They met him where the old north road split, one branch curling toward the marsh and the other climbing through barley fields toward Highmarsh proper. The signpost leaned like it had been watching travelers make the same choice for centuries. Beneath it, a single horse waited in the shade—black hide gleaming, mane tangled with wind.
“Isn’t that—?” Toby breathed before he saw the man.
Maxwell stepped out from behind the post, cloak dusted, a small pack slung over one shoulder. He looked exactly as he had when they left—as if no miles had passed at all, or as if the miles themselves had decided they’d get in his way.
Zak let out a low whistle. “You’ve got a talent for appearing where nobody expects you, Master.”
Maxwell’s mouth twitched. “Old habit. The road’s quieter when it doesn’t know you’re coming.”
Reece grinned. “We were about to start worrying you’d gone and retired.”
“Retirement,” Maxwell said dryly, “is for men who’ve finished their lessons. You three are proof I haven’t.”
They laughed, mostly out of relief. Toby swung down from his horse and clasped his master’s forearm. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” Maxwell said, gripping back with the same sure strength as always. “You made fine time. Word reached me before you did.”
That drew three startled looks.
“Word?” Reece echoed. “Already? We left Eaglelight a fortnight ago.”
Maxwell bent to adjust the black horse’s girth strap, entirely too casual. “Falcons and eagles both have wings. Hard to say which flies faster.”
Zak frowned. “You mean—”
“I mean,” Maxwell interrupted lightly, “that I’ve heard enough to congratulate you.”
He straightened, eyes passing over them one by one. “Reece—I heard you faced Ser Alex of Amberwood and came out on your feet. That man’s temper could split stone. You met it with control, not pride. That’s rarer than victory.”
Reece blinked, a bit stunned. “You heard about that?”
“Half of Eaglelight did,” Maxwell said. “You gave them something better than spectacle—restraint.”
He turned to Zak next. “And you—Sire Raymond of Goldeer, wasn’t it? A knight twice your size and ten times your polish. You still struck him clean and made the crowd cheer your name. Losing with grace is harder than winning with luck.”
Zak gave a crooked grin. “I’ll take the cheer over the polish, Master.”
“Just make sure you keep both hands on your sword next time,” Maxwell said dryly.
Finally his gaze settled on Toby. “And you—you took that same knight and read him mid-fight. You fought the way you’ve trained: patient, precise, and unafraid to change your rhythm. You’ve done Highmarsh a boon—the story of one of our squires winning the King’s spring tournament will be told to its sons for a long while yet. The King’s hall carries news faster than pigeons; by now, half the realm’s heard your name.”
Toby felt the weight of it settle beneath his ribs—heavier than the writ itself. “Thank you, Master.”
Maxwell nodded once, then let the praise cool a fraction. “Enjoy it. You earned it. But remember—that was a rookie’s tourney. Wood and padding teach you where to stand. The real lesson comes in full plate with a proper sword, when every mistake sings in steel. Tournaments end. Training doesn’t.”
He reached into the horse’s saddlebag and drew out a small bundle, handing it down. Inside were wrapped loaves, dried meat, a flask of water. “For the night.”
“The night?” Zak repeated. “You’re camping out here?”
“Not me,” Maxwell said. “You.”
They stared.
Reece blinked. “Pardon?”
“You heard me,” Maxwell said, entirely unmoved. “You’ll camp here at the crossroads. One last night under canvas before the comforts of home ruin you again.”
Toby frowned. “We’re less than half a day from Highmarsh.”
“All the more reason,” Maxwell replied. “Patience is part of the lesson. Tomorrow, when the sun stands at its zenith, you ride in. Not before.”
Zak looked to the others, as if one of them might decode the madness. “We’ve been riding two weeks, eating dust, dreaming about real beds—”
“—and you’ll enjoy them more for waiting,” Maxwell said, looping Piper’s reins loosely over the post. His tone carried that mild finality which meant no argument would find purchase.
Reece tried anyway. “Master, forgive me, but… why?”
Maxwell adjusted his pack, eyes on the horizon. “Because the road’s last mile is always the hardest to travel right. Some men rush it and forget what they’ve learned along the way.” He looked back at them then, the faintest ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “I’d rather you arrive as knights, not as tired boys who think they’re owed welcome.”
Zak opened his mouth, closed it, then said only, “You could’ve just said that.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“I could have,” Maxwell said, mounting Piper in one easy motion, “but you’d have learned less.”
Toby drew a breath. “At least take the writ, Master. If something happens—”
That paused Maxwell. He turned in the saddle, studying the small pouch Toby held out. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind stirring the barley. Then he shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “That parchment’s not mine to carry. It’s yours—all three of you. You earned it. Let the weight sit with those who proved they can bear it.”
Toby hesitated, then tucked the writ back against his chest. “Aye, Master.”
