Fran left Alven standing in the corridor. The sound of boots and voices behind her faded as she made for the keep’s side door. Outside, the courtyard lay under a pale wash of cold light, the flagstones damp and slick where the night’s chill still clung. Two soldiers passed carrying a wounded man between them, his arm bound in a sling; another group led a cart piled with blankets toward the far gate.

  She had no intention of retreating to her chambers. The reports in council were one thing; seeing the truth for herself was another.

  The chapel sat apart from the main keep, its small bell tower black against the sky. She had been told it now served as both infirmary and shelter for the displaced. She wanted to see how the wounded were treated — and how many there were.

  The chapel doors stood open to the cold, and the air inside was warmer only by degrees. Incense clung faintly to the stones, though the pews were gone — pushed against the walls or dismantled entirely to make room for cots. The altar, stripped of silver and gilding, held bandages, clean water, and jars of salve instead of relics.

  Fran stepped in, pausing just long enough for her eyes to adjust. A handful of candles burned in the side niches. The rest of the light came from tall, narrow windows, spilling across the wounded laid out in uneven rows: soldiers with splinted limbs, farmers with raw, reddened fingers from wind and cold, children curled under thin blankets.

  Near the far wall, a girl no older than fourteen was wringing out a cloth in a basin. Her sleeves were rolled high, forearms pink from scrubbing. She glanced up as Fran passed, offered a quick nod, then returned to tending an elderly man’s bandaged hand.

  Fran slowed. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since summer,” the girl said without looking up. “My brothers went with the patrols. Someone had to help.”

  There was no self-pity in her tone, only a matter-of-fact steadiness. Fran’s gaze lingered — on the girl’s steady hands, on the way she smoothed the blanket before moving to the next cot. The same way Fran had once moved through the sickrooms in Candlekeep, before titles and councils.

  A voice called her name from the transept.

  “Your Grace,” said a woman in a grey habit, crossing the floor with the unhurried step of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She was tall, broad-shouldered, her face lined but not unkind. “I served at the High Temple in Vartis when your parents still walked the hill. I knew your mother, lady Seraina. You have her eyes and complexion… and her smile.”

  Fran inclined her head. “That’s kind of you.”

  “But that frown?” Elna’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s pure Duke Alric.”

  It drew a breath from Fran — not quite a laugh, but close. “You knew him, then.”

  “I knew of him. And I knew better than to stand in his way when he’d made up his mind.”

  They walked together between the rows of cots, speaking quietly. Fran asked after supplies, the number of displaced families, how long they could keep the infirmary running through winter. Elna’s answers were brisk and precise.

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  Halfway through, Fran’s stomach gave a faint, unwelcome twist. She ignored it, the way she always did. There was work to be done, and she’d managed worse.

  Near the door, a bent man with a makeshift crutch was muttering to another patient. Fran caught only fragments as they passed: “…two nights ago… torches on the ridge… not Banner men… worse…”

  Elna shook her head when Fran glanced at her. “Rumors,” she said, though her tone suggested she wished they were.

  Fran left the chapel with Elna’s quiet blessing still in her ears. The late-autumn light had thinned; clouds were sliding in from the east, dulling the sky to pewter.

  Verren was waiting by the steps, hands tucked behind his back.

  “How is it inside?”

  “Better than it might be,” she said, falling into step beside him. “Worse than it should be.”

  They crossed the courtyard, weaving between soldiers hauling crates toward the gatehouse and a pair of women carrying baskets of bread. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, stronger now than when she’d arrived; somewhere beyond the walls, someone was burning wet timber.

  As they passed the stables, Verren lowered his voice. “There’s been an increase in the past fortnight. Families coming in from the upland hamlets, mostly with nothing but what they can carry.”

  “Fleeing the Banner?”

  “Some say so. Others claim it’s men without colors — riding under no crest, moving quick at night. Never more than a dozen at once.”

  “Bandits?”

  “Too disciplined for bandits.” His mouth tightened. “Too quiet.”

  They reached the inner gate. Beyond, the slope fell toward the town: narrow streets lined with timber-fronted houses, their shutters drawn though it was barely mid-afternoon. A blackened cart lay half-pulled into an alley, the spokes of its wheels charred to stubs. Fran slowed just enough to take it in.

  “The last caravan from Brenwaith passed through here?” she asked.

  “Aye. Two weeks ago.”

  “And the next?”

  “Due before month’s end. If it comes.”

  A bell tolled somewhere deep in the keep, drawing their attention back uphill. Verren gave a brief nod toward the sound. “Your Grace, the captain will want a word before the evening rounds.”

  Fran glanced once more at the silent street before turning to follow him.

  The captain’s office sat in a low corner of the keep, down a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of damp stone and horses. When Fran stepped inside, the lanternlight caught on the metal trim of armor hung by the door — old, well-used, polished out of habit rather than pride.

  Captain Serwin rose and bowed. He was a thick-set man, his dark beard salted with grey and his expression unreadable. Verren stood near the hearth, arms folded.

  “Your Grace,” Serwin said. “You asked for a report before rounds.”

  “I did,” she replied, removing her gloves. “Speak freely.”

  Serwin nodded and turned to the map spread across his table, weighed down with stones. “Scouts returned an hour past dusk. They found signs of movement near the ridge east of Brenwaith — fresh tracks, three different sets. Too far for farmers. One of them left a torn sleeve behind — no crest, but the cloth was dyed.”

  Verren stepped closer. “No colors?”

  “No clear ones. Smudged. Could be Golden Banner — or not. They’ve grown careful.”

  Fran leaned in. “And the patrols?”

  “The outpost at Old Harrow missed its signal check two nights ago. We sent a pair of riders this morning — they’ve not returned.”

  A pause.

  Verren said quietly, “It might be nothing.”

  Serwin didn’t blink. “Or it might be a breach. If they’ve moved closer, they’re watching. Testing the edge.”

  Fran’s jaw tightened. “And the locals?”

  “Spooked. They don’t say much, but they’ve started locking their doors before sundown. The Temple took in another family last night — three children, no father. Claimed they heard screaming in the fields, and saw no wolves.”

  She let that settle before answering. “I want a new round of scouts, farther north. Quiet. Avoid engagement. If anyone’s using Vos’ old routes, we’ll find them.”

  “And if we don’t?” Serwin asked, not mocking, just honest.

  “Then we tighten our defenses and wait for the ones who think we won’t.”

  She turned to Verren. “Tell Mother Elna I may require the chapel cleared in case we need to treat wounded. Quietly — I don’t want panic. And have the west gate’s night watch doubled.”

  Verren hesitated. “You expect something to happen soon.”

  “I expect to be ready if it does.”

  She nodded to both men, then left the room — her boots silent on the stone, her cloak a long flick of dark wool behind her.