The hairs of his arms bristled. “What?” he gaped. “Pritchard?” 

“You know him?” 

“Of course I know him! He was my mentor!” Crowley’s eyes widened. “Where is he now? Is he well?” 

“He was still in Hibernia last we spoke,” Halt said. “I haven’t heard from him in awhile.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Crowley said, pushing his hair back. “I can’t believe it!” he laughed. “You! He trained you! This is—” 

“Crowley!” 

Crowley stopped mid sentence. He turned. “Yes?” 

“We’re here.” 

Blinking, Crowley looked around. “Oh,” he said. Lady Pauline gave them a knowing look, and Crowley wondered if she had heard their whole conversation. He pushed the thought aside and turned to Halt. He held out a hand. 

“I wish you the best of luck, Halt,” he said, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.” His grin widened. “And maybe we can talk about getting you one of these oakleaves.” 

Halt didn’t hesitate when he took his hand. He shook it, bowing his head. “I think I’d like nothing more,” he said. “Good luck.” 

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

The rustling of a rushing river drew Halt out of his daze. Shifting in his saddle, he willed his horse to follow the sound. Crowley had mentioned something about a Salmon River. He said it passed through Gorlan, splitting its main village in half. If he followed it, then he would end up at Castle Gorlan in no time. But that was easier said than done. 

Halt didn’t even know if he wanted it done. Yes, he wanted to help Crowley and the revolution. Yes, it was his own idea. But as the clock ticked, Halt found himself nervous. He didn’t want to meet Morgarath. He had heard many things about the king, and none had seemed pleasant. 

Once upon a time, he would have had doubts. Maybe Moragarath wasn’t that bad. Maybe everyone was exaggerating. Maybe he was just misunderstood. Halt had been like that once. Back in Hibernia when the only thing between him and the world was a crumbling wall. When the person who was supposed to have his back betrayed him. 

But Morgarath wasn’t like him. He wasn’t like Ferris either. Morgarath was worse. His greed for power exceeded Ferris’s tenfold. Ferris was like a fly compared to him. Halt buried his face in his hands. He sighed. No more running, he told himself. No more escaping. He had a plan, and he was going to stick with it. There were people depending on him. People who he didn’t want to let down. People who he refused to let down. 

Pushing through a bush, Halt finally found the river. It was narrower than he expected. Quicker too. If anyone were to fall in it, they would have been gone in a second. Not even the strongest of swimmers would have been able to handle the strong rapids. 

Halt followed the river with his eyes. His hands tightened around the reins of his horse. He swallowed, lifting his chin up. No more running, he repeated to himself. No more running. 

And so he spurred his horse along the river. 

It didn’t take too long for the village to appear in front of Halt’s eyes. He pulled his horse to a stop on the outskirts. Breathing in, he shut his eyes for a moment. 

This was it. This was the moment that had been coming ever since he had stepped foot into Araluen. He clenched his fists and opened his eyes. Exhaled. 

A mask easily slipped onto his face, removing all traces of emotion. It was as if he had trained all his life. He was the most notorious assassin outside of the Genovesans. He was ruthless, merciless, heartless. Nothing would get in his way. Nothing would stop him from what he set out to accomplish. He would always win the fight. He would always be the one surviving. 

Because he was Arratay. A criminal. Killer. 

Murderer. 

Yes, that was who he was. He had killed Baron Arald like he had been asked to, and he was only at Gorlan for his reward. That was all. 

Approaching Castle Gorlan, Halt scowled when the guards stopped him in front of the gates. He glared at them. “What?” he said, harshly. 

The first one was taken aback by his tone. “Huh?” he said out loud. 

The second one only grew angry. With a sharp shing , he drew his sword. “Who are you?” he said. 

Halt stared at the guard in disbelief. He scoffed, holding back a bout of laughter. The cowl of his cloak cast a shadow on his eyes, which were dangerously wild. His irises were little flames, swallowing up his pupil. He curled his lips back, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t you know who I am?” 

“Who are you?” the guard repeated. He tightened his grip on his sword. 

This time, Halt didn’t keep back his laughter. He howled, cackling until he couldn’t. He smiled. “Why don’t we play a game, then?” he said, unsheathing his saxe knife. “Take a guess. Any guess. Who am I?” 

“I’m not playing any games with you,” the first guard said, regaining his composure. “State your name and purpose or leave.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Halt said. He spun the saxe in his hand, lazily yawning. He smacked his lips together. “Come on. Guess.” 

“Why should we?” 

Halt frowned. He stared at the two guards for a long minute before hopping down from his horse. His boots landed on the ground with a thump, dust flying around his feet. He took a menacing step towards the guard that had spoken. His saxe still sat patiently in his hand. 

“Would you rather I shove this into your heart?” His voice lowered, a soft and guttural whisper. “I wouldn’t mind either way.” 

The guard raised his sword. “I dare you,” he said. 

Halt grinned as his insides constricted. His heart dropped and doubt crawled into his arms. He gritted his teeth together. He slowly sucked in a breath, forcing himself to relax. Now was not the time for second thoughts. This was a game. It was all just a game, and he just had to play his cards right. So he laughed. “If you insist.” 

He raised his knife. 

“Wait!” 

Halt froze, eyes still intently on the guard. He pressed his lips together, forming a thin line. He glared. 

“You are Arratay, are you not?” 

Halt tore his eyes away from the guard to meet the newcomer. His eyes narrowed. The man had short brown hair, face littered with freckles. He wasn’t a guard, nor was he a nobleman. But he wore a golden waistcoat over his white tunic. On his bottom half, he was garbed with dark breeches and black shoes. 

Perhaps he was one of Morgarath’s advisors. 

“Yes,” Halt said slowly. “That I am.” 

“Wonderful!” he said. “King Morgarath has been expecting you. He is eager for some good news. Come!” 

Halt cracked a grin at the two guards, tipping his head mockingly before pushing them aside and following the man. He was brought to a room. To his surprise, it wasn’t the throne room. Just a cozy room with bookshelves lining the wall. A single table sat at the center, adored with candles and paper. 

“Wait right here,” the man said. He scurried out of the room, leaving Halt alone. 

Looking around, Halt memorized the room. Rows upon rows of books were packed on the shelves. Halt even recognized some of them from his studies when he still lived in Hibernia. A portrait hung on one of the walls. Halt looked up at it, studying the features of the pale man. His black hair was pulled back into a bun, eyes like ice. Morgarath, maybe? But Halt didn’t think it was. 

From what he had heard, Morgarath’s hair was so blond that it was like white snow. This man instead had hair similar to the deepest pits of the world. Maybe it was his father. Halt wondered what he was like. How had he raised such an ambitious, problematic son? 

Turning, Halt looked down at a table to find a map. He picked it up gingerly. He wondered if there was anything special marked on it. 

“So you must be Arratay,” a new voice spoke. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Halt dropped the map. He blinked, heart stopping for a split second. Turning on his heels, Halt looked up to meet blue eyes. 

Morgarath.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Will’s life flashed before his eyes. He froze, scared. Terror ran through his body like an electrical shock. His eyes widened, heart hammering, loud. He couldn’t breathe. His throat dried up as if there was a drought. His screams were hoarse, croaky. He clawed against his attacker, gagging into the hand that had clamped over his mouth. Every bone in him screamed. Every hair. 

And the next thing he knew, he saw red. Will yelled as his face was slammed into dirt for the second time that day. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had been thrown out of the cabin. He groaned. Will pushed himself up, grass in his fists and soil caking his forehead. Blood dribbled onto his lip, and Will reached up to touch his nose. It was bleeding. 

Will blinked a few times. He frowned, slowly looking up to find a man towering over him. No—there were two. Three? Will shook his head, vision blurry. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. Three, he counted again. There were three men. 

Well, men were a stretch. They weren’t really men. They were boys just like him. Two redheads and a blond. 

Before any confusion could settle in, he was yanked onto his feet by his shirt collar. Will yelped. His feet dangled in the air, toes barely touching the ground. He struggled against the light haired boy, kicking his legs as if he was running from the devil himself. 

“Who are you?” the blond asked. “What are you doing here?” 

Will didn’t answer. He thrashed out against him. His hand managed to land a strike on his cheek, leaving a white scratch against his skin. Will gasped when he was kneed in the stomach. For a split second, the wind was knocked out of him. He fell into a heap, landing on the ground with a thump. 

One of the redheads pinned him down. Will shouted as his hands were being fastened behind his back with a piece of rope. 

“What are you waiting for?” the other redhead asked. He bent down to meet his eyes. “Answer his question.” 

Will breathed heavily, sputtering as he struggled to catch his breath. He coughed, wincing at the pain that vibrated through his body. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Or maybe it was more blood. 

“Why are you doing this?” he managed. “I did nothing to you.” 

The blond tossed his head back and laughed. “Did you hear that, guys?” he said. “He didn’t do anything to us!” 

The redhead that had tied his hands together chuckled. “Boohoo,” he mocked. “I’m so dumb. I don’t know anything.” 

All three of them cackled, and Will shrunk down. He curled himself up into a ball. His mind raced for answers. Anything that could help him. Anything that could explain what was going on. 

“Well, I’ll tell you what you’ve done!” the blond said. He cracked his knuckles. “You, my friend, have just trespassed onto our territory.” 

“What?” Will said. “But this place belongs to Redmont, and Redmont belongs to Baron Arald!” 

They laughed again. Will’s face burned red. He swallowed, tasting the metallic tang of his blood. He spoke again. “Why are you laughing?” he said. “Who are you?” 

Will shouted as he was dragged up onto his feet. The two redheads stood on both of his sides, each gripping onto an arm. He tried to wriggle himself out in vain. “Let me go!” 

“Let me teach you something,” the blond said. “This here,” he gestured around, “is our land. You have trespassed. Do you know what that means? It means you’ve come onto our land without our permission and need to be punished.” 

Will didn’t even process his hand being pulled back before a loud crack resonated in his ears. If his nose wasn’t broken already, it was now. Will flinched loudly. Everything hurt. He groaned, slumping down as his muscles gave up on him. 

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” the blond said. 

The world spun in circles. Bile threatened to rise up from Will’s stomach. Blood roared in his head. He didn’t say anything. 

He couldn’t say anything. 

“What is wrong with you?” one of the redheads said. “You’ve just betrayed your country! You’ve committed treason! Say something, fool!” 

That was when the puzzle pieces clicked. Everything came rushing back to him. Will’s eyes widened. He snapped his head up. Energy went into his bones like a running river. He gasped. 

The letter. The spy. 

Spies. 

“No,” he said. He raised his chin up to meet their eyes. “You’re the traitors! You’re on Morgarath’s side!” 

The redhead to the left of him started to laugh. He snorted, struggling to catch his breath. “You really are a fool,” he said. “Don’t you know? Morgarath is the king of this country. He’s been so for over a decade!” 

“No!” Will said. “He cheated his way to that position! He isn’t the true king!” 

Will flinched when a hand came flying towards his face. His cheek stung, eyes watered. He squirmed away, stumbling back down onto his knees. His wrists began to ache. 

“We should teach him a lesson,” someone said. 

“To the river!” 

Will let out a yell as he was lifted up and marched towards the river. He stumbled, struggling to keep up with their pace. “Let me go!” he said as he was pushed towards the water. 

The river water was cold with the coming of winter. Will coughed. His hair stuck onto his face, falling over his eyes. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t keep balance. Was he going to drown? There was no way he could fight back with his hands behind his back. 

“This will teach you,” the blond said. “Don’t mess with the king or his… associates.” 

“We’re so going to get a raise after this.” one of the redheads said. 

The other laughed. “King Morgarath is going to love this!” 

Will groaned. He shivered, twisting himself to be lying on his side. He tried to crawl up to the bank, but it was no use. They caught him before he even made an inch. 

Will yelped when a pebble hit his forehead. Two others followed it, and he lost his footing, sliding back down to the river bottom. It wasn’t too deep to Will’s relief, but it did nothing to shield him from the rocks that were being pelted at him. He felt like an animal, prey to the prowling predators of the shadows. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. How was he supposed to get out of this one? There was no one out looking for him. Halt and the rangers were already long gone. Gilan was preparing to lead an army out to Celtica. And Alyss—well. Alyss had other things to do. 

“Hey!” 

The three spies leapt onto their feet from where they had been lounging on the bank, watching him flop around like a fish. From his place in the river, Will could see their smirks widen. Dread sunk down into his skin when he realized who the new voice belonged to. 

Horace. 

Things couldn’t be any worse. Was he with them? Was he also a spy? Was he here to watch him suffer? 

But what he said surprised him. 

“What are you doing to him?” Horace said. “Let him go!” 

“Well well well,” said the blond. “If it isn’t the baby. How nice. Is he your friend?” 

“Friend?” one of the redheads chortled. “He doesn’t have friends!” 

“Did you hear me?” Horace said. When he moved closer, Will could see a sword in his hand. “Why are you bothering him? What has he done?” 

“Would you like to join him and find out?” 

Will stiffened when he heard the ringing of swords being drawn. Now, he didn’t know how good Horace was with the sword, but there was no way he could fend off all three of them. They were all inches taller than him. His own encounter with Morgarath’s guards had been mere luck, and most of it had been running away. Horace couldn’t run away now… Well, he could, but Will hoped he didn’t. He’d be in big trouble, then. 

Will held his breath as he shuffled up onto land. He tuned out the yelling and arguing, taking care to make no noise when the scuffle began. He focused on climbing out of the river. It was a slow and steady process, but it was doable. He just hoped that Horace was a good enough distraction to the spies. 

