By the time they reached the village, William's legs felt as if someone had replaced his bones with wet rope.
Three days of riding. Cold rain one day, knife-edged wind the next. They rode at a soldier's pace—fast enough to make the horses steam when they stopped, slow enough to stay in formation. No fancy banners unfurled, no trumpets. Just the steady clatter of hooves and gear.
The countryside had changed as they traveled. Albion's neat stone roads gave way to muddy tracks. The manors thinned out. Fields became patchier. Farmhouses leaned more with each mile, patched with whatever their owners could find.
Now, late afternoon on the third day, Ashford-on-Lea appeared on the horizon.
It was smaller than the maps indicated. A crooked string of houses along a bend in a narrow river, with a wooden palisade half-heartedly circling the town center. Someone had painted a crude sun-sigil on the main gate, already peeling from the weather. Smoke rose from chimneys, thin and hurried.
"Welcome to the glamorous front," muttered the soldier riding beside William.
William glanced at him. The man appeared to be in his thirties, beard flecked with gray, mail worn shiny at the edges.
"Have you been here before?" William asked.
"Once," the man said. "When the levee burst in spring. Mud up to my waist, pigs screaming like demons. Sergeant Hobb." He tapped his chest. "Since you never asked."
"William," he replied. "You knew that already."
"Hard not to." Hobb's grin was lopsided. "People keep saying your name. 'Lord William will ride with us, Lord William will observe, Lord William will write a nice letter home.'"
William looked forward again, jaw set. "I'm here to help. Observer or not."
"Good," Hobb said. "Because weight needs pulling, Light or no Light."
The troop slowed as they reached the gate. Two local men stood there—one with a spear that looked older than he was, the other with a bell rope in hand. Their eyes widened at the sight of the Holy Army armor.
Then they focused on William.
He saw their eyes narrow and zero in on the crest. The cleaner plate. The fact that he looked sixteen instead of thirty.
The spearman straightened. "My lord," he said, voice half awe, half fear. "Is that— are you a...?"
He didn't say the word. Didn't need to. William had seen that look a hundred times in Albion's streets when priests told stories of radiant knights with Light blazing from their hands.
"I'm William Lockhart," he said, before the silence grew too long. "Here with Colonel Reeve's detachment. We're here to help."
The man's gaze dipped to William's hands as if expecting them to light up automatically.
They didn't.
The villagers gathered inside the gate murmured, shifting uneasily. Someone whispered, too loud, "Where's his halo?"
William's shoulders tensed. Before he could say anything, Colonel Reeve rode forward, boots creaking.
"Open the gate," Colonel Reeve ordered. "We'll take the village square. Get your reeve and any headmen to meet us there."
The spearman nodded, swallowed, and yanked the bell rope. The gate groaned open, and the column poured in.
Ashford-on-Lea smelled of smoke, damp wool, and old fear.
Children peeked from behind skirts and doorframes. A dog barked incessantly until someone hissed at it to hush. William glimpsed hurried repairs—shutter boards nailed up, carts pulled close to houses, a barn with one wall blackened by fire.
The town square was a patch of mud and trampled straw, dominated by a stone well and a squat building that might have been a town hall, inn, and shrine all in one. The painted sun-sigil above the door was faded, but someone had tried to freshen it up recently. The yellow paint looked almost desperate.
The troop formed a rough half-circle. Colonel Reeve dismounted, boots sinking into the mud. William followed, legs protesting as he hit the ground.
He masked his wince. Soldiers watched him.
And so did villagers.
They gathered in a loose crowd—farmers, older women, a boy with a cart of firewood, a girl clutching a cracked wooden doll. At their front stood a man in a worn leather coat, hair thinning on top, face lined with sun and worry.
"Colonel," he said, bowing. "I'm Reddan, reeve of Ashford-on-Lea. We're grateful you came."
"We came because the War Office told us to," Reeve said bluntly. "Tell me about your 'raiders.'"
Reddan's eyes flicked toward William, then back. "Maybe... inside? We have stew cooking. The men must be hungry."
Reeve grunted, the closest thing to a yes. He jerked his head at his sergeants.
"Hobb, billet the men. Stables for the horses if they have them; otherwise, the south pasture. Close the gates at dusk—no one in or out without my say. Lord Lockhart—" his gaze shifted to William "—with me. If you're going to write about this, you'll hear it firsthand."
William nodded, heart quietly racing.
They went inside with Reddan.
Inside, warm air mixed with the smell of stew and damp wool. Benches lined the walls. A crude shrine to the Sun-Knight faith stood in one corner—simple wooden figure, candles burned down to wax pools. None of them were lit.
Reeve noticed. "You don't keep the candles burning?"
Reddan's mouth tightened. "We... did. Until the last raid. The priest died trying to defend the east road. We've been too afraid to—"
"Afraid to call Light down where it might draw fire," Reeve finished kindly. There was no judgment in his tone—just understanding.
William looked at the unlit candles and felt something sour tighten in his stomach.
If I had Light, would I be brave enough to light them anyway? Or would I stand where Reddan is, wondering if a glow would make me a target?
