The inner courtyard of the castle was a world of disciplined violence.
Arthur stood in the center of the sand pit, sweat dripping from his nose. His tunic was stuck to his back, and his arms felt like they were filled with lead. Opposite him stood a wooden training dummy that looked significantly worse for wear.
"Again," Commander Richard barked, leaning against a weapon rack with his arms crossed. "And this time, try not to swing like you're chopping firewood. It's a sword, Arthur, not an axe. Use your wrist."
Arthur gritted his teeth. He adjusted his grip on the practice sword. The hum in his blood was quiet today, drowned out by physical exhaustion. He stepped forward, pivoting on his heel, and slashed.
Thwack.
"Better," Richard nodded, though his face remained stern. "But you're still leaving your ribs open. A spearman would have gutted you three times by now."
Arthur wiped his forehead with his sleeve, breathing hard. "I'll get it right."
"You will," Richard said. "Or you'll be dead. Those are the only two options in my regiment."
Suddenly, a commotion at the archway broke the rhythm of the training.
The heavy oak doors groaned open. A squad of Royal Guards marched in—but they weren't leading the way. They were trailing behind a group of people who looked like they had been dragged through a hedge backward.
Arthur blinked, squinting against the sun.
"Arthur!"
The scream was unmistakable.
"Leo?" Arthur lowered his sword.
Leo and Maya burst past the guards, their faces streaked with soot and tears. Behind them came the Miller, clutching his hat, and Jon the Blacksmith, looking around the castle courtyard as if he expected the stone gargoyles to eat him.
And leading them all, marching with a stride that carved a path through the sand, was Gareth.
Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. "Uncle?"
Gareth didn't stop. He walked straight past Richard, ignoring the Commander entirely. His eyes were locked on Arthur—locked on the sword in Arthur's hand.
"Drop it," Gareth commanded. His voice wasn't the grumble of the old farmer Arthur knew. It was a low, dangerous growl.
"Uncle Gareth, I..." Arthur stepped back, confused by the sheer intensity radiating from the old man. "How did you get in here? I thought—"
"I said drop it!" Gareth roared.
He closed the distance in two strides. He grabbed Arthur's wrist with a grip like iron pincers. Arthur gasped, his fingers reflexively opening. The practice sword fell to the sand with a dull thud.
"We are leaving," Gareth said, yanking Arthur toward the gate. "Now."
"Hey!" Richard pushed himself off the rack, his hand dropping to the hilt of his own sword. "Who do you think you are, old man? You can't just barge into the Royal Training Grounds and assault my recruit."
Gareth spun around, placing himself between Richard and Arthur. He didn't cower. He glared at the Lord Commander of the Army with a look of absolute, withering contempt.
"Recruit?" Gareth spat the word. "He is a farmer. He belongs in the fields, not playing soldier for your amusement."
Richard frowned, taken aback. Peasants usually trembled in his presence. This man looked ready to snap his neck. "He is a guest of the Crown. And you are trespassing."
"I am saving his life," Gareth turned back to Arthur, grabbing his shoulder. "You foolish boy. Do you have any idea what you've done? Running away? Coming here?"
"I just wanted to see the world!" Arthur argued, pulling away from Gareth's grip. "I'm eighteen, Uncle! I can make my own choices!"
"Not this choice!" Gareth's voice cracked, fear bleeding through the anger. "You don't know this world, Arthur. It will chew you up and spit out the bones. Look at you. Holding a sword? You think it's a game?"
"It's not a game," Arthur said firmly. "I want to be strong. Like the heroes in the stories."
" The heroes in the stories are dead!" Gareth shouted, the silence in the courtyard ringing in the aftermath. The Miller and Jon shrank back. Leo and Maya went still.
Gareth took a shaking breath. "We are going home. Get your things."
"No," Arthur said.
Gareth froze. "What?"
"I said no," Arthur stood his ground. He was taller than Gareth now, though he felt small inside. "I'm not going back to the turnips. Not yet."
Gareth's face twisted in desperation. He reached for Arthur again, his hand raising as if to strike him—something he had never done.
"Halt!"
The command cut through the air like a whip. It was soft, feminine, but it carried the weight of a mountain.
Gareth froze mid-motion.
Walking down the stone steps from the upper gallery was Queen Erika. She wore a simple blue dress today, but on her brow sat a thin circlet of silver. Her Royal Guards flanked her, hands on their halberds.
