Giara walked east with her cloak drawn close, boots finding the quieter paths toward Ashgrove. The morning was damp with cold rain, trees whispering like gossiping elders. She traveled alone because her mother had ordered it, but also because Giara preferred to earn her own echoes. Danira and Lyzara would not come for a summons alone. They would come for a reason.

  The road wound past the first ploughed fields, then into the market edge. Ashgrove was half-awake — shutters creaking, dogs nosing mud, a girl hanging laundry that still smelled of hearthfire.

  Giara pulled her hood lower and slipped into the crowd. She asked nothing at first, only listened: mutters of prices, sighs of weather, laughter that darted away when work resumed. It was not until the tavern porch that she caught their names.

  “Danira swore she’d take the roof job, then left it to her sister.”

  “Lizzie’s the practical one. Danira just makes speeches.”

  The speaker spat, amused. Giara’s mouth twitched. Some things didn’t change.

  “Greencoats again last night,” the first man muttered. “Padric’s men. If the Hazen girls had Everveil at their back, those louts wouldn’t dare swagger past sundown.”

  Giara filed the name away, a trouble she’d half-expected to find waiting.

  She found them at the edge of the carpenter’s yard: Lyzara—called Lizzie by most—sorting planks, sleeves rolled, her red hair tied back against the wind, every motion measured and grounded, as if the wood would only behave for her.

  Danira perched on a beam above, dark hair tumbling loose as she talked with her hands like a hawk explaining the sky, her grin wide enough to dare the world to answer back. Both turned when Giara stepped into the light.

  “Gia,” Lyzara said, surprise softening her face. “Everveil sends you?”

  “Everveil sends herself,” Giara replied. “Mother wants you back.”

  Danira tilted her head, sharp-eyed. “Wants us, or needs tools?”

  Giara held the question without flinching. “Both.”

  Danira smiled, too wide. “At least you’re honest.”

  Lyzara set down the plank. “We’ll talk. Not today. Not as a yes. Padric’s crew has been stirring it,” she added, wary. “Drunk at the Pike, bold on the roads. If they keep pushing, someone will get killed.”

  “Someone will,” Danira said, jaw set, “if your mother thinks we’re the bait.”

  “So not yet, then,” Giara said.

  She let the words hang, neither plea nor command.

  As she turned, Lyzara’s voice chased her: “Gia—did you hear it?”

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  Giara paused.

  “The firebird,” Lyzara said. “Flew over Ashgrove two nights past. From the north, heading south. Some say it was just light on the clouds. But…” She hesitated. “It screamed.”

  Danira folded her arms, masking unease. “If your mother thinks to use omens, tell her some of us stopped being children long ago.”

  Giara inclined her head once, not arguing. “I’ll see you both soon.”

  The sisters watched her leave, one cautious, one defiant, the rumor of wings still between them.

  — — —

  Franz rode west at the head of twenty men, the Riverbrush Crossing marked by its half-collapsed bridge and the reeds that grew taller than a horse’s flank. Frannor rode just behind, jaw set, eyes searching not for river or brush but for shadows that remembered him.

  The green cloaks appeared before dusk—twelve men at first, then more slipping from the treeline. They carried swords like they meant to use them, not like bandits bluffing a toll. And at their center, leaning lazy on a spear, he stood.

  “Padric,” Frannor muttered, tasting the name like old iron. His rival’s grin came wide and mocking, the kind of smile that promised history wasn’t finished with them. Broad across the shoulders, a thick beard shot with gray, eyes sharp as flint under the hood of his cloak—time had made him heavier, but not slower. He carried the look of a man who had learned to thrive on grudges.

  “Frannie,” Padric called, voice carrying like mockery always does. “Didn’t think the queen would send you. Thought she’d keep you at the hearth where it’s safe.”

  Frannor’s horse stamped, reading his rider’s temper. “You’ve been stirring trouble in Ashgrove.”

  Padric spread his arms. “Men need ale. Women need company. What do you want me to say—that I took a coin not mine? Better that than dying loyal in a ditch.”

  “You were loyal once,” Frannor said.

  Padric laughed, low. “I was a fool once. Big difference.”

  Franz lifted his hand, steady as the dusk. “Enough talking.”

  The first volley of arrows hissed from Everveil’s side. Two green-cloaked men fell without sound, reeds thrashing red. Then steel met steel at the broken bridge.

  Franz’s voice cut through chaos: commands measured, precise. “Shields high—step!” His men moved like parts of one body, pushing the bandits back from the crossing.

  Frannor found Padric in the clash, blades sparking. Padric fought with the easy cruelty of someone who liked winning too much.

  “You always did swing like a farmer,” Padric jeered.

  “And you always did run like one,” Frannor shot back, forcing him a step toward the water.

  Jonrel slipped through the fight like a flame that refused to be stamped out, reckless grin alive. He cut down a man with a flick and flourish, then shouted, “Leave me something worth the trouble!”

  “Stay in line!” Franz barked, dragging him back into formation with the kind of authority that left no room for debate.

  Gresan bellowed as his hammer broke a shield in two, while Scuran darted past him, quicker than his size allowed, driving a blade into the gap before the man could recover. Together they moved like forge and flame, brutal and fast, reminding the bandits this was no tavern brawl.

  The green cloaks broke faster than their bluster had promised. Men fell into the reeds, blood dark in the water. Padric, bleeding from his arm, shoved two of his own men into Frannor’s path and slipped into the shadows of the far bank.

  “Frannor!” Gresan’s voice dragged him back. “We’ve won the ground!”

  Indeed—the crossing was theirs. Reedbeds swayed with silence. Survivors none, save the one who had slipped away.

  Franz dismounted, pulling a bloodied cloak from a fallen man. He held it up, dark cloth whispering in the river wind. “We’ll keep these. Stitch more. Let the Vale wonder if green means friend or foe.”

  Frannor's jaw stayed hard. “Padric lives.”

  “Then he’ll show himself again,” Franz said flatly. “And when he does, we’ll end him on ground of our choosing.”

  The Everveil men stripped the cloaks, bound them into bundles, and left the reeds to drink what blood remained. Night came with no pursuit.

  Frannor wiped his blade clean, then beckoned one of the younger knights closer.

  “Ride to the Castle. Tell Giara to send word to Ashgrove—Padric’s crew won’t trouble them again. Make sure the Hazens hear it.”

  The knight saluted and spurred off, reeds parting in his wake.

  The Riverbrush Crossing was theirs, but the shadow of Padric’s laughter lingered with the mist.