Letting out a breath once he was out, Will collapsed onto the grass. He coughed, spitting out water as he laid on his back. He relaxed for a few moments, regaining as much energy as he could in the short period of time. 

Rolling onto his stomach, Will grunted. He found a sharp rock lying on the ground, and he quickly adjusted himself so that his hands were positioned over it. Then, as carefully as he could manage, he made quick work in cutting the rope that held his hands together. 

When the rope finally fell onto the ground, Will brought his hands in front of him. He rubbed at his wrists, climbing onto the feet. He looked over to where Horace was fighting with the three spies. 

Will could see the concentration written all over his face. He seemed to be struggling, but he didn’t let that stop him from fighting back with all his strength. Will opened his mouth to call out to him but thought the better of it. Last time he did that, Gilan got wounded. He didn’t want that to happen again. Not even to Horace, who had been nothing rude to him. 

Instead, he picked up the rock he had used to free himself and hurled it as hard as he could. It landed on its mark, and one of the redheads shouted out in surprise. 

“Why you little!” he said, spinning on his heels. He glared at Will with so much fury that he shivered. 

Will bent down to pick up more rocks. “Come and get me!” he taunted, throwing one before darting away into the trees. He could hear him following, and he swallowed. Jumping up, Will grabbed onto a tree branch and hauled himself up. He threw another rock down, and it hit his cheek, drawing blood. 

“Get back down here!” the redhead said. “Oh, just wait ‘til I get you.” 

“No, you won’t,” Will called back. 

He climbed higher up into the tree, easily finding footholds like he had been training for his whole life. He found a branch that led to another tree, and Will skillfully swung towards it. If the redhead noticed, he didn’t say anything. Will grinned softly to himself as he made his way back towards Horace, leaving the redhead behind. 

“Horace!” Will shouted as he jumped down from a tree. He tackled the other redhead, and they rolled to the side. Throwing a quick punch, he jumped up onto his feet and ran towards Horace. “We can’t fight them!” he said. “Run!” 

Horace yelled as he kicked the blond back before turning and following Will into the foliage. He caught up easily, face covered in sweat. “What happened?” he said, hopping over a tree root. 

Will reached up to touch his bloody nose. He shook his head bitterly. “Long story,” he said. “How’d you find me?” 

“I saw Alda, Bryn, and Jerome leave the funeral ceremony, and I wanted to see what they were up to.” 

“Who?” 

“Alda, Bryn, and Jerome.” Horace said. He gestured back. “Those three.” 

Will blinked. Alda, Bryn, and Jerome. ABJ. They were the initials on the letter he had found. 

“You know them?” he said. 

Horace winced. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. I’ve had my… encounters with them. I don’t know why they would go after you though. You aren’t in the Battleschool.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What?” 

“What does me being in the Battleschool have anything to do with this?” 

“It’s a part of the toughening up process, isn’t it? For older apprentices to come in and roughen you up?” 

Will frowned, coming to a stop as he and Horace reached the outskirts of the village. “Horace, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a toughening process. I think they’re just bullies.” 

“What?” Horace froze in his tracks. “You mean they aren’t supposed to be messing with me?” 

“Yep.”

“How did you end up against them?” 

“Do you know that cabin in the forest?” 

“That’s the old ranger cabin,” Horace said. “No one goes there anymore. Not even the hunters.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s not true. Alda, Bryn, and Jerome have.” Will gulped. “They’ve been writing letters to Morgarath.” 

“They work for Morgarath?” 

Will nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “They wrote all about…” Will trailed off, suddenly remembering that Horace didn’t know the plan. He didn’t know that Baron Arald was still alive. He didn’t know most of what Morgarath had done for power. 

“What? What did he write about?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“Yeah?” Horace crossed his arms. “Time is ticking.” 

“Maybe I should just show you,” Will said. He reached into his pockets, expecting to find the letter he had found in the cabin. 

His heart went cold. 

The letter. 

He had left it in the cabin.

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

“Jurgen!” Gilan called out. “Take two scouts with you. We’re almost to the border, and I want to know where Morgarath’s army is.” 

“Yes, sir.” Jurgen nodded. Instead of being tasked with delivering a message to a baron like the other rangers, he had been assigned to assist Gilan at Celtica. And for that, Gilan was grateful. It was nice to have a ranger around. He found that they had some invaluable skills that any other person would have overlooked. And in a weird way, it made Gilan feel younger to have his old curiosity open back up again. He felt… childish almost. They were skills that Gilan were fascinated by, and it made him feel a twinge of regret that he hadn’t ever considered them a skill until then. 

There was nothing he could have done about it though. There was no way he could have ever become a ranger’s apprentice, not when the country was transitioning into Morgarath’s rule. Not when every single real ranger was being hunted down and banished. 

But Gilan couldn’t help but think that what if he could have done something. What if he could have stopped Morgarath from ever becoming king in the first place? 

He remembered the family dinners. All his father ever seemed to talk about was Morgarath’s rise to power, how he had doubts and concerns about the man, how he didn’t like how much control he had gotten since Oswald fell ill. Gilan had thought his ramblings to be boring at the time. He thought it had just been the long and tedious tirades of an old man. 

It was almost comical how wrong he was. 

Gilan looked as Jurgen picked out two soldiers. He sighed, watching them ride off into the distance. Now, his past slights were coming back to haunt him. Araluen was at a war with itself. How many mistakes had he made to be able to sit there, at the ready, riding to battle? How many miscalculations had he made? How many people had died because he was too naive to think? How had he missed the warning signs that thundered like golden bells? That rang and rang in the clear light of day, begging for his attention. How had he missed that? 

How did he manage to let his father die? And how did he manage to let his murderer get away with it? 

Running a hand through his hair, Gilan closed his eyes. He slumped down, gripping tighter on the reins of his horse. Sweat gathered at his forehead. They were midway their second day of riding, which meant they were well on their way across the Solitary Plains. It was a barren land, desolate and bleak. In all directions, nothing could be seen for miles. Nothing except golden blades of grass and the occasional tree. According to Sir Rodney, they would be riding into battle the next morning. He swallowed down a gulp. Gilan had no idea if he was ready or not. 

He didn’t doubt his swordsmanship. He was confident enough in his own abilities to fend for his life. To fight for his country. What he was not confident about, however, was his current state. After what had happened at the funeral, Gilan found himself spiraling into his ugly thoughts more often. It unnerved him, how he couldn’t control himself. How he couldn’t control his own head. It just kept going and going, spitting out what-ifs and making up scenarios. He would catch himself, eventually, after the damage had been done, but in battle, that was dangerous. He couldn't be distracted in battle. He needed to be focused. He needed to be able to think. And if he wasn’t able to think reasonably, then his skill with the sword was compromised. 

And if that happened, everything would topple. Every single knight, every single soldier… They all looked towards him. They had all heard stories about Sir Gilan, Knight of the Evergreen. Mightier than everyone except King Morgarath himself. Everyone looked towards him for courage. For the means to keep going. 

He opened his eyes, took a deep breath. All he needed to do was perform. Act as if he was fine, as if he was okay. Then, everything would be fine. Then, everything would work out. 

Gilan reached into his pocket. He relaxed as his fingers found the delicate stem of the flower Jenny had given him. Pulling it out, he stared intensely at it, bringing it up into the light. The flower had wilted with no water, but Gilan still kept it. It comforted him in an odd way. Served as a reminder that even though he couldn’t save his father, there were still others that he could. That didn’t mean it hurt any less. It didn’t even mean that he believed it. It just… helped him calm down. 

Gilan smiled softly at the flower, pocketing it. He exhaled. Maybe he should give out another speech. That was good for morale, right? 

Looking back, Gilan willed his horse to slow down. He waited for Rodney to catch up. The knight met his gaze with a questioning look. 

“What is it?” he said. 

Gilan shrugged. “I’m thinking about giving a speech,” he said. “It’s almost time to find a camp spot, anyways.” 

“Good idea,” Rodney said. “Do you want to make camp here?” 

Gilan looked around. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “Trees aren’t going to miraculously grow in these plains.” 

Rodney nodded. He rode forward, finding a few of his senior knights to go around telling everyone that they were stopping for the day. Gilan grunted when he dismounted his horse, muscles sore from riding. 

“Alright, everybody!” He shouted, hopping onto a rock. “Gather around and listen up.” 

Gilan watched as everyone shuffled around him. He tried to smile, eyes skimming over the crowd. Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath. 

“At this time tomorrow, the battle will be done. We will have met with Morgarath’s army, and our swords will be bloodied and our shields splintered. I see the fear in your eyes at this thought, and I can say with great confidence, that you are scared. I’m scared. We all are. How could we not be? We are, after all, kin. We have bonds with each other, and we have bonds with them. We will be drawing swords against our own. 

“But may I remind you all that we are fighting for this good country. We are fighting for the future of Araluen and the homes we want our future children to live in. We are fighting against the iron fist that Morgarath wields for a better life and for a better home.” 

Gilan paused, letting silence take over the field. He found Baron Arald in the crowd next to Sir Rodney. “And let us not forget about our baron, who isn’t here with us today. For that, we will make Morgarath pay. We will avenge him, and we—” 

Gilan trailed off. He frowned, a dark spot in the distance catching his eye. He squinted, his hand coming up to shield his eyes from the sun. 

“That’s Jurgen,” Rodney said as Gilan’s eyes widened. “He’s alone.” 

Gilan jumped down from his rock. He pushed through the soldiers as quickly as possible. He laughed, but there was no humor to it. No emotion. 

“Basically, everyone,” he said, “don’t hesitate to fight back and even kill tomorrow because they will not view you as friends.” 

Breaking out of the crowd, Gilan straightened up. He looked up, running forward towards Jurgen. 

“Gilan!” Jurgen yelled as he approached, out of breath. He dismounted his horse in a heartbeat. “Morgarath’s army! They’ve already entered Celtica.” 

“What?” Gilan said. “So soon?” 

“We need to move out now,” Jurgen said. 

Gilan frowned. Biting down on his lip, he looked back at the crowd. “No,” he said after a pause. “Everyone, get some rest! We move out at dawn. Rodney will be leading you all!” 

“Gilan?” 

Gilan turned back to Jurgen. He nodded. “You and me,” he lowered his voice. “We’ll ride to King Swyddned.” 

“You know we can’t do that,” Jurgen said. “The old saying won’t allow it. One man may be deceit, two can be conspiracy—” 

“—Three is the number I trust,” Gilan finished. “I know. We’ll bring Baron Arald with us.” 

“Will we be going now?” 

Gilan looked at the sun, which was beginning to set. If they wanted to make it to King Swyddned before the army started anything, they would have to ride in the night. “Yes,” he said. “Find the baron. We leave in five minutes.”

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

“Are you ready?” Crowley said. 

Duncan clenched his jaw. His knuckles were white with how tightly he was holding onto the reins of his horse. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. 

“You sure?” 

Duncan swiveled around to meet his eyes. “If you keep on asking me, I might just change my mind.” 

“So are you ready or not?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

Crowley cracked a grin. “No,” he said, turning away. He glanced at Lady Pauline, Egon, and Berrigan behind them, nodding once before taking his gaze to Castle Araluen. 

Even under Morgarath’s kingship, it stood proudly. Its towers rose up high in the sky, flying the black and gold flags of Gorlan. It was fortified by multiple walls, and although they stood at a distance, Crowley could still tell that they were massive. Those walls were what made the castle almost unbreakable, and if it was ever under siege, those inside would have lasted long enough for help to arrive. Crowley’s favorite part of the castle, however, was it’s honey color. Under the light of the sun, it gave off a warm feeling of welcoming and hospitality. 

But Crowley was getting ahead of himself. They couldn’t go and storm the castle just yet. There were still the villagers to take care off. His eyes trailed off to the village, which was fairly large as far as villages go. The stone and wooden houses looked cozy, snuggled close together like a rather dense forest. Then, there were the shops. Colorful banners hung from the wooden beams and there were fine displays in front of most of them. 

The only thing missing was the laughter. The activity. The crowds. Sure, there were still people out on the streets, but they were all quieter. More careful, more suspicious of newcomers. Whether it was a reaction to news of Baron Arald or just how things were those days, Crowley couldn’t tell. He sighed. 

“Follow my lead,” he said. 

Sliding off of Cropper, Crowley gently ran a hand through his mane. He swallowed down a gulp and began walking towards the village. He took a breath when he heard the others get off their own horse, and he straightened his back. 

“Hello!” Crowley called out as he stepped foot onto a stone path. “My name is Crowley Meratyn, and these are my friends. We come in peace.” 

He paused for a second, waiting to see if there was a reply. When there was none, he continued. “You may have heard of me before,” he said. “Back when Morgarath first came into power. I was one of the old rangers, you see. He was hunting for me.” 

That got people’s attention. Crowley smiled when more of them came onto the streets to meet him. He gave a small bow. 

“Nice to meet you all,” he said. 

“You’re not lying?” someone asked. “You really were a ranger?” 

Crowley nodded. He fished out his silver oakleaf, holding it up in the air so that they could see. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m here with some news.” 

“Who are your friends?” 

Crowley glanced back. “That’s Egon and Berrigan,” he said, pointing at them. “They were also rangers. And that over there is Lady Pauline of Redmont.” 

“Redmont?” another said. “Is it true what they say? Baron Arald has passed?” 

