The road narrowed as they left the worst of the battle behind.
Forest closed in on both sides—tall, damp-smelling trees, branches knitting a grey ceiling overhead. The retinue strung out along the rutted track: Lockhart riders in white and gold, Roses men with their red cloaks dulled by mud, a couple of spare horses dragging a makeshift sled of broken Ghost gear toward the rear.
Inside the main carriage, the world shrank to wood, leather, and the sway of wheels.
William sat by the window, shoulder bumping the frame with every rut. His bandages itched under his shirt. Every time he shifted, something complained.
Across from him, Henry's posture was perfect despite the jostling—back straight, cloak folded neatly, hands resting on his knees like he was on parade. Aldric had claimed the corner opposite William and somehow managed to occupy twice as much space as his body actually took up, one boot braced on the seat, arm flung dramatically along the backrest.
Aldric had been recounting the Ghost ambush for the past five minutes.
"—and then, just as death's cold hand clutched at my thigh, I heroically bellowed, 'Protect the Lockhart heir!'" he said, waving one hand. "Truly, a selfless moment."
"You screamed," Henry said, without looking up. "I heard you from the front of the column."
"It was a manly scream," Aldric protested. "Full of courage. And pain. And artistry. You wouldn't understand; you simply exploded people with Light Muti like a hammer with anxiety issues."
Henry's mouth twitched. "I'll keep that in mind on the report."
William half-smiled, then turned back to the window as the trees began to thin.
Moor Town came into view like someone had dropped it carelessly in a clearing.
A sagging palisade of uneven logs. A gate that was more gap than door. Smoke rose from a handful of chimneys, thin and half-hearted. The forest seemed to lean over the place, watching.
Closer in, the state of it showed.
Roofs patched with whatever people could find—tarps, mismatched shingles, an actual sail in one spot. Chickens pecked in bare yards that should have been muddy with crops by now. William counted more empty frames and smashed carts than full wagons.
People stopped what they were doing to stare as the Lockhart-Roses column clattered in.
Faces were pinched and pale. Eyes sunk deep. Clothes hung a little too loose on narrow shoulders. A child on a stoop chewed on what looked like a strip of leather, eyes following the white-and-gold cloaks with something that wasn't awe so much as calculation: how much food do they carry? Will any of it fall?
William's hand tightened on the window frame.
"Saints," he murmured.
The town garrison was worse.
A handful of soldiers lounged by the gate, their armor tarnished and mismatched. One leaned on his spear like it might fall over if he didn't. Another smoked, helmet tilted back, eyes half-lidded.
They straightened a bit when they noticed the banners—Lockhart and Roses—and did a passable job of lining up.
"Open the damned gate before Lord Lockhart's boys ride over it," their sergeant barked, then turned to shout at a pair of teenagers who'd been gambling with dice in the mud. "Get out of the road, you little rats!"
The boys scattered.
Nobody saluted. Nobody bowed. They just watched, some with sullen curiosity, some with the same hollow look as the villagers.
William's jaw worked.
"How can it be like this," he said quietly, "this close to Albion?"
Henry glanced up at him, then out the window at the thinning cattle, the tired guards, the roofs that looked ready to cave at the next storm.
"Not everything is sunshine and rainbows, little brother," he said. "Even under royal banners."
William frowned. "But this is House Vutor territory, isn't it? One of the great houses. Shouldn't they—"
"—care?" Henry finished. "In theory."
Aldric snorted softly. "Oh, now we're doing politics. Go on, Henry. Tell him the bedtime story."
Henry ignored him, eyes tracking a woman hauling a cart with no horse—just a rope over her shoulders, kids pushing behind.
"You remember what Father told you about our land, when you were little?" he asked.
William dragged his gaze back inside. "That our great-grandfather got cheated."
Henry's mouth crooked.
"More politely," he said, "the Crown 'rewarded' him with a scrap of useless marsh at the edge of nowhere when he backed the Maximilian claim."
Aldric nodded. "Every other lord got fat river valleys and old castles. Great-Grandfather Lockhart got a bog, some miserable villages, and a lot of jokes at his expense."
"He took the bog anyway," Henry said. "He and Grandfather drained it, dug canals, built proper roads. Drilled their men until they didn't break. Turned 'useless' land into a fortress on the western marches."
He tipped his head toward the window, where Moor Town limped by.
"Father took what they built and went to war," Henry went on. "Battle after battle, never losing. Held lines other men said couldn't be held. Saved nobles who called him a jumped-up marsh knight before and 'Lord Lockhart' with deep bows after."