They sat at a long table. Reddan poured a jug of thin ale and set out three bowls of stew, hands trembling more from nerves than age.
"The raids started a month ago," he said, once they were settled. "First, missing sheep. A cart overturned. We thought it was some poor soul trying to survive winter. Then..."
He swallowed.
"Then they attacked at night. Houses on the north edge. They didn't take much that time. Just tested us. We rang the bell, grabbed what we could—pitchforks, old swords. They slipped away."
Reeve sipped his ale. "And after that?"
"The next time, they burned Old Calen's barn with the animals inside," Reddan's voice roughened. "We went out to fight, but..."
He looked at William. "Colonel, they weren't rabble. They had formation. Half a dozen in the yard, others watching the lane. They fell back in pairs when we rushed. I've seen bandits. These weren't bandits."
"Mercenaries?" William asked. "Could be some lord playing games with his neighbor."
Reddan shook his head. "Mercs don't waste arrows on livestock. Don't attack anyone outside a line." His face paled. "They even killed Hara's boy—ten years old. He ran for the well. One of them... didn't even seem to care. Just swung."
William's grip on his bowl tightened until the wood creaked.
"How many?" Reeve asked. "Estimate."
"Fifteen? Twenty?" Reddan said. "It was dark. Cloaks. Maybe more watching the fields."
"Any banners? Colors?" Reeve's gaze sharpened.
"No banners." The reeve hesitated. "But... one of our men swears he saw something under a cloak—red on black. Like the double eagle in stories."
William's head shot up. "Germania?"
Reddan flinched. "I don't know. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just firelight. All I know is they moved like soldiers, not hungry men. And they're coming back."
Silence. The crackling hearth sounded loud.
Reeve chewed thoughtfully. "Why here? Ashford-on-Lea isn't a prize. No armory, no important road, no templar vaults."
"We've got fields," Reddan said. "And people."
"Fields and people you find in a hundred places closer to the front," Reeve replied.
William swallowed his stew, tasting it as bland all of a sudden. "What if they're testing crossing routes? Trying to see where Britannia's reaction is slowest."
Reeve's look was amused. "Good, you're thinking with something other than pride for once."
"Possible," he said. "Or it could be a rogue unit—deserters playing war. Either way, the War Office will want details."
He looked back at Reddan. "When do you think they'll come again?"
The reeve answered without hesitation. "Soon."
Outside, the village gradually adjusted to soldiers' presence.
Men led horses to the pasture, grumbling about churned-up earth, even as they patted necks and fed them extra. Women carried blankets to the makeshift barracks in the inn's loft. Children peeked from doorways, eyes wide, whispering.
William helped where he could—lugging gear, helping Hobb's squad set up a watch at the gates, walking the palisade to get a feel for the ground.
"See that?" Hobb said, pointing with his spear toward the north. "Tree line's too close. Good for cover. Bad for us."
The forest pressed right up against the fields, dark trunks like teeth.
"If I were them," William said, "I'd approach along that low rise, use the old stone walls for cover, then attack the north gate while a second group circles to the river and tries to flank."
Hobb shot him a sideways look. "You read that in a book?"
"Grandfather drilled it into me with wooden soldiers," William replied. "And Master Harrow talks about nothing but formations once the weather turns."
"Well, congratulations." Hobb thumped the palisade. "You and the raiders went to the same school. We're setting up a lookout there. I want your eyes on that ridge tonight. You're supposed to observe, right? Consider this your homework."
William blinked. "You're putting me on watch?"
"What, you thought we'd keep you polished and dry in the hall?" Hobb snorted. "Colonel says you want to be a knight. Knights lose sleep."
"I won't complain," William said.
"Good." Hobb paused, then added, "For what it's worth, the men bet you'd whine. Good to see them wrong."
William managed a small grim smile. "You put money on me or against me?"
"I never bet against someone who does push-ups before dawn," Hobb said. "Even if he's Unlit."
The nickname sting less now. Not gone, just dulled by a sort of respect.
As the afternoon faded, William helped haul water, reset a section of loose palisade, and carry a crate of arrow shafts from the smithy.
At the smithy, an older woman with powerful arms and soot on her face paused her hammering to squint at him.
"You're the Lockhart boy," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "William."
She snorted. "Thought you'd be taller."
"So did I," he said before he could stop himself.
Her mouth twitched. "Hmph. You swing a sword or just pose with it?"
"I swing," William replied. "I can help reinforce your door if you like. Raids like to hit where noise hurts most."
She studied him a moment longer, then jerked her chin at a rough-hewn plank.
"Grab that end, then. If you're going to get killed playing soldier, might as well earn your stew first."
They worked together, exchanging grunt-sized comments. By sunset, the barn had a plan for new supports, the gates had extra crossbars, and William's muscles ached in that satisfying way that meant he'd earned something.
But the village felt... wrong.
Too quiet between the noises. Villagers kept eyes flicking to the tree line more often than at the soldiers. A girl dropped her bucket when someone shouted; she flinched as if she expected arrows.
At dusk, the bell at the gate rang twice. Gates closed. They were locking out—or locking in.