The road turned from dirt to gravel long before Toby reached the town. It was a small change, but to him it felt like crossing into another world. The stones clicked beneath his worn boots, a rhythm steady as his heart. Ahead, banners rippled above rooftops and spires. Smoke curled lazily from hundreds of chimneys, and the murmur of distant life rolled like waves against the walls.

  He’d never seen so many people gathered in one place. Even from a mile away, Highmarsh looked impossibly large—a patchwork of stone and timber spreading across the hill, ringed by walls that gleamed pale gray in the afternoon sun. Beyond it, the castle rose like a crown, its towers piercing the sky.

  Toby slowed, staring. His own village could have fit inside one of its courtyards.

  The road grew crowded as he neared the gates. Carts laden with hay, barrels, and sacks of grain jostled for space. Farmers shouted greetings, children ran between horses, and the smell of roasted meat and tanned leather mingled in the air.

  Brindle Hollow had been quiet, filled with birdsong, wind, and his mother’s voice. This place was alive in every direction.

  The town’s outer wall was built from thick riverstone, moss creeping through the cracks, but sturdy all the same. The gate was tall enough to fit three wagons side by side, its iron hinges black with age. Guards in chainmail stood watch, spears crossed, while merchants flashed tokens to pass.

  When Toby entered, he was struck by the press of it all—people moving like a living tide through narrow streets. Homes leaned close together, upper floors jutting forward until the roofs nearly touched. The air smelled of earth, sweat, and smoke.

  He touched the hilt of the sword on his back, half expecting someone to stop him, but the crowd was too busy to care.

  In Brindle Hollow, homes were built from wood, mud, and wattle, patched with straw and patience. Here, even the poorest dwellings had stone foundations. Wooden beams framed the upper floors, their shutters painted in dull reds and greens.

  Further in, the houses grew grander—slate roofs, glass windows, carved doorframes. A pair of doves perched atop a fountain shaped like a knight holding a flag. Toby had never seen so much wealth that wasn’t buried in dirt.

  He passed a tailor’s shop with silks displayed behind glass, a smithy where sparks leapt like fireflies, and a baker’s stall that filled the air with the smell of warm bread. And then, rising above the rooftops, he saw the castle.

  It was nothing like the ruins near Brindle Hollow, where farmers whispered of ghosts. This was alive, proud, and very much in use.

  Two sets of walls encircled it—the outer one thick and low, with battlements wide enough for a wagon, and the inner one taller, crowned with towers that glinted silver. Between them, Toby could see banners fluttering in the breeze, deep blue marked with a white falcon: Sire Ray’s crest.

  The castle itself was built from pale limestone, its main keep towering over the courtyard like a cliff of carved bone. Sunlight flashed on its narrow windows, and guards patrolled the ramparts with halberds in hand.

  Toby’s throat tightened. He’d imagined castles before, in stories, in daydreams, but this was something else entirely. This was power made stone. He followed the road up the hill until it ended at a wide bridge spanning a moat. The water below was dark and still. At the far side stood the first gatehouse, iron portcullis half-lowered.

  Two guards stepped forward as he approached. Their chainmail gleamed, their helmets polished.

  “Halt,” one said, holding out a hand. “State your business.”

  “I need to see Sire Ray,” Toby said.

  The guards exchanged looks. “Do you now?” the taller one asked. “And who might you be?”

  “Toby. From Brindle Hollow.”

  The shorter guard frowned. “That’s near the southern woods, isn’t it?”

  Southern woods? Toby thought about it for a second and realized the woods were indeed south from this location. He had traveled north for two days and the words of the world had already changed.

  “It was,” Toby said quietly. “It’s gone now.”

  The taller man crossed his arms. “Gone? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Burned. Elves raided three nights ago. Everyone’s dead.”

  The guards froze and stared at him, disbelief etched on their faces.

  “That’s a heavy claim for a boy with a sword,” the taller one said. “Where’d you get that weapon?”

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  “I took it from one of them,” Toby replied. “The one I killed.”

  That made them both stiffen.

  “You killed an elf?”

  “By luck,” Toby admitted. “But I did.”

  The shorter guard stepped closer, hand resting on his hilt. “You expect us to believe some peasant boy struck down an elf and just walked away? For all we know, you’re the raider.”

  Toby’s temper flared. “You think I burned my own home? My family’s dead!”

