The sun hung low on the horizon. It had been up for less than an hour and was starting to drive back the night’s chill. What should have been a rapid and uneventful return home had extended into a prolonged and painful ordeal after the ambush, a grueling trek straight through the night.

Alaric was exhausted and spent. Each weary step spoke to his fatigue as he closed in on the familiar sight of his home, his castle and keep. Dragon Bone’s Rest was a mere five hundred yards ahead. His heart lightened at the sight of the battlements, the castle towering over the town.

His cavalry escort had already gone ahead the last few hundred yards, their hoofbeats fading into the distance as they approached the gates of the keep and rode on through. Now, only Alaric and his Shadow Guard lingered behind with Eld and the knights’ weary men-at-arms.

Behind him, leading their horses, were Ezran and Thorne. Mirroring Alaric’s own fatigue, their faces were etched with the toll of the long march and lack of sleep. Trailing the men-at-arms was a creaking cart, an old and battered wooden thing Alaric had pressed into service after bargaining with a local farmer and paying more than he should have for its purchase. It was a makeshift solution, but a necessary one.

In the bed lay Torrin, his body still and pale against the rough and coarse wood. He clung to life—just barely. The last Ezran had checked, the knight’s breathing was shallow and his pulse weak. From lack of grease, the cart’s axle creaked loudly as it trundled forward. With a grave expression, Eld rode his horse beside the cart.

Torrin was mercifully unconscious. He had not woken since the arrow had been removed and the wound cauterized. Had he been awake, Alaric was certain the journey by cart, with each bump and jostle, would have been a torment. Sweat glistened on his brow and upper lip, speaking to the fever raging through his body.

As they neared Dark Forge, the traffic along the road in the early morning hours had increased, a lively flow of carts and travelers that was yet another sign of the growing prosperity of Alaric’s rule. Where once the sight of a military column might have sent the civilians scurrying for cover, now it brought friendly waves and hearty greetings.

Despite his weariness, Alaric, marching at the head of his column, acknowledged these greetings with nods and an occasional raised hand, his heart warmed by the transformation.

The silence among Alaric’s party was profound, a heavy quiet born from exhaustion and lack of sleep. For the last hour, barely a word had been exchanged, each member conserving what little energy they had left to simply place one foot in front of the other. The rhythmic thud of horse hooves, the sound of boots falling, the occasional squeak of leather, and the creak of the cart were the only sounds punctuating the stillness as they closed the final distance to the castle and marched up to the drawbridge.

The entire outer wall to either side of the gatehouse was swathed in scaffolding, an intricate web of wood and rope that climbed up the ancient stone walls. Dozens of workers from the kingdom and far beyond dotted this framework. Some were high up on the scaffolding, working at restoring the masonry, while others were on the ground preparing mortar and stones. The wall, witness to centuries of history, showed signs of significant wear and weathering but was now receiving the much-needed attention that had been deferred for a very long time.

This rehabilitation effort was yet another monumental undertaking for Alaric, both in scope and cost. Recognizing the specialized skills required for such a restoration, he had not hesitated to seek out the best and most skilled craftsmen, importing laborers from across the kingdom and even from foreign shores.

Over the last eighteen months, significant improvements had been made on the castle. Rotting and in terrible shape, the drawbridge had been completely replaced. The portcullis was also repaired and reinforced. Like much of the rest of the castle, the gatehouse itself had undergone extensive repairs—the stone facing meticulously restored, the aging mortar checked and replaced where necessary. A fresh layer of protective plaster now shielded the structure from the elements. Reinforced wooden gates had been added as well, replacing the ones that had literally been splintering and falling apart.

Upon reaching the drawbridge, they were greeted by the sight of guards who stood alert and ready. These sentinels straightened, snapping to attention and saluting as Alaric led his party across, the sound of their boots and the hooves of the horses resonating hollowly against the wooden planks. The reinforced and steel-studded castle gates were opened wide.

Leading the column, Alaric passed under the gatehouse and into the short tunnel that led to the courtyard. He couldn’t help but glance upward at the dark murder holes lurking above. These grim reminders of the castle’s defenses now looked down on a lord returning from the trials of leadership, rather than an enemy to repel. It was a profound moment, crossing from the vulnerability of the road into the fortified embrace of his ancestral home—to safety.

Emerging from the shadows of the gatehouse tunnel and back into the sunlight, Alaric was greeted by the sight of Arms Master Hamlin and Captain Jaxen awaiting his arrival in the courtyard. Alaric’s cavalry escort had already dismounted. Horses were picketed by the stables, and hands moved about, assisting as the animals were unsaddled. Other soldiers and workers had stopped to watch and were gathered around the courtyard.

