Page 16 of The Guardian

He was a warrior. A commander. Duty demanded he ride at dawn, lead the full force of their might to flush out the murderers.

But Ailith, his Ailith, was alone. Vulnerable. And no matter how he tried to bury the truth, he couldn’t deny the pull in his chest. He loved her. Still.

As platters of roasted meat and trenchers of warm bread were passed down the long tables, Hendry sat stiffly among his comrades. The hall buzzed with the hum of anticipation, warriors murmuring about their plans. Which direction they’d ride. How they’d gut the traitors if given the chance. There was pride in their voices, excitement at the justice to come.

But the noise washed over him like a distant tide.

He couldn’t hear them. Not truly.

All he could see was Ailith. Her beautiful hazel eyes filled with fear. Her arms wrapped around that shaggy dog. The fragile peace she clung to out in that woodland cottage and how easily it could be shattered.

He had to act.

Rising from the bench with sudden resolve, he barely registered the turned heads. “Going to see my squire. I’ll return shortly.”

A few nods. A shrug. The others turned back to their meal and spirited talk of vengeance.

Hendry strode from the great hall, his pace brisk, his heart thudding with urgency. He searched the kitchens first. Empty, but for a few lingering servants who informed him Tobin had already eaten. Without pause, he turned toward the courtyard.

The soft clink of metal on stone led him to the blacksmith’s hut, where Tobin stood beneath the silvering sky, oiling a sword. The squire’s face lit up at the sight of him.

“I brushed down yer horse and sharpened yer blade.”

“That’s not why I came,” Hendry cut in, his voice firm, low.

Tobin blinked, straightening.

“Tell me, Tobin… have ye kept up with yer sword training?”

The lad’s chest puffed with pride. “Aye, sir. Daily. With Cynden and his first,” he said, referring to the laird’s youngest brother, who was in charge of training the squires and younger guard force.

Hendry gave a tight nod. Good. That made what he was about to say easier.

“Then I’ve a task for ye. One I dinnae give lightly.” His eyes locked with the young man’s. “It’s a matter of life and death. And I’m trusting ye to guard something… someone… I could nae bear if she were to be hurt or worse.”

Tobin’s face sobered, all youthful bravado vanishing as he stood straighter.

“Of course, sir,” he said.

Ailith bent low among the rows of her croft garden, her fingers brushing aside damp earth as she reached for a cluster of broad beans, their pods swollen and heavy with promise. A few leeks stood tall and proud nearby. While cabbages, large and pale green, glistened with dew in the morning light. She plucked each vegetable with care, brushing the soil from their roots with practiced movements. This harvest, while modest, was hard-won. She had planted everything in stages, thinking ahead, so she wouldn’t starve before spring’s thaw.

But she remembered too well the lean ends of winter, when her cupboard held only dried peas and the occasional tough squirrel or hare snared in the woods. Hunger had a memory. And it haunted her.

A sudden, low growl from Teller froze her in place.

Her heart leapt, a cold rush of fear replacing the warmth of the morning sun. She straightened sharply, her breath catching in her throat as she scanned the edge of the forest beyond the garden. Teller stood alert, hackles raised, eyes locked on something just beyond the trees.

Then she saw it. Movement. A rider, still distant, blurred by light and shadow.

Her pulse quickened. She clutched Teller’s scruff and backed toward the cottage, nearly stumbling as she turned and rushed through the door. Slamming it shut behind her, she leaned against the wood, her chest rising and falling as a wave of dread crested in her chest. Her hands trembled, and tears stung her eyes. It was becoming too much, living with the constant shadow of fear, never knowing if the next stranger would be the last thing she saw.

Moments passed. Then came a knock.

Teller launched into frantic barking, his body rigid with alert.

Ailith’s breath caught again. She crept toward the door, each step slow and deliberate, as if a wrong movement might shatter the fragile barrier between her and whomever waited outside.

A voice called through the din. Young. Not aggressive.