Aldric's grin went lopsided.
"Now," he said, "every house in Britannia respects your father. Even King Maximilian himself does more than pretend at court. They say when he rides to the front, the Germans check their maps twice."
William flushed, just a little. Hearing it in that compressed story made it sound like a legend, not the man who stole his bread at breakfast just to see him complain.
"And House Vutor?" he asked.
Henry's expression cooled.
"House Vutor cares about money, renown, and prestige," he said. "In that order. Their main forces stay fat and polished in King's Vain. They pour coin into their capital, their estates, their banners. Everything people can see."
He nodded toward a row of houses leaning into each other like drunks.
"Places like Moor Town?" Henry shrugged one shoulder. "Inland. Not on the Holy River. Not on the front. No glory in defending them. Bandits raid, Vutor scribes write reports, someone stamps a seal two months late, maybe a patrol comes through after the damage is done."
Aldric's eyes were on the street now too.
"The Vutors ruled once, back in the early days of Britannia," he said. "Part of them never stopped. They look at towns like this and see numbers, not faces. 'Is it worth the coin?' That's the only question."
Someone by the road coughed, deep and hacking.
A Lockhart rider tossed a small cloth bag down to a pack of kids. They scrambled for it, tearing it open—hard biscuits, a few dried apples. One girl caught William's eye through the window and froze for a second, crumbs on her lips, like maybe she wasn't supposed to be seen eating.
He smiled at her before he could stop himself.
She blinked, then ducked away behind her brother.
"Politics," Henry said, watching him. "Sticky, like Father says. Some lords build. Some bleed. Some hoard and dream of crowns that aren't theirs anymore."
He let that sit.
William looked back out at Moor Town, at the pinched faces, the thin arms, the too-quiet streets in sight of banners that were supposed to mean protection.
The carriage rolled past a shrine—just a little stone sun carved into a post, offerings at its base dried to husks.
He closed his hand slowly into a fist.
"I don't like it," he said.
"Good," Henry replied. "You're not supposed to."
William kept watching.
If he'd had Light Muti under control, would he have done anything? Heal someone? Would that have helped in the long run, or just made a story they told while still going hungry?
He didn't know. It tied his thoughts in knots.
But one thing came out clear.
"I'm going to get stronger," he said, almost to himself. "Strong enough that when I stand in a place like this, it means something. So people like this don't have to just... wait and hope someone gives a damn."
Henry looked at him for a long moment.
The corners of his mouth eased up.
"That," he said, "sounds like a Lockhart problem."
"I can see it now," Aldric cut in before William could answer. He threw his head back against the cushion as if he were narrating to an invisible audience. "William Lockhart. The Young Gate Knight Who Wants To Protect The World."
William groaned. "I didn't say—"
"Born in a bog," Aldric intoned, talking right over him. "Tempered at Ashford's gate, where he spat in the face of three thousand Germans and probably terrible weather. Haunted by the ghosts of old soldiers and bad decisions—"
"Stop," William said.
"—he rides forth!" Aldric went on, gesturing out the window with both hands. "Eyes full of justice, pockets full of absolutely no coin because he gives it all away, vowing to save every sad town and starving child from here to the Holy River—"
Henry actually laughed, short and sharp.
William pushed his hair back, half-annoyed, half-smiling despite himself. "You're making it sound ridiculous."
"I assure you, it will be ridiculous," Aldric said solemnly. "There will be tragic speeches. There will be women swooning. There will be songs about your jawline."
"I don't care about—"
"And so," Aldric declared, cutting him off again, "begins the legend. From Young Gate Knight... to Dark Knight. A man who has seen too much rain, too much blood, and too many terrible noble banquets."
William stared at him.
"Why 'Dark Knight'?" he asked. "I'm literally Light Muti."
"Details," Aldric said airily. "Titles have to sound brooding. The bards will fix it in post."
Henry shook his head, still faintly amused.
"Saints help us all," he said. "If the world has to rely on you two."
The carriage rattled on through Moor Town, past hungry eyes and lazy spears and the little sun-shrine with its withered offerings, heading toward Albion's white towers and the court that would decide what any of this was worth.
William watched the town slip away behind them and silently promised it—and all the others like it—he'd be back, one way or another.
Aldric, mercifully, had moved on to describing the various statues he wanted in his honor.
"—and then a tasteful one in the Roses gardens," he was saying. "Very heroic. Modestly shirtless."
"Absolutely not," William said.
"Ah," Aldric replied, "the Dark Knight speaks."
Henry just smirked and watched the road ahead.