“My lord,” Hamlin called out, stepping forward and offering a respectful bow. Jaxen, too, bowed deeply, his stern and serious features softening a tad.

“Welcome home,” Jaxen added.

Jaxen, the son of Duncan—one of Alaric’s bannermen—stood with a poise and confidence that spoke of his recent responsibilities and training, along with personal growth. He had also earned Alaric’s trust.

“Hamlin, Jaxen,” Alaric said as he stepped aside, joining both men so the small column of tired and weary soldiers could pass them by. Scaffolding clung to the interior walls, where workers actively hammered and chiseled. “How are things here?”

“Fine, my lord,” Hamlin responded promptly. “Your messenger reached us late last night. Based on your description of the tattoos on the assassins’ hands, I’ve written to each town, village mayor, bailiff, and settlement’s headman to be on the lookout for such individuals. I took the liberty of informing them to watch specifically for people wearing gloves.”

“What of the bannermen?” Alaric pressed.

“I’ve informed them as well,” Hamlin assured.

“We’ve also checked the workers here in the castle, each and every one,” Jaxen added. “None have the tattoos you wrote of.”

“Very good.” Alaric’s gaze followed the cart as the driver halted in the middle of the courtyard and then pulled hard on the break, locking it in place with a heavy clunk. Next to the wagon, Eld dismounted, looped the reins of his horse to a board on the back of the wagon, glanced into the bed at his fellow knight, scowled, and looked up and around. He spotted Alaric and then approached as his and Torrin’s men wearily shrugged out of and dropped their packs upon the ground.

“Have you summoned the doctor?” Alaric asked, his voice carrying a commanding edge as Eld joined them.

“Aye, my lord,” Hamlin confirmed, gesturing off to the left at a building that was attached to the south wall. Next to it was the stables where the cavalry and stable hands, under Lieutenant Ganister’s supervision, were still hard at work. Horses were being led inside to be fed and groomed. “They are waiting in the sick room in the barracks.”

Eld’s expression tightened.

“No, that won’t do,” Alaric said. “Our injured man is a knight in my service and of the nobility. Have him brought to a room in the keep and send the doctors to him. His every need is to be seen to. Is that understood?”

“It is, my lord,” Hamlin responded.

Eld’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The knight’s exhausted gaze dropped briefly to the ground before lifting again, resolve hardening his features. “Better send for a priest too.”

“The men we’ve brought back with us need to be quartered here in the castle, preferably in the barracks,” Alaric said to his arms master.

Hamlin turned to Jaxen, the expectation clear in his directive. “Can you handle all that?”

“I can and will,” Jaxen responded promptly, his voice steady and confident. He inclined his head to Alaric before moving off toward the cart, calling over some of his men, who’d clearly been drilling in the courtyard before their arrival.

“Arms Master Hamlin, may I introduce Sir Eld of the Order of Saint Vinthus. He is a knight in my service, as is Sir Torrin in the cart,” he announced with a tone of formality.

“It is an honor to meet you, Sir Eld,” Hamlin responded, extending his hand in a gesture of respect. Eld grasped Hamlin’s hand firmly, the handshake sealing the introduction.

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“It is a pleasure to meet you, Arms Master,” Eld replied, offering the appropriate respect that Hamlin deserved. He looked around the courtyard at the walls and then the keep. “I am impressed by this castle.” Eld looked to Alaric. “It is old, yes, construction dating back to imperial times?”

Just then, a stir at the main entrance to the keep caught Eld’s attention as the door opened. The knight turned toward the movement, his eyes narrowing slightly. Accompanied by Alaric’s mother, Rikka had emerged, her presence drawing the attention of all those nearest. Strikingly beautiful, her black hair tied back into a single tight braid, Rikka wore a deep blue dress. Alaric felt his heart quicken at the mere sight of her. Some of the weariness that clawed at him faded.

Rikka moved with a grace that seemed almost as if she glided across the ground, the hem of her dress whispering against the stone of the courtyard. Alaric’s mother was at her side, wearing a green dress that was one of her favorites. Elara’s long gray hair had been brushed straight and cascaded down her shoulders. Both women approached with determined strides, their expressions filled with plain concern.

Eld’s eyes upon Rikka widened as she joined them, as if he somehow recognized her. He stiffened before bowing deeply. “It is an honor to meet another lumina.”

Feeling surprise, not to mention concern at the man’s words, Alaric glanced sharply at Eld. How had this knight recognized Rikka for what she was? More importantly, Alaric had just learned there were more lumina out there. He’d thought Rikka the last of her kind.

