Page 26 of The Guardian

Chapter Nine

A biting wind cut through the village square. The kind of wind that sliced between cloak folds and settled deep in yer bone. Ailith drew her cloak tighter, the wool coarse beneath her fingers, but grateful for anything to anchor her against the chill, the one in the air, and the one inside her.

She hadn’t meant to come. Hadn’t planned to watch men be led to their deaths. But when Erin’s husband came to fetch her, she hadn’t refused. She couldn’t. Not because she hungered for justice, or vengeance, or the grim finality of the gallows, but because she needed distraction. She needed something, anything to drown out the storm inside her chest.

Sleep had been a stranger. All through the night, she’d tossed and turned, her thoughts tangled in the bitter words exchanged with Hendry. Each syllable he’d spoken had landed like a blade. Clean cutting and impossibly precise. He had not shouted. Not raged. But, oh, how it had hurt.

And worse… he’d been right.

She stood now beside her sister’s family, half-listening to the whispered prayers, and the murmurs of the gathered crowd. But her mind was far away, replaying again the fury in Hendry’s eyes, the crack in his voice when he’d asked why she hadn’t waited.

How had it come to this?

What she and Hendry had was rare, a true love. But she’d been so foolish. The moment Brant whispered doubt into her ear, wrapped it in calm logic and gentle hands, she’d let it burrow in. She hadn’t questioned him. Hadn’t fought against his words. Instead, she’d clung to the searing pain of her broken heart and convinced herself that Hendry had betrayed her in every way that mattered.

And it had all been lies.

Brant had been clever, too clever. He hadn’t stormed in with accusations. No, he’d been patient. Gentle. He’d soothed her tears and offered comfort when Hendry’s absence grew long.

She saw it all now, in agonizing clarity. Brant had spun his lies carefully. Like a spider luring prey into a web she hadn’t even realized she’d walked into.

Her sister had known. Erin had warned her, tearfully begging her to wait. To give Hendry the chance to explain when he returned. But Ailith had refused. Blinded by grief and fear, she’d hardened her heart and rushed into a marriage meant to heal the wound Hendry left behind. Instead, it had deepened it.

Their marriage had been a prison of silence and suspicion. Slowly, subtly, he’d isolated her. Urged her to stay near the cottage. Offered to run her errands. Encouraged her to rest, to trust him. And in doing so, he’d kept her from the village, from the other warriors. From the truth.

Brant had driven a wedge between her and her family. Erin’s visits had grown less frequent. Each one more uncomfortable than the last, until finally they stopped altogether. Ailith remembered those afternoons, when she and Erin sat down to talk, how Brant would sit in his chair like a warden. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, saying little but hearing everything. No warmth. No joy. Just cold possession.

And through it all, she had defended him. Made excuses. Convinced herself that this was her life now, and she would bear it as women must, without complaint.

But standing here now, watching the gallows rise, a grim structure against the grey sky, Ailith couldn’t lie to herself anymore.

She had wronged Hendry.

She had condemned him in her heart without proof, without question, and now… she’d lost him forever.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned with tears of shame.

And the unbearable truth that she would never have the chance to make it right.

“Look,” Erin whispered, breaking Ailith from the swirl of regret and memory. “The guard has arrived.”

The thunder of hooves preceded them. Twelve mounted warriors riding two by two into the village square, their warhorses immense, their breath misting the cold morning air. The ground trembled beneath their weight, each hoof falling like a warning. The crowd instinctively parted, forming a narrow corridor.

The guards came first, their chainmail catching what little light bled from the grey sky. Then came the prisoners.

Three men.

Each sat atop a horse, flanked by a warrior. Shackled. Broken.

Two hung their heads, shoulders slumped in resignation, their very postures weighted with defeat. The third was unraveling before their eyes, sobbing openly, his tear-streaked face scanning the crowd with unhinged desperation.

“Help me!” he cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “Please, someone, help!”

Ailith turned away.

She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t allow pity to crack through. These men had committed terrible crimes. Had beaten and killed innocent people without mercy. How dare that one ask for help. For the one thing he denied those who were left dying or dead in his wake.

Her gaze drifted, searching for a safer anchor. And then she found him.