Lady Pauline bowed her head down. “It’s a long story,” she said, “but there was an assassin who claimed that he had been sent by King Morgarath.” 

Gasps sounded in the street. 

“King Morgarath?” someone said, hand over their mouth. 

“No! That can’t be right.” Another stumbled backwards in shock. 

“What?” 

Pauline sighed. “Alas, it is true,” she said. “The assassin escaped our guards before we could capture him. He’s long gone now.” 

“That’s awful! How could he do something like that?” 

“But he’s the king!” 

“He can’t do that!” 

“Wait…” someone said. They pointed at Duncan. “What about him? Who is he?” 

Crowley smiled warmly. He glanced at Duncan, who stepped forward to stand next to him. He wore a dark cloak that covered his face, hiding away his blond hair and emerald eyes. 

“Do you think that Morgarath has taken his rule too far?” Crowley asked. “Do you think he should be stopped?” 

The crowd whispered quietly with each other, their voices so low that even Crowley couldn’t hear. He looked around as he waited, noticing that as the minutes went by, more and more people came to listen in. Some even peeked through their windows, their faces pressed against the cold glass. There were no children though, which Crowley expected. What parent would want their child to be involved in such a conversation? 

“We do.” 

Crowley snapped his head back around to face the villagers. “Pardon?” 

“Yes,” someone stepped forward. The people made way for him, looking at him with trust. Crowley assumed that he was the village constable. “We do think Morgarath should be off the throne. His new policies have done none of us any good.” 

“Good, good.” Crowley looked at Duncan as he raised his hands up to uncover his face. He bit back a bout of laughter at their reactions. “This, my new friends, is Prince Duncan, the rightful heir to the crown.” 

The people were speechless. They stared wide-eyed at Duncan, mouths unhinging and dropping down to form a wide “o”. Confusion. Anger. Joy. So many different emotions went through their minds at once, it was impossible to tell how they were really feeling. 

“You mean the Prince Duncan? King Oswald’s son?” 

“I thought the king had him killed!” 

“Hey, wasn’t he the one who broke the treaty and raided Picta?” 

“Yeah! He was the one that caused Morgarath to be king in the first place!” 

“What is he doing here?” 

Crowley raised his hands up to stop him. He glanced at Duncan, nodding for him to explain everything. 

“Contrary to what you believe, I was not the man who raided Picta. That was someone impersonating myself.” 

“How do we know you aren’t lying?” 

Duncan frowned, pursing his lips. He scratched his chin. “Well,” he said. “I suppose you’re just going to have to trust me.” He paused, the gears turning in his head. His eyes wandered over to Castle Araluen before going back to meet the villagers. “Tiller is the current baron of this fief, correct?” 

The constable nodded. “Morgarath appointed him as baron when he first came to power. He’s been… not the best baron. Seldom does he troubles himself with our affairs.” 

“I was told that Tiller was the one that pretended to be me. He’s the one who broke the treaty.” 

Crowley watched as the people internalized this new piece of information. He hummed softly to himself at their different reactions. Some of the villagers seemed to be relieved, glad that it really wasn’t Duncan who brought everything to chaos. Others were more skeptical. Their faces twisted, staring at Duncan questioningly. 

“How do we know that isn’t a lie as well?” 

“Again, you’ll just have to trust me. I don’t know if there will ever be a way to prove myself, but I assure you, I will do my best to help this revolution.” 

“I don’t know if I like having someone like you replacing Morgarath,” the constable said. “Too many questions with no answers.” 

Duncan looked sadly at the villagers. He held himself up with the air of a king: calm, collected and civil. His eyes were steely but kind, determined but practical. He had a resolve about him, unwavering fire that would not be extinguished. 

“I understand,” he said, “if Araluen will not want me to be king. However, I must ask you to reconsider your options. As far as I know, there is no one else here who is readily able to take the throne after Morgarath, and until there is one that better fits your needs, I am your only choice.” 

“Also,” Crowley chimed in. “The question of king cannot be decided until we have taken Morgarath down. No one will be replacing him until he is gone.” 

“What do you want, then?” the constable said. “Why are you here?” 

Crowley pointed towards the castle. “We’re here to retake Castle Araluen,” he said. “You’ve heard the Prince. We need to speak with Tiller.” 

Someone chuckled; it was a hollow sound “Good luck with that,” he said. “The castle gates are always closed. Tiller never leaves that fortress.” 

“We weren’t exactly going to use diplomacy,” Crowley said. 

“Do you think you can walk to the castle and break in?” the constable said. He snorted. “It’s impossible to get into Castle Araluen unless you’re invited.” 

“There are more ways into the castle than brute force,” Duncan said. “I should know. I grew up there.” 

“But there’s only five of you,” he said. “You’re against all of Tiller’s guards.” 

“One riot, one ranger,” Crowley said with a shrug. He glanced back at Egon and Berrigan. “In our case, we have three rangers. We’ll get it done.” 

The constable looked back at the gathered villagers. A silent conversation went through their heads, and they came to a conclusion with the nod of a head. He turned back to face Crowley, then Duncan. 

“In that case, we want to join you,” he said. He held out his hand. “My name is Stanley.” 

Duncan shook it. He smiled. “Let’s get to work then.”

...

Crowley walked behind Duncan, his hand trailing over the stone wall of the castle. He breathed out slowly, his hands shaking as an uncanny feeling built up in his chest. He felt as if he was in a dream, spellbound. Everything was so surreal, and his heart thrummed with his footsteps. 

Duncan had led them to the castle’s side, avoiding the front in a wide arc. There were less guards than Crowley had expected, less security protocols. Even if they did go to the front, there was still a decent chance that they wouldn’t be seen. And from what Stanley had told them, it seemed that Tiller had grown negligent. He was too confident in Castle Araluen’s ability to withstand a siege. 

“Here,” Duncan said. 

Crowley looked up, stopping in his tracks. “Here?” he said, blinking at the castle wall. 

They were standing in a relatively hard to see area. The trees and bushes were overgrown with the lack of trimming, huddling up next to the castle wall. Long, snakelike vines had started growing up the walls from the ground. 

“Yes,” Duncan said. He looked at the ground, stamping his feet on the ground until he found what he was looking for. Bending down, he started pushing away some of the dirt. 

Crowley glanced at the others before bending down to help. He scooted to the side when Stanley kneeled onto the ground. It took a few minutes, but soon, a wooden trapdoor appeared in front of their eyes. 

Pauline peeked over from Crowley’s shoulder. “A secret tunnel?” she said. 

“I did a lot of exploring as a child,” Duncan said as he moved over to grip the handle. “Crowley, give me a hand here.” 

Crowley nodded. Moving over next to Duncan, he counted down from three, and they heaved the trapdoor open, revealing a dark passage. He stared at it for a moment, only breaking out of his thoughts when Stanley spoke. 

“What’s the plan?” he said. 

“Berrigan and Pauline are going to do a search of the castle,” Crowley said. “The archives, library, offices, they’ll be looking for any sort of document we could use against Morgarath. The rest of us will be heading for Tiller.” 

“Just a note of warning,” Duncan added. “There is a high chance we’ll be getting into a few fights. You’ll be risking your lives if you join us.” 

“That was a risk we took when we told you our thoughts on the king,” Stanley said. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.” 

Crowley slid down first. He walked a few steps forward, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He touched the wall, feeling around for a torch. Behind him, he could hear the others entering the tunnel. They had a good chance at taking back the castle. Including Stanley, ten of the villagers had come. They were all strong men, all determined to remove Tiller from the seat of baron. All determined to fight for their family and friends. 

A light flickered from behind him, and Crowley turned to find Egon holding the torch he had been searching for. He handed it to Crowley wordlessly. Crowley nodded at him, and he led the way down the tunnel. 

It was pretty cool underground. Cold air pushed against his face. Goosebumps sprinted down his arms, and he shivered. Tightening his grip on the torch, Crowley gulped. They were so close. So close to finally moving on to a new era. So close to kicking Morgarath off the throne. They were so close, yet so far from achieving peace. After taking Araluen, there were still some ways to go. Still a battle to fight. 

“We should be getting close,” Duncan whispered. 

Crowley didn’t say anything, putting out the torch when he found the door. His fingers found the handle, which was rusted with time. “Ready?” he said. 

“Ready,” came the voices of the villagers, of Egon and Berrigan, of Lady Pauline. 

“Ready,” Duncan said. 

With a hand over his saxe knife, Crowley slowly slid the door open. He made a face when it creaked, holding in a breath. He poked his head out, looked both ways, then stepped out onto the marble floor.  

“Okay, come on,” he said. “The coast is clear.” 

He counted heads as they emerged from the secret tunnel in a single file line. When everyone was out, he slowly slid the door shut, careful not to make a sound. He sighed when it was done, nodding at himself. Turning, Crowley found that they were standing in a library of sorts. 

“I guess this is where we leave you,” he murmured, glancing over at Pauline, who had already taken a book from a shelf. 

“Good luck,” she said. “And be careful.” 

They left Pauline and Berrigan in the library, heading out to the maze of hallways. 

“We should check the throne room first,” Duncan said. “Follow me.” 

They took off in a brisk walk. It didn’t take long for them to come across a guard, and Crowley was honestly surprised that they were even patrolling the castle. He gestured at Egon, who sprung into action. His reflexes were a bit slower due to old age, but he still managed to make do, fighting against his creaking bones and stiff body. 

Egon knocked the guard out quickly, catching the body before he could land on the ground with a loud bump. He dragged him away quietly, laying him down softly inside a nearby closet. 

Crowley took on the next guard, striking him at the back of the head with the flat side of his saxe. He stumbled backwards when the guard fell on top of him, limp like a ragdoll. Crowley muttered a thanks as some of the villagers took the body from him. 

“Hey!” 

Crowley’s blood went cold. He turned slowly to find two guards running their way. They shouted for help, alerting more guards. They had been caught. 

“Here we go,” Crowley said. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we’ll be done.” 

Crowley ran forward, meeting the guards headfirst. Egon’s arrow whizzed past his head as he drew his throwing knife. He didn’t even notice when Duncan and the villagers came in to help, each with their own sword. 

Knocking one unconscious, Crowley moved on to the next with no hesitation. His motions were like water, fluid and smooth with practice. Crowley coughed when someone knocked him to the side. He rolled over before a sword could stab him in the abdomen. 

Raising his arm to shield himself, Crowley kicked at the guard that stood over him. He bit down on his tongue, tasted metal. An arrow embedded itself in his opponent’s side. He fell over in surprise, and Crowley stood. 

Before he could say thanks to Egon, he was met with another guard. Crowley parried a blow with his saxe. Taking the offensive, he dove forward. His throwing knife was always ready to defend himself whenever anyone tried to strike. Crowley ducked, and a sword appeared where he had just been standing. 

He tackled someone onto the ground. And just when he was about to knock him out, Egon shouted. Crowley’s head snapped up, and his eyes widened at another guard that was coming for him. Crowley scrambled onto his feet, dodging the attack only to fall onto the ground as the guy he tackled struck his knees. 

He gasped, dropping his saxe knife. It clanged onto the ground, sliding away from his reach and leaving him only with his throwing knife. Stiffening, Crowley’s skin crawled. He looked up as a sword came swinging down at him. 

He froze. 

And the sword flew out of the guard’s hand. 

Crowley blinked. Egon leapt forward, wincing. His bones groaned as he hit someone with his saxe. Crowley watched in amazement as he fought. He had the ferocity of a lion. His cowl blew off of his head, revealing his white hairs and pale face. His face was strained, wrinkled with age and hardened with time. He fought with all the strength in his body, and even then he was slow. 

Too slow. 

And Crowley was too slow to realize. He jumped up onto his feet like a rabbit, springing forward as Egon was knocked into the ground. Blood pooled at his feet. 

Blood roared in Crowley’s ears. Rage blinded his vision. His feet moved on their own, muscles energized with power. He found his saxe knife, and he leapt into the fray until all the guards had fallen. Not dead. Crowley breathed heavily. 

“Crowley?” Duncan said, concerned. 

Crowley looked up and met Duncan’s eyes. Then, he looked at all the unconscious bodies, all the swords. Then, he turned to look at Egon’s body. He shut his eyes. 

It was the only body surrounded with blood. The only body that was dead. 

Crowley sucked in a breath, released it. He clenched his fists together. “We need to find Tiller,” he said. “Now.”

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

It was unnerving how Morgarath’s eyes seemed to follow Halt around even though he was just standing still. They reminded him of the white winters of Hibernia, of the frozen ponds and sharp icicles, staring right through his very soul with an intensity so great that he felt like he was being interrogated. It was like he was standing in purgatory, forever waiting, forever in a state of turmoil. 

Halt swallowed a gulp, fighting back a shiver. Relieved that his long sleeves covered the goosebumps that had invaded his arms, he knelt down, averting his eyes to the floor. “Your highness,” he said. 

“My, my,” Morgarath said. “I didn’t expect for an assassin such as you to have such pristine manners. Please, Arratay, stand up! There is no need for any formalities here. You humble me.” 

Halt stood slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He knew Morgarath wasn’t being sincere; he could hear it in his voice. He was glad, happy that he had so much power that even a renowned assassin knew his place. In simpler terms, Morgarath was flattered. He drank power like it was brandy, and it intoxicated him. He sought praise, and he desired wealth. He didn’t just want the world under his fingertips, he wanted the people. 

“Pull up a chair, will you?” he said. “Come, come. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Wine? I’ll have the servants prepare something.” 