Rikka frowned, her feelings clearly mirroring Alaric’s intrigue and unease, not to mention startlement. Becoming intense, her gaze locked with Eld’s. For a long moment, she studied the knight, scrutinizing him closely.

“And who are you?” Like the crack of a whip, the authoritative voice of Alaric’s mother cut through the tension. She herself had cast a severe look upon the knight. Over the last two years, she and Rikka had grown close. Elara now viewed her as a mother might a daughter and her protective instinct had come out.

“I am Sir Eld of the Order of Saint Vinthus, recently sworn to Lord Alaric’s service,” Eld responded.

“Saint Vinthus,” Rikka echoed, her voice a near whisper. “That is a name I have not heard in a long while, many years, to be certain.” She paused as Eld’s gaze shifted back to her. “Interesting. I had not realized there were such knights of that venerable order left on this world.”

“Like yourself, Lady Lumina, there are still a few of us around.” The knight’s demeanor was one of pure fascination, mixed perhaps, Alaric decided, with a healthy dose of reverence and awe. It was as if he stood before a figure from the legends of old rather than a flesh-and-blood person. Alaric could well understand that feeling, for sometimes he felt it himself.

“Saint Vinthus is indeed an old order,” Rikka agreed, her voice soft and velvety, “one with a noble, if not tragically dark history.”

Eld inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “All that is true. I deny it not. We work to rectify past errors. Such is my mission.”

“I can well imagine.” Rikka sucked in a breath and then let it out slowly before her gaze flicked to Alaric’s arms master. Hamlin was watching the exchange between the two curiously. He said nothing.

“You go to visit a friend and bring back a knight and more soldiers,” Elara remarked with a slight tease in her tone as she turned back to Alaric, her words slicing through the underlying tension. “I declare, you are like a child who brings a wild pet home and wants to keep it.”

“Sir Eld, may I introduce my mother, the Lady Elara.”

Eld’s response was a respectful bow. “My lady. It is an honor.”

“Sir Eld,” Elara returned the greeting with sudden warmth, “welcome to Dragon Bone’s Rest, our home.”

“I am honored to serve your house, my lady,” Eld responded.

Rikka’s gaze had turned to Alaric. Then it flicked once more to Hamlin before returning to him. Alaric understood the warning in that look, the hidden meaning. Though trusted, the arms master was not privy to all their secrets, most importantly, the ones surrounding Rikka.

“Hamlin,” Alaric directed as he struggled to stifle a yawn, feeling the weariness creep back upon him, “kindly see Sir Eld to Castellan Artras. He will require suitable quarters and, like the rest of us, needs food, a bath, and more importantly, some rest.”

“At once, my lord,” Hamlin acknowledged and then held out a hand toward the keep’s entrance. “This way, if you will, sir knight.”

With Hamlin leading, both men departed and disappeared inside, leaving Alaric with his mother and Rikka. Elara watched them go before turning back to Alaric. Her expression was tinged with concern, her gaze piercing and calculating as she looked on her son.

“The assassination attempt, how sure are you it was Sunara?” Elara queried, her voice steady and hard.

“The Black Hand are his personal assassins,” Alaric replied, his tone firm. “I have had encounters with them before. It is hard to imagine them acting without his knowledge or direct orders.”

“They would not make such a move on their own,” Ezran said, speaking up after leading his horse over.

“So, it is not Laval, then?” Elara pressed.

“I seriously doubt his involvement in this,” Alaric stated. “He would have to be conspiring with Sunara. Though Laval is a thoroughly despicable and untrustworthy person, I do not see them working together, especially Sunara. That man, though an enemy, still has honor—at least, I believe he does.”

“He did just try to assassinate you,” Ezran pointed out. “That is not the most honorable of actions.”

Alaric felt himself frown as he glanced over at the former ash man. “The holy land is a long way off.”

“But apparently not Sunara’s reach,” Ezran said, clearly enjoying the moment. Alaric could tell the other was suppressing a grin.

“Going forward, when you venture forth from the castle, you must take more protection with you,” Elara advised.

“We must all be on guard,” Rikka interjected. “There is no reason to think Sunara will not strike at us to get to your son. He will want to hurt Alaric any way he can.”

“She is quite correct,” Elara agreed. “We will need to take additional steps to protect ourselves, such as increasing the guard upon us here in the castle.” She paused for a heartbeat, glancing at the ground, clearly thinking. After a moment, she looked back up. “We could also return the favor, strike directly back at the man.”

“You mean send paid assassins for Sunara himself?” Alaric asked. That certainly was an option, one that would cost a significant sum. Though Sunara had earned it, he wasn’t certain he was ready to cross that line. Perhaps, he considered, there might be another way to deal with this threat. Diplomacy might be in order. It was something to think upon.

