Iron on the Wind
1209 Words
The fist hit the door again.
“Open it.”
The voice outside was calm. Too calm.
“Or we open it for you.”
Maren grabbed Wren's wrist and pulled her away from the window.
Hard.
“Don't speak,” she whispered.
Wren's heart hammered against her ribs.
Through the narrow gap in the shutters, she saw three riders waiting outside. Iron-grey cloaks. Black leather. Horses steaming in the cold darkness.
One rider stepped forward.
“I know you're in there, healer.”
Wren stopped breathing.
“The King wants you alive.”
Alive.
The word settled inside her like a blade.
Why would the King care whether she lived or died?
The rider continued.
“That's more mercy than most receive. Don't waste it.”
Maren's fingers tightened around Wren's wrist.
“There's no healer here tonight,” Maren called through the door. “Only an old woman with a headache and very little patience for soldiers.”
Silence.
Then a quiet laugh.
“We'll return at first light.”
The rider paused.
“Tell the girl to be ready.”
The hoofbeats slowly disappeared into the darkness.
Wren waited until they were completely gone.
Then she turned.
“Why does the King want me alive?”
Maren didn't answer.
Instead, she walked to the table and began pulling on her boots.
“Maren.”
“We're going to the northern fence.”
“Why?”
“Because if you stay here, they'll come back.”
Wren stared at her.
“And if I go?”
Maren finally looked at her.
“Then we find out what they want.”
---
By sunrise, half of Thorn hollow had gathered at the northern fence.
Wren hadn't packed a bag.
She had no intention of hiding.
If Ironfall wanted her, she wanted to know why.
Twenty soldiers stood on the other side of the pasture.
Iron-grey cloaks.
Black leather.
Twin-wolf sigils.
At their head sat a dark-haired officer who looked far too comfortable commanding a village that had never invited him.
He raised one gloved hand.
The soldiers stopped.
“This land,” he announced, “belongs to the Kingdom of Ironfall by decree of the border commission. As of this morning, it is being reclaimed under the authority of House Ash grave.”
Anger rippled through the crowd.
“This land belongs to Ashe families!” old Hesketh shouted.
The officer barely glanced at him.
“The ruling is a matter of record.”
“Record doesn't change where our grandparents were buried,” Hesketh snapped.
The officer's expression hardened.
“Take your complaint to Silver moon's crown.”
Wren froze.
Silvermoon.
The name struck somewhere deep inside her.
A strange ache.
A memory without a picture.
She stepped forward.
“And if that ruling is eleven years out of date?”
Maren's hand immediately closed around her arm.
Too late.
The officer was looking directly at Wren.
“Continue.”
Wren swallowed.
“You're taking land from families who've paid Silvermoon taxes on it for generations. You call that a decree. I call it theft.”
A murmur moved through the villagers.
The officer studied her.
Not angrily.
Curiously.
His eyes dropped to the healer's satchel at her side.
“A healer.”
“Yes.”
“And apparently a lawyer.”
“No. Just someone who knows when something is wrong.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“What is your name?”
“Wren Hollow.”
The man's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Wren noticed.
“Hollow.”
He repeated the name slowly.
“Whose daughter?”
Wren felt Maren's fingers tighten around her arm.
“My mother died when I was an infant.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Wren's pulse jumped.
“Maren Hollow raised me.”
The officer's attention shifted to Maren.
For the first time, Maren looked frightened.
Not nervous.
Not uncomfortable.
Frightened.
The officer turned back to Wren.
“Interesting.”
“What is?”
“Nothing.”
But his eyes said otherwise.
He straightened in his saddle.
“Patrols will begin within the week. Stay away from the disputed hills.”
He turned his horse.
Then stopped.
Without looking back, he said,
“Keep the healer away from trouble.”
The soldiers rode toward the ridge.
Wren watched them go.
Something about the officer's final words unsettled her more than the threat of the soldiers themselves.
He hadn't sounded like a man warning her.
He had sounded like a man who already knew something about her.
---
Maren didn't speak on the walk home.
Neither did Wren.
But Wren watched her guardian carefully.
The rigid shoulders.
The clenched hands.
The way her eyes kept returning to the ridge.
Finally, Wren stopped.
“You knew.”
Maren kept walking.
“You knew they'd come.”
“No.”
“You knew that officer.”
Maren stopped.
Wren stepped closer.
“He asked about my mother.”
“I told you. He was fishing.”
“He wasn't.”
“Wren—”
“He said Silvermoon.”
Maren's face changed.
Just for a second.
But Wren saw it.
“You reacted to that name.”
Maren looked away.
“We need to go home.”
That was not an answer.
It was the closest thing to a confession Wren had ever received.
---
The moment they entered the cottage, Maren went straight to her bedroom.
Wren followed.
She stopped at the doorway.
Maren knelt beside the bed.
She pulled back the rug.
Pressed her palm against the floorboard.
Click.
The hidden panel opened.
The chest.
Wren had known about it since she was nine.
She had never told Maren.
But she'd never seen her open it like this.
Maren's hands were shaking.
She lifted the lid.
Only a few inches.
Wren caught a glimpse of pale cloth wrapped around something metallic.
Then the lid slammed shut.
Maren pressed the floorboard back into place.
She turned.
And saw Wren standing there.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
“How long?” Maren whispered.
“Long enough.”
Maren closed her eyes.
Wren stepped into the room.
“Soldiers came to our door before sunrise.”
Maren said nothing.
“They said the King wants me alive.”
Still nothing.
“They knew I was here.”
Maren's face tightened.
“Wren, listen to me.”
“No. You listen.”
Wren's voice shook.
“For eighteen years, you've told me the truth would come when I was ready.”
Maren looked at her.
“I think it's here.”
A tear slipped down Maren's cheek.
Wren had never seen her cry.
“What is in that chest?”
Maren opened her mouth.
Hoofbeats thundered outside.
Both women froze.
A rider came racing into the yard.
Someone jumped from the saddle.
Then a fist struck the cottage door.
“Wren Hollow!”
Wren's blood turned cold.
The messenger shouted through the door.
“The village council needs the healer!”
A pause.
Then his voice dropped.
“Someone at the border camp has asked for you by name.”
Maren's face went completely white.
And Wren finally understood.
Whatever was inside that chest...
someone in Ironfall already knew what it was.
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