Halt shook his head, taking a seat in a chair. He cleared his throat. “No thank you, my lord.” 

“Nonsense!” Morgarath clapped his hands together. He rang a bell that had been sitting on his desk. A servant was immediately by his side. 

“Yes, my king?” she said. 

“Bring us some wine,” he said. “The good one.” 

Halt watched the servant go, fiddling with his thumbs uncomfortably. Suddenly, he regretted not asking for coffee. When he looked back at Morgarath, he was sitting across from him. Only the desk separated the two. 

Legs crossed, Morgarath leaned back lazily. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he smiled widely. “Well then, Arratay,” he said. “You bring me good news, do you not? That is why you are here.” 

“I hope so,” Halt said. He cracked a grin, forcing his face to relax. 

“Do tell.” 

“My mission in slaying the Baron Arald of Redmont has been successful,” Halt said. He watched Morgarath’s face brighten, though he was sure that the king had already heard the news. “He is dead now.” 

“That is exactly what I wanted to hear from you!” Morgarath laughed, tossing his head back. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. 

A knock echoed against the door, and it opened to reveal the servant. She had a bottle of red wine in her hand, two glasses in her other. She shuffled inside nervously, and Halt saw the drop of sweat that was sliding down the side of her head. 

“Just in time!” Morgarath boomed as the girl poured the wine. His ice eyes seemed to lighten up. “To Araluen,” he said, raising his glass, “and its future prosperity.” 

Halt picked up his wine glass warily, lifting it up in the air. “Long live the king,” he said. 

Morgarath grinned, and they clinked their glasses. Halt brought the glass to his lips, tipping it up slightly. It caught Halt off guard, how strong the wine was. It was bitter and not like the bitterness of coffee. It made his skin tingle. He set his glass down carefully. Compared to Morgarath, it was like he had drank none of it. 

“Not a drinker?” 

Halt shook his head. “No,” he said. “I prefer coffee.” 

“Is that so?” 

Chuckling, Halt leaned back as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m sure my lord has plenty of other things to do than learning an assassin’s choice of beverage.” 

“Oh?” said Morgarath. “Did you have something in mind?” 

Halt hummed to himself, cocking his head to his size. A knife appeared in his hand, his elbow leaning on the armrest of his chair. He spun the weapon around lazily, watching Morgarath carefully. His expression was unreadable. 

“How much did you say you’d pay me?” Halt said. “Five hundred gold royals, was it?” 

Morgarath smirked. He popped the wine bottle open to pour himself another glass. “We’re similar people, you and I, Arratay,” he said. “Always looking for ways to profit.” 

Halt leaned forward, gripping onto his knife so that it stopped spinning. He brought his hand down, pushing the blade into the table. If Morgarath was angry at the damage he had done, he didn’t show it. “Then you would understand,” Halt said, “why I will ask you to raise my payment to eight hundred royals in exchange for some extra information.” 

Morgarath narrowed his eyes. He sipped at his wine. “What kind of information?” he said. 

“Oh, I think you’ll find it very interesting, my lord. You see, it has something to do with… the rangers.” 

Halt could feel the change in the air even if Morgarath showed almost no sign of weakness. His face was the same, pale like the ghost of death itself, sharp and hardened. His eyes didn’t waver, unbreakable blue. He sat in a stunned silence, sipping at his wine to cover up his hesitation. 

He laughed a low rumble. “Good try,” he said, “but I’m afraid three hundred extra gold royals is far too much for mere information.” 

Halt frowned. “Seven hundred, then,” he said. 

“Five hundred fifty,” Morgarath countered. He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Take it or leave it.” 

“Seven hundred.” Halt repeated firmly. “No less.” 

Morgarath stared at Halt, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “I like you, Arratay,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain.” 

“Is that a deal?” Halt said. 

“How about,” Morgarath said, “you start working for me.” 

Halt blinked. He sucked in a breath slowly. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening,” he said. 

“I think it would be favorable for the both of us that you become my personal… ah, soldier, per se. Of course, you’ll receive a monthly payment from myself. Maybe you’ll even get extra every successful job you perform.” Morgarath paused. He set his glass down, bending forward. He met Halt’s eyes. “I can make you a very rich man, you know. You’ll live a good life. Good food, good home, good coffee. You don’t have to go back to your abysmal cave, anymore. You can live a life of luxury right here. You just have to work for me.” 

To any other person, that would have sounded appealing. It was an opportunity for a good, stable life. But Halt knew better. He knew Morgarath was looking for a way to keep his coin. 

“I suppose I can consider it,” Halt said. He pulled his knife out of the table. “I’m not sure I would like losing my ability to roam free.” 

“Oh, I think you’ll find my conditions much more advantageous.” Morgarath stood up, waving his hand to dismiss him. “Think about it,” he said. 

Standing, Halt sheathed his knife. “I will,” he said. 

“Good, good.” Morgarath moved towards the door. “Ask for a servant,” he said. “I have a room prepared for you. I shall await your decision.” 

“Thank you.” 

Opening the door, Morgarath straightened in surprise. Halt crossed his arms. A courier stood on the other side, his fist raised. 

“My lord!” he gasped. “I was just about to knock.” 

“What do you want?” Morgarath said. 

“I have a letter!” he said. “From our associates in the west.” 

“Is that so?” Morgarath mused. He opened the door wider for the courier to enter. Glancing at Halt, he nodded. “I’m afraid I have other business to attend to,” he said. “I’ll call for you soon.” 

Halt bowed. “Yes, of course, my lord,” he said. “Have a good day.” 

Halt sighed as the door closed behind him. He ran a hand through his choppy hair, gulping. Shutting his eyes for a split second, he shook his head and breathed in. He had made good progress today. Morgarath seemed to like him, and he appeared to be convinced that Baron Arald was truly dead. All he had to do now was steer his attention away from Crowley and Gilan. Nodding at himself, he turned around and called out to a servant to find his room. 

After that meeting, he had some things to think about.

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

The letter was gone. 

Will stared at the secret compartment, his hands shaking. He breathed in slowly, silent. It was empty, containing nothing but dirt and a sprig of grass. The loose floorboard lay uselessly to the side, tossed away like a piece of trash. A million thoughts went through his head, but Will didn’t really know what to think. Was he really in disbelief that the plan had gone horribly wrong? Was he supposed to be angry, driven to seek out revenge? Was he meant to be worried? Concerned? 

At that point, Will had become numb to everything around him. Experience taught him that everything would eventually come crashing down. Nothing phased him anymore. He had witnessed fire and blood, and he had encountered his fair share of fear. It was just an ongoing cycle now—the moment things were beginning to look up, something just had to go wrong. They would always pick their broken pieces back up again, but it was no use. The world wanted them to fail. It wanted them to suffer, to give up and surrender themselves to a life of somber desolation. Everything was against the revolution. They would never break free of the cycle, not if they were destined to fail over and over again. They were running an impossible marathon. 

“So it’s gone?” Horace said from behind him. 

Will closed his eyes, his hands forming fists. He let out a breath. “Yes.” 

“Then, we should try to get it back, right?” Horace began to pace, his footsteps creating a clacking noise that filled up the cabin. “We could travel to Gorlan, me and you. We’ll need to bring weapons and food. Maybe Alyss can come with us. She’s bound to know her way around. I’m pretty sure she and Lady Pauline went on an infiltration mission there not too long ago.” 

“What good will that be?” Will said. He stood up, turning his head to face Horace. “Whoever took that letter is already long gone. We’ll never get to them in time to intercept it. It’s as good as gone. Morgarath will have read it by the time we even get to Gorlan. We don’t have any horses. The army took all if not most of them.” 

Horace frowned. “We can still try,” he said. “Maybe we could warn Halt, somehow. Didn’t you say that he was going to Gorlan to distract King Morgarath? We can still find and tell him.” 

“Yes, but…” Will trailed off. He crossed his arms. “I’m a farmer, and you’re just an apprentice. We can’t do anything. We’re not important people like the rangers. We can’t just go around and save the world. That’s not our job.” 

“So?” Horace said. “We’re still people. We can still do things. What’s stopping us?” 

Will gawked at Horace, confusion spreading to his brain. “I thought you hated me,” he said. “Why do you want to go to Gorlan with me of all people?” 

“I don’t hate you.” 

Will narrowed his eyes. “Really?” he said. “Even if I’m small with short legs?” 

Horace scratched his head, chuckling awkwardly. “Ah, I was pretty harsh, wasn’t I? I was just having a bad day. You know, with the bullies. They sort of just… got to me that morning.” He cleared his throat, looking away. He was clearly embarrassed. “Besides, George likes you. He’s a pretty good judge of character.” 

“I see,” Will said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, then.” 

Horace laughed. Smiling, he held out a hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s start over. I’m Horace, nice to meet you.” 

Will met his eyes, which were bright blue. They were guileless, open and honest. It almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted off of him, allowing his wings to spread. Will took his hand, gripping it tightly. He shook it. “I’m Will,” he said. “Nice to meet you too.” 

“So Gorlan, then?” Horace said. “We can probably leave today if we move quickly.” 

Will sighed. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said. “What if we get caught?” 

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” Horace said. He crossed his arms. “Come on, Will. Don’t you want to help out?” 

Will stared at Horace, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t until later that he realized that he had picked up some of Halt’s mannerisms. “I do,” he said quietly. “Of course I want to help.” 

“Then, what’s stopping you?” 

“What difference is this going to make?” Will said. “We’re ants compared to Halt and the rangers. We’re trying to overthrow a king. Do you know how hard it is to even get an audience with a baron? We’re way out of our league here. They don’t need us to interfere. They’re all adults. They can handle themselves.” 

“So you think you’re useless?” 

“No!” Will said. “Yes? Maybe—what, I don’t know. This doesn’t have to do with anything!” 

“During a war, who do you think is doing the most work?” 

Will blinked. “The people,” he said. “The soldiers and knights. They’re the ones fighting it.” 

Horace nodded. “Right,” he said. “The soldiers. Who makes up the soldiers?” 

Will opened his mouth to answer, closed it. He huffed in frustration, but a small smile found a way to his lips. “Ordinary people,” he said. “Farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters.” 

“See?” Horace said. “It doesn’t matter who you are and what you do. Everyone has a part to play. You never know what difference one person can make, so I think it’s always a good idea to at least try.” 

He faltered, face twisting in a grimace. “And uh…” He covered his face with one of his hands, sighing. “I may have just deserted the army by following the bullies here and saving you, so I really don’t want to stay here. I think I’d rather go try and help than stay here like a coward.” 

Will cracked a grin at that. “Uh huh,” he said. “Sure. Okay. Let’s do it, then.” 

“We should find Alyss,” Horace said. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to join us.” 

Will nodded, heading towards the door. He held it open for Horace. He inclined his head, musing out loud. “What about Cassandra?” he said. “She’s the girl that came here with the rangers. She’s not as busy as Alyss, and she’ll want to help out.” 

Horace shrugged. “The more the merrier,” he said, passing him on the way out. “We’re going to need as much help as we can get.”

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

King Swyddned was a good king, but Gilan wouldn’t have called him the wisest. He ruled over Celtica with a benevolent charm, always making an effort to be kind and sympathetic. The Celtic people loved him, which prompted an era of peace to settle over the country. 

However, although he matched the needs of Celtica, King Swyddned would not have lasted very long in Araluen. He was slow to react and quick to retreat. He was more of a peacemaker than a fighter, and as a result, his army was frightfully tiny. Gilan almost had a heart attack when he first heard just how small the Celtic forces were. 

What’s more, the king refused to help the revolution. 

“Your Majesty, you cannot be serious!” Arald said. “King Morgarath is closing in on your borders. You cannot afford to do nothing lest Celtica should fall!” 

King Swyddned said nothing, glancing at the members of the Celtic Embassy that had gathered at the side of the throne room. A silent conversation passed between them, and based on Swyddned’s expression, it didn’t seem to be going in the favor of the Araluens. 

Gilan shared a glance with Jurgen, who shrugged. He was expressionless, and it almost seemed like he expected for Swyddned to not help. In front of them, Arald impatiently tapped his foot on the ground. The group had agreed that it would be best for him to speak as he had the highest rank amongst them and had actually met the king several years in the past. 

“I am sorry,” King Swyddned finally said. “We cannot help you. We do not have the right resources.” 

“What of the treaty?” Arald said. “We signed a mutual defense treaty with each other. Unless you are going back on your word…” 

“There is no treaty.” 

“Your Majesty, you must be mistaken,” Arald said. “We definitely had a treaty.” 

King Swyddned shook his head. “No,” he said. “The treaty you speak of was nullified, courtesy of your king. It is void.” 

“I’m not sure you understand the severity of this situation, my lord,” Arald said, his voice the tiniest bit tighter. He inhaled. “Morgarath is planning an invasion. You are in danger. This country is in danger!” 

Pursing his lips, King Swyddned sighed. He seemed to struggle to come up with a response, sweat dripping from his forehead. He looked at the Celtic Embassy, almost desperately. 

It was then Gilan realized how pale the king was. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his whole posture spoke volumes, slouched down and vulnerable. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. And the Embassy—they didn’t look well either. They were cautious, excessively careful, but their actions could not hide the fear that was suppressed underneath their expressions. 

But why? Why would the Celtic court be on the verge of collapse? Why would they refuse to help when their country was being threatened? Unless… something had happened. 