She walked onto the sand, her eyes locked on Gareth.
Gareth's arm dropped. He stared at her. He saw the golden hair. The sapphire eyes. The shape of her jaw.
Alaric, he thought, his heart breaking all over again. She looks just like him.
"Your Majesty," Richard bowed sharply.
Erika ignored him. She stopped five paces from Gareth. She looked at the old man in the dirty tunic—the man who had terrified her own guards at the gate.
"You are hurting my guest," Erika said calmly.
Gareth swallowed hard. The instinct to kneel was overwhelming—a reflex drilled into him from twenty years of service to her father.
"Your Majesty," Gareth said, his voice hoarse. "This boy... he is my nephew. He ran away from home. I am simply taking him back where he belongs."
"He belongs where he chooses to be," Erika replied. She looked at Arthur. "Arthur? Do you wish to leave?"
Arthur looked at his uncle. He saw the fear in the old man's eyes—a deep, terrified love that he didn't fully understand. But then he looked at the sword in the sand. He remembered the feeling of the blade hitting the post. He remembered the hum.
"No," Arthur whispered. Then louder. "No. I want to stay."
Gareth closed his eyes, defeated.
"He is not safe here," Gareth pleaded, looking directly at Erika. "You... of all people... should understand that castles are not safe."
Erika's expression flickered.
"He is safe under my roof," Erika said, her voice steel. "That is my vow."
She looked past Gareth to the two trembling teenagers and the villagers huddling by the gate. Her face softened, a genuine warmth replacing the royal mask.
"And you must be Leo and Maya," Erika smiled. "Arthur has told me a great deal about you. Mostly about your talent for stealing apples."
Leo's jaw dropped. "He... told the Queen about the apples?"
"And you," Erika nodded to the terrified Miller and Blacksmith. "You came all this way to find your friend. That shows loyalty. Aethelgard needs loyalty."
She turned back to Gareth.
"Sir," she addressed him with a respect that confused everyone but the Royal Guards. "If Arthur is your family, then you are welcome here. I will not allow you to drag him away in chains. But I invite you—all of you—to stay as my guests for the Festival of Light."
The tension in the courtyard snapped.
"Guests?" The Miller squeaked. "Us?"
"Unless you prefer the stables?" Erika raised an eyebrow.
"No! No, Your Majesty! The castle is fine! Great, even!" Jon the Blacksmith stammered, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the sand.
Gareth stood alone in the center of the circle. He looked at Arthur, who was looking back with a mixture of guilt and hope. He looked at Erika, who offered him a grace he didn't think he deserved.
He realized he had lost. The boy had stepped onto the board, and no amount of shouting would take him off it.
Gareth let out a long, shuddering sigh. He leaned heavily on his walking stick, the "Badge of the Fallen" burning a hole in his pocket.
"One night," Gareth whispered. "We stay for one night. But if I see a single scratch on him..." He looked at Richard.
Richard grinned, a shark-like expression. "I like this old man."
Arthur let out a breath of relief and rushed forward. "Uncle Gareth!"
He hugged the old man. Gareth hesitated, then stiffly patted Arthur's back.
"You are a stubborn fool," Gareth muttered into Arthur's shoulder. "Just like-"
"I missed you too," Arthur grinned.
Leo and Maya didn't wait for permission. They sprinted across the sand.
"Arthur!" Leo tackled him, nearly knocking him over. "You idiot! You left us!"
"I saved you!" Arthur laughed, fending off a punch from Maya.
"You ran away!" Maya cried, wiping her eyes. "We thought you were dead in a ditch!"
"I was eating venison," Arthur admitted sheepishly.
"I hate you," Leo groaned. "Is there any left?"
As the teenagers laughed and the villagers gawked at the castle walls, Erika watched from the side. She smiled, but her eyes were sad. She watched the reunion, the touch of family, the simple love of it all.
Conrad stepped out of the shadows of the archway, standing silently beside her.
"He is one of you, isn't he?" Erika whispered.
"He was the shield to my sword," Conrad rumbled softly. "Gareth the Unbroken. I haven't seen him since the funeral."
"He looks afraid," Erika said.
"He has something to lose," Conrad replied, his eyes fixed on the happy group. "We all do, Your Majesty. We all do."