  “Watch your tongue,” the man barked, jabbing a finger toward him. “You’ll not speak that way to the lord’s guard.”

  “The lord’s guard?” Toby snapped. “You’re guarding a gate!”

  The taller one’s hand went to his weapon. “That’s enough.”

  Toby squared his shoulders, pride burning through the grief. “I came to warn Sire Ray, not fight his dogs.”

  The guards stepped forward as if to grab him—but before anyone moved, a voice rang out behind them.

  “Hold!”

  The guards froze again. Both stepped aside as a small retinue of riders came through the inner gate—half a dozen men in polished mail, banners fluttering behind them. At their center rode a man dressed not for battle but for command. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of iron and eyes sharp as a hawk’s. His cloak was deep blue trimmed with silver thread, and a pendant shaped like a falcon’s talon hung from his neck. His horse was pure white, its mane braided with ribbons.

  Sire Ray, Toby guessed.

  He drew up before them, gaze sweeping over Toby. “What’s this commotion?”

  The taller guard bowed hastily. “My lord, this boy came from the south—claims elves raided Brindle Hollow.”

  Ray’s expression hardened. “Brindle Hollow?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Toby said, stepping forward. “They came at mid morning. I was the only one who lived.”

  The lord studied him a long moment, his horse snorting softly. “And you came alone?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Sire Ray nodded slowly. “You did well to come. The border’s been restless, but we had no word of such an attack.” He turned to one of his men. “Ser Dylan, send a rider to the outpost. I want confirmation before sunset.”

  A knight with neatly trimmed blond hair saluted. “At once, my lord.”

  Sire Ray looked back to Toby. “You’ve done your duty. Go inside, find the castellan, he’ll see you fed and rested. We’ll handle it from here.”

  But Toby didn’t move, he watched Ser Dylan pass the orders down the chain of command and saw a page run off. He wasn’t going to sit here and do nothing while it resolved itself. He wanted—no, needed to put things right.

  “With respect, Sire,” Toby said quietly, “I don’t want rest. I want to fight.”

  A few of the knights exchanged amused looks; even the guards smirked. Sire Ray raised an eyebrow.

  “Fight?”

  “Yes,” Toby said. “They took everything. I won’t sit idle while someone else avenges it.”

  That drew laughter from the Sire Ray’s retainers—low, incredulous chuckles. Ser Dylan’s was loudest.

  “The boy’s barely grown into his sword, my lord. He’d sooner cut his own foot than an elf,’ Dylan said.

  Toby’s hands clenched. “You think I’m lying?”

  “I think you’re a fool,” Dylan said coolly.

  “Enough,” Sire Ray said, though there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve spirit, boy. But vengeance is not for farmers. You’ve done your part.”

  Toby shook his head. “No, Sire. Not until I see all of them fall.”

  The laughter faded. Sire Ray studied him again, the amusement gone from his eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Then the lord exhaled softly. “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  Sire Ray turned to his knight. “Ser Dylan.”

  “My lord?”

  “Fetch two wooden blades.”

  Dylan blinked. “My lord—?”

  “You heard me.” The lord’s tone left no room for question. “If the boy seeks to fight, we’ll see if he’s worth the trouble.”

  The knight hesitated, then bowed stiffly. “As you command.”

  A small crowd followed as Toby was led into the courtyard. The space was broad, lined with barracks and stables. A few guards, squires, and pages stopped their drills to watch.

  Dylan returned with two wooden training swords, handing one to Toby with an amused smirk.

  “Try not to drop it.”

  Toby gripped it tight. It was lighter than the one he trained with, it was balanced like the sword on his back and the wood was worn smooth from use.

  Sire Ray dismounted and stood beside the fence, arms crossed. “This will do. If you can best Ser Dylan in a single strike, you’ll have your chance to serve. If not—you’ll take the my offer and be grateful.”

  Toby nodded. “Fine by me.”

  Dylan rolled his shoulders, stepping into position. He was a knight in his prime, taller and stronger by far. His wooden sword whistled through the air in a lazy arc.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “I’ll try not to bruise what little pride you’ve left.”

  Toby could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel the weight of every gaze around the yard. His throat was dry, his palms slick, but his eyes never left Dylan’s stance.

  His thoughts returned to Brindle Hollow, to smoke and screams and the faces that were gone for good. He thought of the elf he’d killed, of the terror and desperation, and of how real it had all been. Something in him hardened.

  Sire Ray raised a hand. “Begin.”