Something was wrong in the Celtic court, and that left the question of what. Before, Gilan had thought the king to be foolish. How could he not aid them when his people were so clearly in danger? How could he not see how much trouble his own country was in? How could he be so blind? But now, Gilan saw right through the masks. They were scared. 

Stepping forward, Gilan cleared his throat. He ignored Arald’s surprised look. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I can’t help but wonder… is there something you aren’t telling us?” 

King Swyddned’s eyes darted to Gilan, who could have sworn he saw the faintest trace of fear. The king frowned, eyes narrowed. “What is it that you are implying?” he said. 

“I think,” Gilan started, “and feel free to say if I’m wrong, that this isn’t your first encounter with an Araluen in the past few months.” 

The king didn’t answer, and Gilan sighed. 

“I see,” he said, bowing his head down. “Well, thank you for seeing us. We will be leaving now.” 

Turning away, Gilan nodded at Arald and Jurgen. They headed towards the door. 

“Wait!” 

Gilan stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to find King Swyddnd, standing, with a hand outreached. The Embassy gave him a nasty look. “I—we—” He took a deep breath. “Good luck,” he said. “Know that while we do not openly support you, we root for your success. I am sorry we cannot do anything more.” 

Gilan tried to smile. He bowed. And without a word, he turned and walked out of the room with Arald and Jurgen trailing behind him. It didn’t take long for them to retrieve their horses and exit the castle gates. 

“What was that about?” Arald said as he mounted his horse. 

Gilan winced, a grim look on his face. “I think Morgarath was a step ahead of us on this front,” he said. “He must have blackmailed them somehow.” 

“But how did you know?” 

“You mean without seeing the looks on their faces?” Gilan said. “From what I’ve heard in the past, King Swyddned isn’t a stupid man. He wouldn’t just give his people up like that.” 

“I just hope Morgarath didn’t do anything too brutal,” Jurgen said. “The Celts would rather mine their land than defend it, so they would have been hit pretty hard.” 

“It’s Morgarath we’re talking about,” Arald said. “He’s always ruthless. He probably has Celtica twirled around one of his fingers.” 

“Probably,” Jurgen nodded. He scratched the back of his head. “But I don’t think we should worry too much about it. Our main focus now is returning to the army and defeating Morgarath’s army before they can do any more harm.” 

Gilan nodded. “Right,” he said. “If we defeat Morgarath, then Celtica will be free from whatever he did. We’ll knock two birds with one stone.” 

“We should hurry, then,” Arald said, looking up at the sky. “I’m sure the battle has started by now, and Rodney is going to need as much help as he could get.” 

They rode back towards the border in silence, each deep in their own thoughts. And for Gilan, that meant sinking back into his doubts and concerns. He grasped onto his sword, mindlessly fiddling his fingers. It was one thing to be late to battle and another one to have brought no help. If nothing else, at least they had King Swyddned’s support. It may have meant nothing without anything to back it up, but at least, Gilan knew that Celtica wouldn’t be declaring war on Araluen. 

It was only a small comfort though, and Gilan knew deep down that it didn’t really matter what Swyddned thought. What mattered was the outcome of the battle, how well he would be able to handle himself. 

He had trained his whole life, and it all led up to this point. A chance to change Araluen for the better, a chance for justice. But was he strong enough? Was he good enough? If he failed, then would the whole revolution fail? Would he be the cause of everyone else’s success, or would he be the reason they fell short? 

Gilan took a swig from his canteen, feeling the bitter taste of cold coffee run down his throat. He gulped. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Gilan forced himself to relax. All that was left off Jenny’s flower was a flimsy stem—the white petals had fallen off somewhere—but it was enough. 

Just try , he told himself. He heard Jenny’s voice repeating it over and over. Just try and try and try. Just try to live, just try to survive. 

Nodding to himself, Gilan took a deep breath. He started to close his eyes, but something flickered in the corner of his eye. He blinked. 

Gilan looked towards the mountain range that was situated in the distance—the Mountains of Rain and Night. He rubbed his eyes, squinting into the distance. 

“What is it?” Jurgen said. 

Gilan glanced at the ranger, then back at the mountains. He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I thought I saw something, but it must have been my imagination. You know… since we pulled an all-nighter. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

Jurgen frowned. “Do you want to stop? We can rest for a little bit before joining the others. You’re going to need all of your energy for battle.” 

“No, no.” Gilan attempted a grin. “I’m all good. It’d be best if we get there sooner.” 

“If you say so.” 

“I know so. Come on, we’re almost there anyways.” 

Before long, the song of battle reached their ears. Gilan shared a glance with Arald and Jurgen before drawing his sword. He looked down at his reflection and nodded to himself before lowering the visor of his helmet. “Ready?” he said, more to himself than anyone. 

“For Araluen,” Arald said. 

Gilan inhaled. He raised his sword. “For Araluen.” 

And so the three rode headfirst into battle. 

Gilan yelled as he entered the fray, standing in his saddle. He waved his sword at the soldiers below him, knocking several off balance. Swinging his leg over his horse, Gilan huffed. He jumped off and rolled onto the ground. 

Quickly standing, Gilan quickly found an opponent. He swung his sword, jumping around as if he was dancing. It was like a hurricane, the whole thing—how he knew everything and nothing at once. Gilan didn’t even notice when he stopped thinking. He let instinct take over his movements, swinging and sidestepping at a moment’s notice. If anyone were to have been watching him, they would have found a rhythm to the way he moved. 

Wiping a spot of blood off his sword, Gilan turned to meet another sword. The blades collided, the sound of metal harsh in Gilan’s ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted another soldier barging straight for him. His breath hitched as he dropped to the ground, allowing his two opponents to crash into each other. 

Gilan quickly moved away, his sword hungry for another fight. He breathed. As time passed, Gilan found himself to be more at ease with himself. He almost forgot about the immense pressure that was weighing him down. 

That didn’t last long though. 

“Wargals!” came the frenzied cry of Sir Rodney. “They have wargals!” 

Gilan almost choked on his own spit. He spun around to face the Mountains of Rain and Night, stumbling back at the tens of wargals—large dog-like creatures with beady red eyes. A gasp tore through his throat, which went dry. “I thought they weren’t real!” he yelled to no one in particular. “I thought they were merely legends! Myths! This can’t be—” 

Without warning, his voice cut out. Gilan froze in place. He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn’t. His hands went clammy. 

Because behind the wargals were something far more terrifying. Behind the wargals were another creature far more worthy of epic legends and folklore. 

The kalkara. 

And Gilan made the mistake of looking one in the eye.

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Following Egon’s death, Crowley had wished that the rest of the mission would be easy. That, however, was not the case. Nothing was ever easy, especially not a revolution that aimed to overthrow a king. That was one of the first things Crowley had learned during his apprenticeship, and after all these years, it still proved to be true. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Crowley tried to relax. He stopped pacing along the ramparts of Castle Araluen, and he dropped his arms to rest on either side of him. He sighed as he looked out into the distance, eyes searching the scene for any sign of movement. 

After hearing the alarm the guards set off, Tiller had barricaded himself inside the throne room with whatever forces he had left. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Crowley and his team could have broken in with ease. It was just a room. However, the throne room was Castle Araluen’s last resort in case of siege. That meant it was the most protected room in the whole castle, built to endure time itself. It was sealed shut, and no one could get in. Not even Duncan, who had spent his childhood wandering the castle halls, knew of a way inside. 

Crowley had hope though. It took much convincing, but he managed to assure Duncan that they could break in. The castle would take a heavy beating—fire and rock did that to things—but it would be worth it in the end. Besides, Crowley was sure that they could rebuild the castle stronger than ever… even if it would take years. 

A few days had passed since then, and Crowley found himself to be more anxious than ever. Good progress had been made into the throne room, but there was no telling if they were going fast enough. By then, Morgarath could have caught wind of what was going on. Tiller could have sent word, and not even Halt could have stopped Morgarath from taking action. 

Leaning forward against the walls of the ramparts, Crowley sighed. He could hear the constant thump of the battering ram that worked to break into the throne room from his position. Already, the areas around the throne room had been decimated. Crowley and Berrigan had set off several fires in hopes of burning through as much wood as possible in order to find a way in. They had even burned quite a bit of the door, weakening the wood so that Stanley and his people would have an easier time with the battering ram. 

“Crowley!” came the voice of Prince Duncan. 

Crowley turned, pushing himself to stand up straight. “What is it?” he said. “Did something happen? Are we in?” 

Duncan shook his head, sighing. “I wish,” he said, “but no. Lady Pauline has found something that I think you would find pretty interesting.” 

“Oh?” Crowley said. “What is it?” 

Duncan motioned Crowley to follow him into the castle. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Duncan led him up a flight of stairs. “It seems as if my father had written a will,” he said. 

“A will?” Crowley echoed. His eyes widened. “Where did she find it?” 

“Behind a painting in my father’s old room.” Duncan tried to smile. “I don’t think Morgarath thought to check there.” 

“What’s in it?” 

Duncan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “We thought we should have you in the room when we open it.” 

Crowley stared at Duncan incredulously. “Why are we walking so slow, then?” he said. “Come on!” 

They barely made it a few steps before someone called their names. Crowley shared a glance with Duncan before spinning on his heels and backtracking. 

“Stanley?” he said, blinking when he found the village constable climbing the stairs. “Did something happen?” 

Stanley held up a hand, leaning against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath. “Yes,” he said, coughing. Sweat dripped down the side of his head. “The door into the throne room. We broke through.” 

Crowley hadn’t even processed the words when he leapt into action. His boots slammed against the floor as he dashed down the stairs and down the hall. His heart raced. Just a few moments ago, he had thought that it would take a day or two more to break inside. And somehow, it was happening right then and there. He couldn’t believe it. 

Bursting into the room, Crowley ran past the broken doors. He slid to a sudden stop, jaw dropping when it finally hit him that they had done it. He looked around the throne room. 

It was a vast room, spanning tens of meters in both length and width. The floor was a checkered pattern made of black and dull pink marble, but much of it was cracked and split. On the walls, the banners of Araluen had been replaced with the ones of Gorlan. No doubt that Morgarath had thought it was a good idea to plaster his colors to show his dominance. Perhaps the one thing that was still intact was the stained glass windows of red, blue, gold, and orange— a strange combination with the floor, but the room was so grand that it somehow worked. 

Crowley, however, didn’t have an eye for the unusual design choices of the room. His focus was centered on Stanley’s men and how they had beaten the remainder of Tiller’s guards, who were strewn together with rope. Tiller was tied to a chair separate to his guards, a cloth stuffed into his mouth. His face was beet red. 

Berrigan looked up from where he was standing next to Tiller. He met Crowley’s eyes and nodded. His face was grim, dark under his cowl. He held his saxe knife in his hand. Clearly, Tiller hadn’t been the most cooperative of people. 

“Now that I’m seeing him in person, I can see how everyone thought he was me,” Duncan whispered quietly. 

Crowley cracked a small grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’d say that’s a good thing,” he murmured. “We can finally prove your innocence.” 

Duncan went quiet. He looked at Crowley, a newfound light in his eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. 

“That’s why you have us rangers.” 

Moving towards Tiller, Crowley glanced around the room to make sure that everyone who needed to be there. He nodded once when Lady Pauline entered before turning to face Tiller. 

“Baron Tiller,” Crowley said, his voice ringing in the large room. He paused for a moment, unsure of where to start. There was so much that Tiller could tell them, so many things that would help the revolution. Crowley exhaled. Seeing as he had just mentioned it with Duncan, he should just start by clearing his name. 

Then, slowly but surely, Tiller would reveal everything he knew. The village people would be there to witness everything, and they would spread his words to their family and friends, who would then share the information with their family and friends. 

Rumors spread like wildfire and they grew into tall tales, but there was a bit of truth in all of them. And a little bit of truth was all the revolution needed to turn the tide. 

With King Oswald’s will and Tiller’s capture, things were finally starting to look up.

Chapter Text

~Halt~

A few days had passed. Halt hadn’t seen Morgarath since the day he had arrived at Gorlan, though admittingly, he himself had also been keeping low. During his time alone, Halt had walked the lengths of Castle Gorlan to the point of memory. He was almost certain that he could run through the halls blindfolded. It wouldn’t be ideal and he was bound to make a few wrong turns, but it could be done if need be. 

More importantly, however, this time alone allowed him to think, and Halt had thought long and hard about anything and everything that could possibly need thinking over. Frankly, it was a bit too much time. It was starting to get on his nerves. 

But that was exactly what Morgarath wanted. 

Morgarath wanted Halt to accept his job and become his personal soldier, a counterfeit ranger for lack of a better word. He would send him on wild missions and not just assassinations. Coin would no longer be a problem; there would be a house to go back to, a real home if that was possible. 

Only thing was, Halt had never once considered the offer. 

Even when he was an assassin, he had a semblance of freedom. He was always hiding, but he was still free. That didn’t change when he started helping the rangers. No one trusted him, but he was still a free man. He was still given the opportunity to make his own choices. 

If Halt began working for Morgarath, he would be signing his freedom away. That was the one thing he would never give up. 

So when Morgarath finally requested his presence for dinner, Halt found himself planning his words ten steps ahead of time. He would deflect and distract, not accepting the job but also not outright refusing. It was always a dangerous game with Morgarath, but Halt was more than willing to play. 

Because what Morgarath didn’t know was that Halt was no stranger to royalty. He was born and raised in the Hibernian courts. Once upon a time, it had been his whole life. It had been years, decades even, since he had been home, but Halt still remembered the deceptive plays of high society. He knew how to fit in; he knew how to lie. 

