Page 106 of The Thornwyck Rose

He turned toward the door, pausing only to add, “Prove you’re worth saving. Then we’ll see if you’re worth her heart.”

Erik didn’t answer as they left him. Guards stood at the door. His head slumped back against the wall, eyes closing around the name he’d die whispering: Seren.

The October coldturned biting as the November days bled into December.

Viggo—the mud-stained horse—had returned to the marchland border without his rider, and the warriors brought him in. They cared for him well. They did not extend the same courtesy to Erik.

And in the slow climb back to strength, purpose returned with every breath bent toward saving her in a way unknown. Under guard, his head cleared. His ribs knit in healing.

They forced him into labor: hauling timber, repairing nets, splitting logs slick with frost. He obeyed each order without protest. He kept his eyes down, his mouth shut, and histemper buried. The men watched for a sign of rebellion and received none.

Rumors flew anyway.

The knight who crossed them.

The knight who warned them.

The knight who said Henry would kill their chief’s daughter if he returned with or without victory.

Whether they believed him didn’t matter. Only Madoc’s verdict did.

And at last, Madoc sent for him.

The chief’s longhouse carved a warm glow into the frigid dark December night. Erik stepped inside, guards flanking him. Smoke curled toward the beams overhead. Men gathered around the table fell silent as he entered—some glaring, some wary—but none friendly.

Madoc stood at the head, palms planted, shoulders taut with days of cold and unspoken grief.

“You’ve kept your head low,” he said without a greeting. “You’ve worked, obeyed, and waited.”

Madoc’s gaze sharpened. “You gave me the truth. You swore it when I brought you here. You said Henry would kill Seren when he returned home defeated or not.”

His voice thinned. “Now the scouts tell me Henry retreated at dusk yesterday.”

Erik swallowed. “Then you know what that means.”

The chief’s jaw flexed. “Say it, so they hear it from you.”

“Lady Seren’s in danger,” Erik answered. “When Henry reaches Thornwyck, she won’t see another sunrise.”

A murmur stirred among the men. Madoc silenced them with a look. He stepped from the table. The room tightened around him.

“You were his commander,” Madoc said. “Rode at his side. Took his pay. Enforced his will.”

Erik didn’t deny the truth. The men’s snarls only proved how deeply Henry’s shadow reached.

Madoc’s eyes flickered—pain, then fury, then something olderand deeper.

“What would you have me do to save her life?” the chief asked.

Mutterings rippled, but Madoc locked eyes with Erik, ignoring them.

Madoc wasn’t handing him trust—only the hard question of a father who finally understood the danger, and recognized that Erik alone knew the shape of Henry’s retreat.

“Unite the north,” Erik said. “Gather the chiefs and bring only the fighters who can ride swiftly and strike quickly. No siege lines, wagons, or trophies. Ride light, ride now, and catch Henry before he regroups. Come spring, he will have new supply lines, fresh troops, and new weapons. He’ll return stronger, and you’ll fall. Strike now while he’s vulnerable.”

A long breath escaped Madoc.

“Let me go tonight,” Erik said. “I know the roads he’ll take, the pace his men keep, the markers he favors. If I push my horse, I can reach Thornwyck before he kills her and use your advance as leverage to save her life.”