“He is well guarded,” Ezran said. “I know that, for I was once counted amongst his most trusted. It will be difficult to get at him. Though I might be willing to take the risk if you wish it, my lord.”

Alaric glanced over at Ezran. The former ash man rarely spoke on those days, let alone his life before entering Alaric’s service as one of his Shadow Guard. That said, Alaric well knew Ezran’s past and how the man had served Sunara himself. Sending Ezran was something Alaric did not wish to do. Though he might be successful in the endeavor, it would likely end in the other man’s death. Alaric owed Ezran too much to send him on a suicide mission.

“No matter how difficult, it is something we should consider,” Elara said.

He gave a slow nod as he suppressed yet another yawn and failed. He had grown tired of the conversation. “We can talk about it later.”

“There is your child to think of,” Elara pressed, looking toward Rikka.

Alaric’s gaze shifted to Rikka, his heart responding with an unbidden quickening as he considered not just the peril they faced, but the deeply personal stakes now intertwined with her, the fact that she was carrying his child.

From outward appearances, Rikka looked human, but she was anything but. She also did not appear pregnant. Her race carried children far longer than humans. That she was expecting was a closely held and guarded secret, known only to him and a few others. For all intents and purposes, it was hidden from the wider world.

“Mother.” Alaric turned to face Elara. After the fight, Alaric had found a nearby stream and thoroughly washed the dried blood and gore off not only himself, but his armor. His entire party had done the same and then buried the dead. But he was now dusty and dirty once more, this time from the road. “I am tired. I need a bath, some food, and rest. We can discuss this later when I am up for it and fresh.”

“All right,” Elara said as she regarded him for a prolonged moment. Her gaze ran from his boots to his head. “You do stink of the road, sweat, and marching,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I will have a bath prepared, but you eat first. Though it is early in the morning, Missa will fix you something hearty, along with some of the good wine.”

Her instructions left no room for debate, and before Alaric could offer a reply, Elara had retreated back into the keep, the hem of her dress whispering against the stone as she went. Her swift departure was as much an act of command as it was an assurance—she would see to the details, just as she saw to much of the running of the keep. When she was set upon something, his mother was akin to a force of nature. There was just no stopping her.

“Almost alone,” Rikka commented, looking meaningfully at Ezran.

Understanding, Alaric turned. Thorne had just joined them. He, too, was holding the reins of his horse. Both men looked as exhausted as Alaric felt. “Go do what you both need to do. For the next few hours, I will be fine. Clean up, eat, and get some rest. You can resume your duties later.”

Ezran opened his mouth, but Rikka raised a finger, halting any protest before it could begin with a hard look. “He will be safe with me, ash man. You both well know that. No harm will come to him during my watch.”

Ezran hesitated a moment more and then gave a reluctant nod, leading his horse off toward the stables. Thorne followed.

“Alone,” Alaric said.

“How close was it?” Rikka asked. “Tell me the truth. How close did the ambush come to succeeding?”

“Closer than I would have preferred,” Alaric admitted. He had been dreading this conversation, for it would likely mean Rikka would not leave his side for a moment in the coming days. She viewed herself as much his protector as his Shadow Guard, for she was wholly convinced of the destiny awaiting him.

She bit her lip, which had trembled slightly at Alaric’s admission, and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Her embrace was a sanctuary, enveloping him in a comfort that was as much emotional as it was physical. The hint of lilacs from her dark hair was a familiar and soothing aroma, one that always seemed to ground him back to simpler, more personal matters.

She pushed back and away from him, her nose wrinkling. When she turned her eyes up to him, he saw unshed tears. “You do need a bath, and badly.” She glanced around them. There was no one in easy earshot. When she looked back upon him, there was something else in her gaze, a desperate desire, a hunger. When she spoke next, her voice was husky. “We can… talk after…” Her hand moved down to his groin, brushing against his manhood before being withdrawn.

“Yes,” Alaric agreed with a slight smile, his voice softening. “I think I would like that.”

“A date, then,” Rikka declared with a gentle firmness, extending her hand toward him again. Alaric took her hand, the near burning warmth of her touch reminding him of her unique nature, her alienness, an aspect of her being that he had come to cherish as a comforting constant.

“Perhaps you will even help me bathe,” Alaric suggested, “maybe even join me.”

“Perhaps,” she said coyly, her face downcast as she looked up at him.

Alaric grinned at her.

“Come.” She drew him toward the keep. The shadows of duty and exhaustion that clung to him began to retreat, chased away by the warmth of her presence, along with the thought of what was to come… after he bathed.