Tugging at the tunic he had chosen out, Halt stared into the mirror. He frowned at himself. Suddenly, he felt the urge to do something about his hair. A strange thought, for he had never cared for his appearance before. Alas, the times were changing, and war was coming. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He reached for a comb. 

It didn’t take long for there to be a knock at the door. “Sir?” 

He didn’t answer, instead leaning back into his chair and shutting his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he reviewed what he had practiced, taking in a deep breath. He was already on his feet when the knock came again. Swinging open the door, a frown easily appeared on his face as he scowled at the servant. “What do you want?” he said. 

The servant, a young girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve, flinched. She stepped back, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice came out small. “I thought someone had already told you. The King has asked for you to accompany him—” 

“Yes, yes,” Halt said, grumbling. He avoided eye contact as he shut the door behind him. “Lead the way.” 

The girl jumped and shuffled down the hall. “Yes, of course.” 

Halt followed her, silently mapping the path they took. He straightened up when they took an odd turn, moving away from the dining hall. Instead, they wound up in a more private section of the castle—a more secluded section. Whatever Morgarath was planning must have been off the record. When they arrived at their destination, Halt was surprised to find that he was not the first to arrive. 

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head. “I trust that you have not been waiting for long?” 

“Nonsense!” Morgarath said. He stood. “Please sit! I’ve told you before that we have no need for any formalities.” 

“I remember.” 

The room in itself was smaller than Halt had anticipated and a lot more simple too. With the exception of the long, hardwood table at the center, there wasn’t much going on. It was a distinct change from the rest of the castle, and Halt found it to be unsettling more than anything. It showed that despite everything, Morgarath was a fighter. He might’ve held the title of king, and baron before that, but he was a knight underneath it all. 

Taking his seat at the opposite end of the table as Morgarath, Halt watched as the food was brought in. It was a relatively plain meal for a king and his guest, steak with a side of potatoes and a hefty loaf of bread. It was the common man’s dinner. There were no fancy appetizers and no exotic fruits. 

Anyone else would have been disappointed by it, but Halt found himself with no complaint. He liked the simplicity and the straightforwardness, and somehow, Morgarath had seen it in him. It was a meal specifically crafted to appeal to him, and Halt loathed to admit that it had him intrigued. He just had to wonder what Morgarath wanted him for. How would he have fitted into his plan? 

“Truth be told, Arratay,” Morgarath said, breaking Halt out of his thoughts, “I didn’t call you here today to talk.” 

Halt raised an eyebrow. “No?” 

Morgarath’s smile was small, polite. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No,” he said. “This is merely a dinner between two friends. Nothing more.” 

“That is very generous of you, your highness,” Halt said, eyeing the mug of steaming coffee that was placed before him. He couldn’t quite mask the second of surprise that flashed in his eyes when a jar of honey was set next to it. 

If Morgarath noticed, he didn’t show it. “It is no problem,” he said. “You are a guest in my home. It would be ill-mannered of me not to treat you as such.” 

“I did not expect a king of your stature to be so thoughtful.” 

Morgarath laughed at that, tossing his head back as he raised his wine glass. “A toast!” he said. “Cheers to us and a new future!” 

Dropping a lump of honey into his coffee, Halt nodded. “To us,” he said as he brought the mug to his lips. His eyes fluttered shut at the smoky aroma, sweet-smelling and earthy. His mouth watered. 

Then, as the hot liquid seeped onto his tongue, he was suddenly taken back to decades past. His eyes flashed open. 

...

Something was wrong. 

Having lived at the heart of Dun Kilty all his life, Halt had gotten pretty good at sifting through false alarm after false alarm. It was like second nature to him, ignoring the bickering voices of his parents and the whining droll of Ferris, his brother. Every night, he would sit at the dinner table and watch the chaos unfold. Most days, he was merely a ghost. He would go unnoticed as Ferris seized all attention. Other times, he would be at the end of a very long and drawn out scolding from his parents. 

Tonight, however, something felt off. His parents were arguing again, but that was normal. What wasn’t normal was how quiet Ferris seemed to be and how he kept sneaking glances towards him. Halt wasn’t complaining though. It was a breath of fresh air to be able to sit and eat in peace—it was as peaceful as it could get, at least. 

Gulping down the last of his dinner, Halt made a face at his empty plate. The chefs had prepared a seafood dish with shrimp, clams, and rice; it was a meal he had eaten a thousand times over in the past. There was something different about it today though. 

The sour tang in the shrimp was normal, but Halt couldn’t help but feel it had been stronger. It had been incredibly tart, almost bitter. Maybe the lemons were unripe, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. His stomach churned as he grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth. 

Eager to leave the dining hall, Halt stood and excused himself. He ducked into a narrow servant’s corridor, muttering a greeting as he passed by one on his way to his room. What he didn’t notice was the figure who came in after him, following his every move. 

Halt made a pit stop in the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Chugging it down, he was displeased to find the bitter tang lingering on his tongue. If it wasn’t unpleasant before, it was now. Suddenly, Halt felt bile coming up his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, hand over his face as he swallowed it back down. 

The journey back to his chambers couldn’t have taken longer. With every step, his stomach seemed to get worse. His feet grew sluggish, and there was only one word going through his mind: bed. 

The next thing Halt knew was the floor. His hand barely flung out in time to catch himself on the wall. The whole world spun around him as his knees hit the ground. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he did see one thing before it went dark. 

His follower revealed himself—Halt only just managed to croak out his name. 

“Ferris.” 

Ferris didn’t move, and that was when Halt knew. 

...

It was poison—it had to be. Halt could have recognized that vile taste from anywhere. 

Hiding his face behind the mug, which was thankfully opaque, Halt quietly spit the coffee back out. He set his mug back down on his table, looking up to find Morgarath’s eyes trained on him. 

“Is the coffee not to your liking?” he said coolly. Any humor he had before was long gone, replaced by a steely and dark look. 

Halt kept his voice steady, but already he could feel his stomach reacting. “It is lovely,” he said. 

Morgarath’s lip curled downwards. “Mr. Arratay,” he said, pushing his chair back as he stood. 

Chills ran down Halt’s spine. He met Morgarath’s eyes silently. 

“There is something you should know about me,” he said. 

“I despise liars.” 

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

It had been a week since they had set out from Redmont, but Will found himself to be the opposite of tired. How could he be? The looming dread of what awaited them at Gorlan haunted his dreams, only pushing him to walk faster. It was no question now whether Alda, Bryn, and Jerome had gotten the letter to Morgarath—Will was certain they had. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but the gut feeling churning down in the pit of his stomach must have meant something. 

More than once, Will almost laughed out loud at his predicament. It had only been a month, maybe two, since he had left Aspienne fief with Gilan. Only a couple months since he sat in the middle of a field beneath the stars, exhausted from a long day of work. He still remembered the tickling feeling of wheat stalks brushing against his skin, the refreshing breeze of wind running through his hair. His mother would wave at him from their front porch, beckoning him in for the night. His father’s hand was warm on his shoulder as they washed up for dinner. 

It all seemed a lifetime ago. The Will back then would have fainted to know what stories he had now—to know the things he had seen and the people he had met. He had wanted to be a knight, but now… Will wasn’t quite sure. 

You could make a good ranger. 

It hadn’t been the first time since Will thought about Halt’s words, and as more time passed, he found that he enjoyed the idea. Ranger Will—it had a ring to it. But Will shot down the idea as fast as it came, shaking his head as he rid himself of the thought. 

Time was ticking, and he couldn’t have any distractions. There were bigger things to worry about, mainly the fact that he was the only person in the world who knew about the Redmont spies, the only person who knew that Morgarath was steps ahead of the revolution. Well… Will looked to the side. Not the only one. 

To his rear was Cassandra and Horace, who had their heads together in quiet conversation. To his front and leading the party was Alyss. It had been surprisingly easy to convince the girls to join them, but then again, Will couldn’t be too surprised. 

It hadn’t been long since he met Alyss, but she never ceased to amaze him with each passing day. When she spoke, it was with such confidence that Will couldn’t help but hang onto every word as if it were the truth. It wasn’t just confidence though. There was also a sort of grace, a soft spoken gentleness that Will had begun to associate with her. He had met no other who held the same kindness as her, the same fire as her. 

Will hadn’t realized that he had started staring until Alyss turned her head. His brain seemed to stop working when he met her eyes. They were blue like the morning sky a little bit after sunrise. He could have gotten lost in them, but then she smiled. It was a soft smile, one that lit up her eyes just enough. Will almost forgot how to breathe. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Will blinked, swallowing down a gulp. He stuffed his hands in his pocket, suddenly very self-conscious now that they were walking side to side. “What?” he managed to choke out. 

Alyss’s smile widened, and there was a glint in her eyes that Will couldn’t quite place. “You’ve been quiet all day,” she said. “What’s on your mind?” 

No distractions, Will reminded himself as he shook his head. “What isn’t on my mind?” he eventually said. “Morgarath knows about the revolution, and we’re the only people in the world who knows that he knows—gods, that’s confusing.” 

“Scary, isn’t it?” 

Will looked at her. “You get scared?” 

Alyss laughed quietly. “Of course I do,” she huffed. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You’ve always seemed fearless to me.” 

“Really?” 

Will nodded, ducking under a low tree branch. “It’s the way you talk and the way you act. It’s like nothing can stop you once you have your mind set on something. You’re never afraid to shoot for the stars and stand up for what you believe in.” 

He trailed off, realizing that he had begun rambling. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Alyss said, bumping her shoulder into his. “You’re quite brave too, you know?” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t know anyone else who left home to join a revolution that hadn’t even started yet.” 

“I didn’t have much of a choice, not after burning down a part of the castle.” 

“It was still a choice. And look at you now!” Alyss waved her arm around at the forest. “Marching towards Gorlan with nothing but a knife and a will. Not many people will do that, you know?” 

“It was Horace’s idea,” he said, glancing back at the man in question. “You should thank him.” 

“Oh, take a compliment would you?” Alyss said, bumping into his shoulder again. She grabbed his hand. “You’re braver than you think, Will Treaty. Don’t you forget it.” 

Releasing his hand, she marched on, but Will had faltered behind. He stood, staring after her. He didn’t notice that Horace had gotten up to him until he clapped him on the back. 

“Something on your mind?” he said, leaning close. Will didn’t have to look to see the smirk on his face. His cheeks burned. 

“Shut up,” he muttered, causing Horace to only laugh louder. 

But whatever laughter that could be had didn’t last long as they broke through the foliage into the open air. Castle Gorlan towered over the town that surrounded it, and banners of black and gold were flaunted about. 

Will stepped forward, eyeing the sight before him. He looked towards the castle. Once already had he been there with Gilan but it was different this time. It was more dangerous. 

He looked at his three companions—his three friends. 

“You don’t have to come with me. There’s still time to turn back.” 

He was answered by three blank stares. 

“We’re coming with you,” Horace said, “whether you like it or not. You hear me?” 

Will nodded. “I hear you.” 

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Fear conquered even the best of men. 

Chapter Text

~Crowley~ 

Crowley didn’t know what was worse: that Tiller wasn’t talking or that it had been over a week since he had heard any news about the revolution. Rationally, he knew that a week was no time at all for anything major to have happened, especially if the only thing the townspeople had to gossip over was a rat living in the attic. He still worried though. With only a waiting game to play, there was nothing to do but sit and think. And by then, Crowley had thought about anything that could possibly need thinking over—and even things that didn’t need thinking over. 

Crowley found that his thoughts continuously went back to the ones they had lost: Farrel, Egon, Pritchard, the lot of them. People—his friends —had given their lives up to a revolution that hadn’t been certain up until a couple weeks ago. They had died, and more would die, while he was doing nothing within the safe confines of a castle. Simply put, Crowley was restless. He could do nothing as a sitting duck. 

Pacing the floor in front of the throne room, Crowley looked up when the door creaked open. The tiniest sliver of hope bloomed in his chest, but it was extinguished before he had a chance to open his mouth. Duncan shook his head as he stepped out of the room. 

“Any luck?” Crowley said even though he already knew the answer. 

Duncan sighed. “No. His lips are sealed.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, but it was more pained than anything. Tiller’s perseverance would have been impressive, admiring even if not for the man he served. In a different world, Crowley would have respected the loyalty, but he loathed it now. Despise was the only thing he felt for Tiller. Gritting his teeth, he looked back towards the door. Annoyance pricked at his skin until he bristled. Despite the hours he had spent pacing back and forth, he wasn’t tired at all. If anything, he was more irritated. 

And Crowley was never one to be patient. 

“Berrigan’s in there now?” 

There was something like nervousness in Duncan’s eyes as he regarded Crowley, a glimmer of uncertainty as a hard frown replaced the tired lines on his face. “Yes,” he said but not before the pause had drawn out too long. 

Crowley was moving before his brain had even processed Duncan’s response. He barely had time to think when he shoved the doors open. 

“Crowley?” 

His eyes immediately zeroed in on Tiller, who sat, hands bound, behind a wooden table. The chair across from him was empty, and Berrigan straightened from where he had been leaning against the table. A couple of Stanley’s men, as well as Stanley himself, had been standing and chattering to themselves next to a pillar, but all conversation ceased as Crowley marched inside. 

It was eerily silent as his boots echoed against the marble tiles. Taking the chair by its back, a loud, high-pitched squeak reverberated across the chamber as he dragged it against the floor. He slammed it onto the ground beside Tiller. 

