In the soft glow of her lantern, Mother Simonet patrolled the grounds, her one-armed silhouette unmistakable against the dim outline of the outhouse. The watchful guards snapped to attention as she passed, her steady pace carrying her beyond the murmuring kennels and through the tranquil hush of the gardens. The fading hum of the day’s toil settled under her measured steps, each one a quiet assurance that the estate would rest undisturbed, free from the restless pursuit of perfection.

  But the calm shattered with the sharp clatter of hooves at the manor gates. Without her signal, the heavy iron creaked open—unbidden, yet somehow expected.

  “Sir Bradfrey,” she said firmly, striding into the path of the approaching steed, her presence unwavering as she made herself known. “What brings you back so urgently? Should I be alarmed?”

  “I’m afraid they’ve appointed me head of the northern reinforcements,” Bradfrey said, shaking the night’s journey from his cloak. “We’re to pacify the north and hunt down the Viking threat.” Each breath from his horse merged with the icy air, veiling his face, where the cold had painted his cheeks a raw, wind-bitten red.

  “To finish what you started?” Simonet asked.

  “Indeed. My knights will rendezvous here tomorrow. Then we ride for Rekinvale for the winter, and if luck is kind, I’ll return before next summer.”

  “Then we shall start preparations tonight,” Simonet said, looping the reins around her half-amputated arm, fully intending to lead Bradfrey inside.

  “Please, I don’t wish to burden you at this hour,” he protested.

  “Nonsense. This is your house. We do as you command, my lord.”

  Bradfrey smiled warmly. He appreciated her straightforward nature—like a loyal friend who held him accountable without pretense. A quiet reminder of the standards he expected, not only of himself but of others.

  “Well,” he mused, “I do need a squire. Someone with integrity.”

  “Of course. There are several promising sons of noble families.”

  “Preferably no one of name. I don’t need the pride and politics that come with nobility.”

  “Perhaps Agrippa? The noble houses may not know his name, but they know his physique.”

  “If only he were literate. No, I need a squire who can write with precision—someone who can articulate my words in ways that instill fear in the queen’s court if needed.”

  “You speak of Anneliese.”

  “If there’s no one else?”

  “A barracks is no place for a young lady, nor can she become a knight if she can’t wield a sword.”

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  “Aye, then I’ll take them both.”

  “In that case,” said Simonet, “I suggest you oblige her yourself.”

  Bradfrey exhaled, already knowing the answer. “She’s still in the study?”

  “Every waking minute I don’t have her doing chores.”

  Beside the crackling fireplace, Anneliese sat perched on a lush bear hide, fingers gripping the edge of her book. Her eyes flitted feverishly between paragraphs, searching for wisdom—an escape woven into the intensity of her focus. So engrossed was she that she failed to notice Sir Bradfrey’s soft-footed entrance into the egregiously large study. Towering shelves, crammed with books and parchments, loomed above them, far beyond the reach of any mortal hand. Only the groan of a floorboard beneath his boot broke her concentration.

  Startled, she looked up and quickly rose to her feet. “My lord, I apologize.”

  “There’s no need,” Bradfrey said, waving her concern away with a tired gesture.

  “How may I be of service?”

  He tilted his head, curiosity breaking through the fatigue etched into his features. “Tell me, what are you reading?”

  “Democritus,” she replied, her voice cracking, laced with an unspoken angst. “His belief in nature—how everything is made of smaller, indivisible parts.”

  “And in what book?” Bradfrey asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do I even own such writings?”

  “You do, my lord. But you would need the ladder to retrieve them.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “In my youth, I pursued philosophical ideals and the promises of utopia. Now? It’s just crown and coin.”

  “If it pleases you, my lord, I could summarize their works for you in a simpler form,” offered Anneliese.

  “I’d like that.”

  For a moment, his gaze lingered on her, touched by nostalgia. But the call of duty loomed unbearably over his shoulders. With a grunted sigh, he straightened, molding himself into the leader the campaign required.

  “I have need of your skills.” He hesitated, weighing his words. “I’ve been ordered to lead the queen’s northern campaign. After careful consideration, I’ve chosen you as my scribe.”

  Anneliese froze, fingers tightening around the book. “We’re leaving?” The question caught in her throat. “What of Mother Simonet?”

  “I’m not needed.” A low voice emerged from the dim recesses of the hallway.

  Mother Simonet stepped into the light, her lone arm tucked neatly behind her back as she came to stand beside Sir Bradfrey. Looking upon Anneliese, her gaze was firm, knowing she was ready. “In the heat of command, even the sharpest tongues falter. That’s when he’ll need you most.”

  Anneliese frowned. “But… the Vikings are from the north.”

  “Aye,” Bradfrey replied. “And I will need clear correspondence if we are to defeat them. When the war is won, your words will become the histories that line these walls. Our victories, our triumphs.” He stepped closer, softening his voice. “What do you say?”

  Her jaw tightened as she looked down at the book still clutched in her hands. “I will do as required, my lord.”

  Bradfrey reached out, gently replacing the book with his hands. “Anneliese…” he began. “What does your heart say? Run or rise?”

  She hesitated, trapped in memories she could not banish—the pillaging of Lake Corvid, the deformed Viking with his glowing green axe, the screams, the blood. Fear and anger churned within her, inseparable and unrelenting. Slowly, she gripped his hands, trembling as she spoke.

  “It tells me… I’m safest by your side. But never safe, so long as the Vikings threaten your people.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. The tremor in her grasp stirred thoughts of past inadequacies, stripping away what little composure he held for the Northern Vikings. “When we find them, I will make a desert and call it peace.”

  But as the words left his lips, a subtle note of desperation crept into his tone.

  Anneliese’s fingers clenched around his sleeve, her grip sharp and unyielding, shattering his distant gaze. She buried her face against him, her rage-filled tears seeping into the fabric.

  Muffling her fractured cries, she whispered, “There will be no peace.”