MOONLIT LOVE

Thornwall Castle

The forest path leading to Thornwall’s territory twisted through thick, gnarled trees that blotted out the afternoon sun, casting jagged shadows across the dirt road. Weary and bruised, Brannock and his crew trudged along, leading their tired horses and laden mules piled high with spoils from their recent raid. The signs of their struggle still marked them—scratches, torn clothing, and sullen faces from the exhausting skirmish against the merchant guards and mercenaries. Even their victory felt muted, with their thoughts racing to reach the castle and deliver the news.

Ahead, movement caught Brannock’s eye. Just where the road straightened out, two familiar figures stood waiting, leaning casually against the trunks of ancient trees. The sentries, Grell and Varek, guarded this stretch, keeping watch over the road with horses tethered nearby for quick reports back to Thornwall.

Grell’s face split into a wide grin as he recognized Toren’s ragged band. “Well, look what the wolves dragged in!” he called out, his voice laced with mockery. “What’s this? Brannock the Mighty and his fearless crew, looking like they’ve seen the business end of a bear.”

The bandits halted, and Toren’s jaw tightened. “Still got the spoils, Grell,” he shot back, gesturing to the horses and mules burdened with crates and sacks. “More than you’ve ever seen.”

Varek stepped forward, eyeing the loot with a feigned interest. “Yeah, looks like it, Brannock. But I’ve seen you lot come back in finer shape. Why the rush back to Thornwall? And why’re you looking like your tails are on fire?”

Brannock exchanged a glance with his right hand, Doughal, a scarred, muscular man with an intimidating scowl. Though he knew these sentries well, he had no intention of disclosing the details of what had driven them back so urgently. They’d seen something, something that stirred a sense of dread strong enough to override their need to rest or revel in their spoils.

“Just eager to celebrate with the rest of Thornwall,” Brannock replied, attempting to keep his tone casual. “Or has word not reached you two yet about the festival?”

Grell chuckled, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Oh, we’ve heard, alright. Captain Mira’s back, which means the castle’s going to be lit up with drink, feasts, and all the pleasures Thornwall and its barony can offer. Might be our last bit of freedom for a while before the lord sends us off to some forsaken end of the kingdom.”

Varek sneered as he sidled closer to Brannock, his gaze sizing up the bandits’ disheveled appearance. “But this can’t just be about a drink and a warm bed for you lot, can it? You’re looking like you’ve seen more than you’re letting on. Must be something nasty out there for you to be in such a hurry.”

One of Brannock’s men shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to their heavily loaded mules. The scent of lingering blood and sweat clung to them, a bitter reminder of the price they’d paid to seize their haul. One of the horses snorted, restless, and pawed at the ground, perhaps sensing the tension between the two groups.

“Enough with the questions,” Toren snapped, a hint of frustration slipping through. “We fought hard for this, and we’ll not have you leeches trying to pry the spoils from us. Or do you two think you’re in charge of Thornwall now?”

The mocking gleam in Grell’s eye faded, but he didn’t back down. “Only making sure you’re not bringing trouble right to the lord’s doorstep, Toren. You know how it goes.”

Brannock’s patience, already frayed, was wearing thin. His pulse hammered as he considered how to end this pointless exchange. Grell and Varek wouldn’t let them pass without answers or payment—likely both. He was tired of their needling, tired of the thinly veiled threat in their questioning.

Finally, Toren leaned closer to Grell, lowering his voice to a threatening growl. “Let me pass, Grell. We’re coming back with the Pit Lord’s favor. He’ll be expecting us.”

Grell’s mocking smirk dissolved into a tight-lipped silence, his body tensing at the mention of the Pit Lord. Varek shifted uneasily, casting a wary glance at his companion. Even here, on familiar turf, the Pit Lord’s name sent ripples of fear through Thornwall’s ranks. Tales of his ruthlessness and vicious punishments for disloyalty were well known, and not a soul in the barony wanted to be on his bad side.

“Alright, alright,” Grell muttered, stepping back and gesturing for them to pass, though his gaze remained sharp. “Just don’t go stirring up trouble on your way in. Pay the usual ‘fare,’ and you’re free to go.”

The bandits handed over a few coins, gritting their teeth as they complied. With a look of smug satisfaction, Grell pocketed the silver, his eyes watching Toren closely. “Enjoy the festivities,” he called after them as they moved past, though his tone carried a hint of something darker. “Who knows? With the captain back, there’s bound to be a night to remember. And with the lord’s indulgences, the barony will be overflowing with drink and revelry.”

Toren pushed on, the jests from behind fading into the murmur of the forest. They’d managed to avoid a confrontation, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The few coins he’d handed over for “safe passage” barely registered compared to the weight of using the Pit Lord’s name. That leverage was one he’d kept guarded, something to be used sparingly. And yet here he was, burning through it just to get past two lowly sentries.

He glanced back at Doughal, who was eyeing him with a knowing look. “Was it worth it?” Doughal murmured, the question laced with mild reproach.

Brannock grunted in response, refusing to meet his friend’s gaze. He knew Doughal was right; the Pit Lord’s favor wasn’t something to be squandered. But it wasn’t just his pride stinging. They’d lost more than he’d anticipated on this journey. The spoils from the raid—a mix of fine silks, coin purses, and crates of supplies—were valuable, but he couldn’t shake the regret of not safeguarding them better during their flight. Hasty choices, poor judgment; it all left a sour residue.

As they approached the outskirts of Thornwall’s barony, the familiar sights and sounds of the settlement greeted them. News of Captain Mira’s return had spread, and anticipation simmered in the air. Every establishment would be throwing open its doors to celebrate—taverns stocked to the brim, brothels primed for business, and Thornwall’s infamous brawling pits prepped for the bloodthirsty competitions that marked such nights.

Brannock’s own feelings were a confusing mixture of excitement and helplessness. Part of him longed for the rush of the pit fights, the thrill of blood and pride mingling in a fierce display. But beneath that was a gnawing frustration. He had news that could shift power, information for the castle lord himself. And yet, with Mira’s return, the lord’s attention would be consumed by official matters, while his affection for Mira would pull him further away.

His only chance would be to present the news through the Pit Lord, who might relay it to the lord if he deemed it worthy enough. That prospect alone left Toren feeling vulnerable—he’d have no control over how the information was delivered or interpreted. It was a precarious position, and the weight of it pressed heavily on him.

They entered Thornwall’s barony proper, greeted by a cacophony of laughter, shouts, and music spilling from the taverns. The crowd was swelling in numbers, excitement bubbling in every corner. Soon, the night would belong to revelers, fighters, and the nefarious souls of Thornwall who lived for these rare celebrations.

As they continued down the winding street, Barony’s gaze swept over his men. The promise of festivities had sparked a light in their tired faces, yet he felt none of it. His mind remained burdened, his thoughts racing through the volatile currents of Thornwall’s loyalties. Here, loyalty was a temporary truce, held only as long as one had strength or leverage. And tonight, Brannock wondered just how much of either he still possessed.