“That’s enough.” 

Straddling the chair, he rested his arms on the back of it. In his hand, his saxe knife appeared out of thin air. He pointed it at Tiller without so much of a thought. “Did you,” he said, voice low, “or did you not impersonate Prince Duncan in Picta?” 

Tiller glared defiantly back at Crowley. His lips were zipped tighter than ever. 

Crowley’s knuckles were ghostly. He leaned forward, hand scarily steady as he held the blade underneath Tiller’s chin. 

“Speak.” His voice was barely a whisper. His anger came swift when Tiller refused to answer again. “Speak!” 

“No.” 

Crowley stood up so fast that he almost toppled over. He towered over Tiller, practically breathing onto him. His saxe threatened to cut through skin. 

“Crowley…” 

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Crowley said, ignoring Berrigan. “Did you do it?” 

“So what if I did?” 

A chorus of whispers broke out from where Stanley and his men observed, but Crowley wasn’t listening. He had already known about Tiller’s involvement in Morgarath’s reign, but none of the anger in the world could have matched what he felt now that it was confirmed. Now that Tiller himself said the words. 

Blood roared in his ears as he stared down at Tiller, who finally seemed to have some kind of sense knocked into him. The fear in his eyes did nothing to ease the growing fury in Crowley’s heart. If his anger was boiling before, it was spilling over now. 

“Do you regret it?” 

There was a heartbeat. 

“Yes.” 

Crowley moved so fast that no one could react. He grabbed Tiller by the collar and yanked him up so that they were eye to eye. His saxe clattered onto the floor. 

“Crowley!” 

With all the strength he could muster, Crowley threw Tiller onto the table. His heart pounded. The world spun around him. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He couldn’t recognize his own voice anymore. It came out as a low, creeping snarl—menacingly. 

“Why?” he said. “Why did you do it?” 

A hand grabbed his shoulder before Tiller could answer. Not even a second had passed when Crowley spun around. He ducked away and traded places with his assailant. Both of his punches were deftly blocked, but that didn’t stop him. Crowley only saw red. Sweeping his leg out, he didn’t register what he had done until after Berrigan had fallen onto the ground. 

“Ow!” the older ranger hissed, rubbing at one of his kneecaps. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Berrigan’s eyes snapped over to Crowley’s within the second. “You need to pull yourself together,” he said. He winced when he pushed himself back onto his feet, blocking Crowley’s view of Tiller. 

“You don’t know what I need or don’t need.” 

“No?” Berrigan said. “I know that you’ll regret this when tomorrow rolls around.” 

“No, I won’t.” 

“We need him alive.” 

“He can rot for all I care.” 

“Can you live with that?” 

“Can’t you?” 

“You’re angry.” 

“Angry?” Crowley snorted. “People are dying because of him. They did die because of him!” 

“Killing him won’t do anything to fix that.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about what happened to Egon.” 

Berrigan clenched his fists. He took a step forward. “He was my friend as much as he was yours,” he said. “We were doing this job long before you were even an apprentice.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that he—” Crowley jutted his finger towards Tiller. “—is the reason that Egon’s dead.” 

“Killing him won’t change it either!” 

“An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. I say he deserves to die.” 

“He could have information!” 

“Move out of my way.” 

Berrigan didn’t move an inch. “No.” 

“Berrigan…” 

“I won’t do it.” 

“That was an order.” 

Berrigan’s eyes flashed. For a brief second, his jaw dropped in surprise, but he recovered quickly. His eyes were like steel when he answered. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“I don’t take orders from you.” 

“I am your Commandant!” 

“I answer to the King.” Berrigan glanced over to where Duncan stood at the door before meeting Crowley’s eyes again. “You do, too.” 

There was a pause before Duncan gave his verdict. 

“I will not stoop to Morgarath’s level,” he said. “He stays alive.” 

Crowley scoffed. Taking one last look at Tiller, his eyes roamed over his cowing figure. One look at the terror in his eyes was all Crowley needed to see to know that the man knew nothing of Morgarath’s plan. His loyalty had done him no favors. 

“Pathetic,” he said before storming away. 

Somehow, he left the chamber even more silent than when he had first entered the room. 

Chapter Text

~Halt~ 

If you asked Halt, he would have told you that he despised dungeon cells. The problem was that he seemed to have a knack for getting thrown into them. 

Letting his head fall back against the stone wall with a thud, he closed his eyes. A warm trickle of blood dripped from his nose. It seeped into his lips and onto his tongue, but he ignored the metallic, salty tang. There was also a low buzz in his ears. It was muffled underneath the pressure that tormented his head—a dull and slow ache. He ignored that too. 

Over and over again, Halt replayed the scene in his mind. He just didn’t understand. Where had it all gone wrong? What happened? 

The dinner had been a trap, but Halt had known that going in. He was supposed to deflect; he was supposed to distract. He was supposed to have the upper hand because he knew how to play the game. 

Morgarath, it seemed, had been playing a different game entirely. 

His fate had been sealed the moment he stepped foot into that dining room. It had been small, furnished only by a table made of hardwood. They exchanged pleasantries, but that was it. There had been no signs of what was to come. 

Dinner was served, then. Steak, potatoes, and bread: nothing special. Morgarath had smiled when the mug of coffee was presented along with the jar of honey. Halt remembered the way he had raised his wine glass for a toast. Cheers to us and a new future.  

Morgarath hadn’t been near his food or drink. The coffee had been poisoned from the moment it was placed on the table. The coffee or—Halt wrinkled his nose at the thought—the honey. 

That wasn’t important though. What was important was that there had been poison. That meant Morgarath had been prepared. Something or someone had tipped him off, and Halt was only lucky to have detected it before anything too drastic happened. Not that it mattered—he was still locked in a cell with a ball and chain. If the poison was meant to kill, then Halt was sure he wouldn’t be breathing right then. 

After all, there were other ways to dispose of a person. 

Sighing, Halt finally reached up to wipe the blood off his face. He tugged at his chains for the millionth time, giving no reaction when the cuffs only dug deeper into his skin. He looked around the cell as if he would find something new, something that he missed. There was nothing. Gorlan’s dungeons were as plain as they got. Halt had nothing but a reeking chamber pot in the far corner. 

The click of the cell unlocking drew Halt out of his thoughts. He thrashed against his chains as a couple of guards took him by the arms. There was a cry when he elbowed one hard in the ribs. The ball and chain around his ankle suddenly clattered to the ground, and he thanked the guard that had unlocked it with an old-fashioned kick between the legs. 

Halt got a couple more blows in before more guards arrived. The scuffle ended as quickly as it began. He was helpless as the guards dragged him into a nearby room. He hissed when they brought him to the back wall. His hands were chained above his head—he was practically hanging. The ball and chain on his ankles were replaced with shackles that locked his legs together. If there was hope for escape before, then there certainly wasn’t anymore. 

“This would be a lot easier if you would stop struggling.” 

Halt froze. Shivers ran down his spine as he lifted his head up to meet Morgarath’s blue eyes. They were ice. Cold, chilling ice. 

“Oh, good.” Morgarath said, drawing out his words. “You do know how to follow instructions.” 

Halt glared at him. “What do you want from me?” 

“From you?” Morgarath said. He walked forward, towering over Halt so that he had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “You’ve had your chance. I don’t need anything from you, much less want .” 

Morgarath stepped back as two guards shuffled over with a table. They slammed it onto the ground in front of Halt, causing a blanket of dust to kick up. Halt choked on his own breath, clamping his mouth shut to keep from coughing. His eyes flashed when a third guard followed with a mug of steaming coffee. He set it on the table with a jar of honey, its scent deceptively sweet. 

“I’ve given this some thought,” Morgarath continued, clasping his hands behind his back. His boots clicked against the ground as he paced back and forth. “What shall I do with the infamous Arratay…” He stopped abruptly, turning towards Halt with a glint in his eye. “…if that even is your real name.” 

Morgarath seemed to consider Halt for a moment, eyes narrowing as something seemed to click in his brain. He hummed thoughtfully to himself, but whatever it was, it didn’t deter him. He resumed pacing. 

“It is strange, you know,” he said, “how quickly the rangers—and yes, I know they are the ones behind this—recruited you into their ranks. Even more strange is your willingness to go along with them, don’t you think?” 

Morgarath stopped in front of the table. Halt watched as he dipped a spoon into the honey, golden-brown. His hand was uncannily steady as he raised the silver spoon up into the air before tilting it onto its side. The lump of honey splattered into the coffee. 

“I’ve heard the stories about you; it’s why I hired you in the first place. They called you ruthless and remorseless. You’ve never once failed a job. Your skills are legend in Gallica.” 

Morgarath swirled the coffee around before placing the spoon back on the table. He looked at Halt. A nod is all it took for a guard to grab him by the collar. The buttons on his tunic popped open, and the guard all but ripped the front of it, exposing Halt’s chest. 

“No oakleaf,” Morgarath said, more to himself than Halt. “And yet your skillset is identical to the one of a ranger.” 

Halt asked again. “What do you want from me?” 

“The question is not what I want from you but what I can do with you. My records have no mention of you, but you are a ranger. That much is clear.” 

“I am not a ranger.” 

Morgarath made a hand motion. Rough hands pried open Halt’s jaw, and hot coffee was poured down his throat. Halt choked down the drink, sputtering. 

“I already told you I despise liars,” Morgarath said. His face was blank, expressionless. “You have information,” he continued. “Real information. The rangers wouldn’t have sent you here if you were a nobody.” 

“I don’t—” 

More coffee burned down his throat, hot and vile. The world spun in circles trying to keep up. 

“More lies,” Morgarath sighed. “I thought you were a smart man.” 

“You’re not getting anything out of me.” Halt’s voice came out slow, slurred. 

“Am I not?” Morgarath quirked up an eyebrow. He smirked. “Word will soon spread about a little ranger called Halt who is being kept prisoner right here in this castle.” 

Color drained out of Halt’s face at the use of his given name. “How—” 

“I look forward to meeting your rescue party.” 

Halt’s world went black as more coffee was poured down his throat. 

Chapter Text

~Will~ 

Night fell swiftly over Araluen, rendering the bright reds and oranges of autumn a leaden, lifeless shadow. The moon was but a sliver in the sky, a faint silver masked by the veil of dark, wispy clouds. There was no light in the village and definitely no noise. Not a single soul dared to walk the streets in the pitch black. 

That was, no soul except for Will and his companions. 

With Will in the lead, the four friends walked silently down the main cobblestone street. Castle Gorlan was like a beacon at the end of the road. Torches lined the top of the ramparts, in between the stone parapets. Guards clad in black and gold stood at the ready, their expressions hidden underneath an iron helmet. 

“Last chance to turn back,” Will said. His voice was barely a whisper in the breeze. Coming to a stop a little ways off the path, he turned back to look at his friends. “I won’t hold it against any of you if you want to leave.” 

Alyss scoffed. She reached out to take Will’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Never,” she said. “We’re in this together.” 

Horace’s strong hand landed on top of theirs. “This is for the revolution,” he said. “For Araluen.” 

All eyes turned to Cassandra, then. For a split second, Will was afraid she would turn back. Instead, a smirk spread onto her face. Her eyes glittered as she added her hand to the pile. “Morgarath won’t know what hit him.” 

Will looked between Alyss, Horace, and Cassandra. Breathing out a sigh of acceptance, he squeezed their hands. “Okay,” he said. “According to Alyss, the guards will rotate at midnight. We make our move, then.” 

“Remember,” Alyss continued. “We’ll only have two minutes. Since the main gate will be shut, the only way in is up and over.” 

“Right.” Will nodded. “Cassandra and I will scale the wall first. We’ll help you and Horace up once we’re at the top.” 

“Then, we split up.” Cassandra nodded at Alyss. “Alyss and I will search the upper levels.” 

“That leaves me and Will with the lower ones,” Horace finished. 

Alyss tightened her grip on the three. “It’s a solid plan,” she said. “Just remember to stick with your partner. We meet at the edge of town at first light, with or without Halt.” 

“We’re going to save him,” Will said firmly. “There is no without Halt.” 

“I sure hope you’re right.” 

Will met the eyes of his friends one last time before finally letting go. “Follow my lead,” he said.  

Getting down on his knees, Will dug his fingers into the ground beneath him. The earth broke easily, rough and crumbly against his skin. Pulling up his hood, he didn’t wait for anyone as he began crawling, though it was more like shuffling, closer to the castle. 

Trust the cloak. That was the phrase Halt had used the day they had practiced unseen movement, and though he didn’t own a ranger cloak, Will hoped his plain brown one would do the trick. 

There were no trees around Castle Gorlan, a great tactical advantage for the guards inside and a great annoyance to anyone trying to get in. If it were daytime, Will was sure they would have already been caught. He was careful to keep his head below the blades of tall grass, staying as physically close to the ground as he could. To the eyes of any far-off onlooker, they could have been a couple of dogs or a gust of wind. 

The next hour felt like several, and Will’s muscles threatened to collapse underneath him. He didn’t know how long he had been dragging himself through the dirt, but his clothes had been thoroughly soiled. It wasn’t until he reached the base of the castle that Will let himself relax, falling face flat onto the ground. 

His heart almost left his chest when Horace started to sit up beside him. Will had never moved so fast. He yanked down on Horace’s arm, Cassandra tugging at his other. The next thing he knew was Horace’s weight falling on his back, crushing him further into the earth. Against his will, a cry escaped Will’s lips. Alyss’s glare forced him to swallow down a cough as Horace carefully rolled off him. 

The next couple of seconds felt like eternity as the four collectively held their breaths for anyone to notice their presence. Luckily, none of the guards seemed to have heard, and an uncomfortable silence washed over the fields. Relaxing once more, Will shivered despite the beads of sweat that had built up on his neck. They hadn’t even gotten into the castle, and he already wanted to puke. He smiled gratefully when Alyss placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

Midnight couldn’t have come soon enough. Will almost missed it, having mistaken the crescent with a bright star. It was the shuffling of iron boots against stone that drew him to attention. Scrambling up onto his feet, he used Horace as a boost up onto the wall. 

Will’s fingers curled around a stone, feet swinging wide to find a crevice. He reached up for another stone. His boot found another foothold and up he went. Rolling onto the ramparts, he turned to pull up Cassandra who was just behind him. Underneath her, Horace gave Alyss a boost up the wall. 

They probably didn’t have much longer. With each breath, the guards could have returned at any given moment. 

“Come on, come on,” Will said to himself as he stretched out his arm as far down as he could, reaching for Alyss’s hand.  

“I can hear the guards coming back!” Cassandra frantically whispered. She dropped down beside Will, offering out her own hand. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.  

Will could hardly breathe. In his chest, his heart screamed. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Horace, who had caught up to Alyss on the wall, grabbed her, using all his might to lift her up and over. “Hide!” he hissed up at them when they turned back down towards him. “Quickly now!” 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Will practically pushed the girls away, not looking to see whether they had gotten away before vaulting back over the rampart, hanging on with only one hand. “Horace!” 

But Horace had already let go, falling back onto the ground. Will had no choice but to follow, landing on the grass just as two guards resumed their position on the ramparts. He could only hoped that Alyss and Cassandra had gotten to some semblance of safety. 

“We need to find another way in,” Horace said, pulling Will up onto his feet. “Come on, hug the wall.” 

Pressed against the wall, Will pulled his cloak tighter around him. He followed Horace along the castle wall, careful not to make any unnecessary sounds. His heart still roared in his ears, his fists clenched from all the stress. He didn’t notice when Horace suddenly stopped, running into his back. “Wha—?” 

Horace turned back. His eyes were wide. “The main gates are open!” 

“What?” Will pushed past Horace and peered around the corner. Sure enough, the main gate, which was almost certainly meant to be closed shut, was wide open. 

“That’s our chance!” Horace whispered excitedly into Will’s ear. “That’s our way in.” 

“This doesn’t feel right,” Will whispered back even though he knew Horace was right. His eyes darted around for any signs of guards, but there was none close by. In the distance, a horse snored in its slumber. 

“We need to hurry,” he said. Horace was hot on his heels when Will made a run for it, ducking under the main gate and turning sharply to the right. He led Horace to where he remembered to be the stables, squatting down behind a hay bale. 

“Oh-my-gods-I-didn’t-think-that-would-work,” he gasped as he slid down onto the ground. 

Horace hummed in agreement. Giving Will a pat on the shoulder, he peered over the hay bales towards the castle proper. After a moment, he ducked back down. “That window over there’s open. Coast seems to be clear.” 

Will peered around the corner and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “On three. One… two…” Horace took off, leaving Will scrambling behind him. He leapt over the window sill and into the castle. 

They found themselves in a hallway. It was dimly lit with a few candles and thankfully, empty. Looking down, Will cringed when he realized that their boots were leaving a muddy trail on the red carpet. 

“We should check the dungeons first,” Horace muttered. “In case they already confronted him about Arald.” 

“Agreed.” 

Side by side, Will and Horace walked down the hall. It didn’t take long before they found a staircase down. Floral wallpaper slowly turned to cold stone, and Will felt a chill come over him. The air tasted different there—more sinister, metallic. 

Horace seemed to think the same. He stood up straighter, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. An almost fearful expression washed over his face, souring his fair complexion. “This is too easy,” he muttered, half to himself. 

Turning the corner, Will came face to face with an open door. He held a breath as he passed through into the dungeon, eyeing the rows and rows of cells. His eyes immediately zoned onto a splatter of dark splatters on the floor—blood. 

He didn’t say a word to Horace, following the trail deep into the dungeon and to another doorway. “Halt?” he said as he pushed the door open. 

And there he was—the man they were trying to save. Will’s heart would have stopped if not for Horace’s hand on his back. 

A puddle of blood pooled on the ground. Halt’s body was slumped forward, held up only by the iron that chained his wrists to the wall. His uneven hair fell flat over his face, slick with grease. Or maybe it was more blood. He wasn’t moving. 

Will hurdled towards the man, sliding down onto his knees. He grabbed onto Halt’s shoulders, tilting his head up so that he could see his face. “Halt!” 

Halt twitched. A groan escaped his lips, though his eyes remained close. “Will?” he croaked. 

“We need to get him out of here.” 

Horace was already studying the chains around Halt’s wrists. In his hands, he held a mallet he had picked up on the floor. “It’s going to be loud,” he said. 

“Do it.” 

Clang! 

In Will’s arms, Halt seemed to shift in response to the noise. 

Clang!  

A hand wrapped around Will’s wrist. He looked down as Halt’s eyes flung open. 

Clang! 

“Will?” he said as Horace hit the chains again. “Horace?” 

Clang! 

“We’re here Halt.” 

Clang! 

“You shouldn’t be. No, no…” 

Clang!

“You boys need to get out of here.” 

Clang! 

“What do you mean?” 

With what strength he had, Halt slammed his body into Horace and knocked him away. “You need to run, it’s a trap!” 

“We’re not going anywhere without you!” 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Will saw the shadows shift. He spun around, landing on his rear end. He reached for his knife. 

A second door in the far corner of the room creaked open. Silver-blond hair was a stark contrast against the dark gloom. 

“My, my,” came Morgarath’s drawl. “What do we have here?”  

Chapter Text

~Gilan~ 

Tales of the kalkara had been passed down for generations. They were the stuff of legend, old folklore that mothers told hyperactive children upon the coming of night. They were terrible creatures, larger and stronger than wargals and great predators of the mountains. It was said that one look in their eyes left the mind and heart paralyzed. No one had ever survived an encounter with the kalkara. 

Stories. That’s what Gilan had thought they were. Simple bedtime stories to scare little boys to sleep. It had worked on him when he was younger, and Gilan wished more than anything that he was still a child hiding beneath his covers. Instead, he was standing on the Celtic-Araluen border in the midst of a great battle. The Mountains of Rain and Night towered in the distance, and if he knew his geography, the Celtic Fissure was close too. 

None of that mattered though. The kalkara were real. And their eyes… they were red. Deep and dark red, filled with bloodlust and hatred and all-things-tragic. Red like fire whose smoke blotted out the whole sky, tarnishing the light of the sun. They were red like the very horns of the devil himself. 

And yet, they were also mesmerizing. Hypnotic and spellbinding—just like fear. It was the feeling of dread, but Gilan could not tell for what. Despair with no way to make better, sorrow with no joy on the other side. The not knowing of what was to come, the feeling of being lost in the dark. It was the knowledge that he could do nothing to stop the imminent future, a fear that glued his feet flat on the ground, slackened his arm, and loosened his grip. Sweat perspired on the back of his neck, and his sword clanged uselessly onto the ground. 

The sound of battle surrounding him might as well have been silence because he did not hear. Could not. All he could do was watch as the beast approached, and he was even failing at that. 

Suddenly, he was taken back to a more peaceful time. Back home to Caraway, where the wind brushed against the quiet meadow and the sea washed waves to shore. Except it wasn’t peaceful at all. 

His father was angry. He would not admit it, but Gilan saw it in the way he drew his shoulders back. His fists were clenched tight, chin set straight as he marched across the open grass. Gilan scrambled to keep up. 

“I’m sorry!” he said for what must have been the fifth time. “It was just a bit of fun, I didn’t know—” 

His father spun on his heels. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Gil,” he said. “Don’t you know that you are one of the brightest kids I’ve ever known? The brightest kid. You have to know that, right? You’re a natural with that sword of yours, and you have the head of a brilliant tactician. You are the very person that so many of your fellow peers aspire to be. They dream about it, hope it beyond any measure of hope, and they train for it night and day just so they can be a sliver of what you are. Don’t you know that?” 

“Father…” 

“Don’t “father” me! I may be your father by blood, but here on these grounds, I am your battlemaster and you are an apprentice. There is no special treatment, no days off because you want it, and definitely no higher rank because you are friendly with the baron. Do you understand that? Those are all things you earn, not things that you have. You have to work for it the same as any other cadet, do you understand that?” 

“Father, I—” 

“Gilan.” 

Gilan stopped in his tracks. He looked up into his father’s eyes and caught a glint that made goosebumps dance down his back. A cold realization settled in his bones as he realized that it wasn’t anger that plagued his father. Not anger but fear. 

“You have to promise me to never do that again. Even if you have the authority or power, you cannot make anyone, not even a friend, do anything that may put unnecessary harm in their way. Even if it isn’t physical. You simply cannot. It’s not a prank if it isn’t funny. It’s manipulative, and it is cruel. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, father.” 

His father seemed to soften at that. He sighed. “You’re still a child, so—”

“I’m eighteen.” 

“A child. You may not understand this now, but sometimes having something means just that. Maybe it’s just a toy you cling onto because it gives you comfort. You do everything with it—eat, sleep, bathe. But as you grow older, you realize you don’t need it anymore because it wasn’t anything special. Just a toy. You can still live without it.” 

“Isn’t that obvious? Only children play with toys.” 

“Gilan, please. It is the same with power. You have lived your whole life with the power that comes from being my son, but that’s just it. Power is just an idea. Do not let it blind you to everything else. Not like…” 

The name was left unsaid, but Gilan knew of whom his father spoke of. King Morgarath. 

“Okay. I understand… At least, I think I do. But father— father!” 

His father turned just in time to avoid an arrow to the back. He yelled something, but Gilan didn’t hear. Blood roared in his ears as he stood like a statue. Stood and did nothing. He was frozen as a second assassin struck his father on the head. Frozen as they turned to him. 

Frozen as the kalkara lifted a paw, sharp with talons. Gilan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for impact. 

But the blow didn’t come. 

There was a howl instead, one of guttural pain. The sound of it made Gilan want to curl up and hide in a ball. Stumbling back, he landed on the ground with a thud. And that’s when he realized. He could move again. 

Gilan’s eyes flashed open to reveal a singular man standing between him and the kalkara. His armor was light leather, and unlike most of the soldiers in the midst, he was armed only with a spear. In his other hand, he brandished a torch. 

The kalkara roared, slamming down onto the ground so that it was on all fours. Gilan opened his mouth to scream. “Watch out!” 

The man barely flinched. Pulling his hand back, Gilan watched in awe as he threw the torch with an uncanny precision. It landed straight onto the kalkara. One second it was a great beast and the next it was only a ball of fire. The flames caught onto its waxy, heavily matted fur, rising straight up to the sky. 

The kalkara roared again, louder. Angrier. It screeched as it pointed its gaze towards the man, but he didn’t freeze. He thrusted his spear forwards as the kalkara charged forward, skewering it as if it was a wild boar. 

The kalkara fell onto the ground, burning. Dead. 

But it wasn’t over yet. 

Gilan yelled as a wargal came charging forward, knocking the brave man to the ground. There was a scream, but he couldn’t tell from who as he lunged for his sword. There was only red as he leaped for the wargal, slashing at it.  

It swatted at Gilan, spinning around and tossing him back down onto the grass. But then, the man was on his feet again. There was a gash at his side, but that didn’t stop him. He held a sword now, Gilan’s sword, and the way he moved was akin to the speed of a leopard. 

He fought back against the wargal with a ferocious fervor, blood, guts, and all. And if the wargals had any feeling at all, Gilan thought it was fear for the way it started to back away. A second more, and the wargal was sent retreating. 

“You… you saved me.” Gilan turned to the man. “Thank you, I—” 

Gilan felt his stomach flip as the man fell onto his back, having spent all his energy. His brown hair was matted with sweat, sticking to his face which turned paler by the second. Only his cheeks were flushed red. 

A memory tugged itself from the back of his mind. Gilan widened his eyes when he realized what it was. “You!” he gasped. “You’re Will’s dad! Daniel!” 

Daniel opened his eyes when Gilan knelt beside him, brown like the soil he had once tended to. “Sir Gilan,” he said with a wince. 

The side gash didn’t look too good. Gilan felt his heartbeat rising as he ripped a piece of fabric from his cape. When he moved to press it against the wound, red and hot, a hand pushed up to stop him. 

“Don’t…” Daniel gasped. “It’s too late for me now. You have to tell Will… tell Will…” 

“No no no, you’re going to live. You have to live!” Gilan felt tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m going to save you.” 

“No…” His voice was getting weaker. “Tell my son… tell Will that I love him…” 

“Tell him yourself!” Gilan was crying now. “Please.” 

“Tell him that I’m so proud of him…” 

Gilan gripped onto Daniel’s hand as he spoke. 

“Tell him that he was the best thing to have ever happened…” 

“Tell him… Tell him…” 

His voice faded out as the light left his eyes. Gilan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the tears to run down his face. He wished that he was anywhere but there. He wished that he hadn’t failed again. He wished that he was better. 

He wished that the battle still roaring around him was nothing but a bad dream. 

But like every other day, Gilan’s wishes were left unanswered.