Maxwell’s expression eased. “Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to burn the countryside in my absence.”
Reece leaned forward on his reins. “You’re really leaving us out here?”
“I am,” Maxwell said. “The road makes better company than questions.”
Zak called after him, half exasperated, half laughing. “You know, one day we’ll be knights too. Then we get to order you about.”
Maxwell’s reply floated back as Piper started south. “Then you’ll find that giving orders is far lonelier than taking them.”
And just like that, he was gone—black horse and falcon cloak shrinking into the shimmer of the road until they were no more than a thought the wind forgot to keep. For a while none of them spoke. The crossroads creaked softly in the breeze.
Finally Zak sighed. “I don’t know what lesson that was supposed to be.”
Reece dismounted and began untying his bedroll. “Patience, humility, maybe. Or he’s just testing whether we can pitch a tent without supervision.”
“Probably that,” Zak said.
Toby smiled faintly and helped unstrap the gear. “He’s right, though. One more night won’t kill us.”
Zak muttered something about comfort and stupidity but went to gather firewood all the same. Reece coaxed a small flame from the flint while Toby drove the tent pegs, the rhythm familiar and easy. When the fire finally caught, its light leaned over the crossroad sign and painted their shadows long across the grass.
“Tomorrow,” Reece said, staring into the glow.
“Tomorrow,” Toby echoed. He felt the writ against his heart, steady as the pulse beneath it.
Zak yawned and flopped onto his bedroll. “And when the sun hits its bloody zenith, we ride home.”
The fire cracked. The wind smelled faintly of marsh and iron and rain still far away. Somewhere beyond the hills, a black horse carried a master who trusted them enough to wait.
Toby lay back, eyes on the first stars pricking through the dark, and felt the strangeness of the moment—the stillness before belonging. For the first time, he didn’t feel like a squire on the road or a boy running from ghosts. He felt ready to arrive.
As promised, they saw the first rooftops of Highmarsh just after noon, the pale teeth of the double walls lifting from spring haze like familiar mountains. The road had been kind, the weather kinder; even so, the three of them rode quiet, saving reins and words alike. Toby felt the writ against his chest with every hoofbeat, a steady thump—promise to promise, heart to wax.
He had time to think, and thinking led him to a conclusion that seemed truer with every mile: words travel faster than horses. Not just because a rumor can leap from mouth to mouth without resting or watering, but because words wake things in people that no gallop ever could—hope, fear, and pride. By the time they reached the first outlying cottages, it was already there in the air: a tremor, a brightness, like the breath before a cheer.
“Either we’re expected,” Zak said, “or someone else won the tourney too.”
“Lawrence,” Reece guessed. “He’s probably got a bell system that rings down the road by pigeons alone.”
“Falcons,” Toby said, unable to keep the grin from his face. “It would be falcons.”
They passed through the town gate and the world erupted. The street was full—actually full—as if a feast had spilled from the taverns, as if the market had decided its best stall was sunlight itself. Women and old men, boys and babes on shoulders, the smith with soot still on his jaw, the baker with flour-dusted hands, the washerwoman with a kerchief bright as a banner—all of them craning, calling, raising hands. And then the petals began to fall.
Flower petals, fresh and pale from gardens and window boxes: plum, apple, a scatter of early wild rose. They came from every stoop and sill, drifting in loops and spirals, catching in the horses’ manes, sticking to leather and wool. The street smelled like bread and iron and suddenly, gloriously, spring.
“By the saints,” Reece whispered. His voice wobbled once and steadied. “They knew.”
Zak had been ready with a joke—Toby saw it form and die on his lips. Instead he ducked his head, embarrassed by joy, and managed, “You hear that? They’re cheering for us. Poor fools. They’ve no idea what my sword arm looks like first thing in the morning.”
“Better than your head looks,” Toby said, but the quip was hollow and fond. His throat had gone tight. He saw faces he recognized—the old spinner who gave him a sour bun once, the lad who cleaned tack in the stables, a pair of guards who’d scolded him for running the walls after dark in his first weeks. He saw faces he didn’t recognize and felt he should. That was the weight of belonging: the debt that grew simply by being welcomed.
“Falcon! Falcon!” the cry rolled, caught, multiplied. “Highmarsh endures!”
Toby lifted a hand, not grandly, just enough to answer. He was not a knight—not yet—but in that moment he felt the shape of it: service bent into flesh.
They kept their horses to a careful walk. Hands reached, not to take, only to touch—a stirrup leather, a boot, Reece’s cloak. A child with blue ribbon in her hair tossed a handful of petals too early; they fell and rose on the horses’ breath and she laughed like bells. A farmer’s wife pressed a posy into Zak’s fist and said, “For bravery,” though her eyes were wet for some other story only she knew.
Toby looked past the crowd to the keep, its stone steady as ever. He could almost see the unseen string between the towers and the town, the way Lawrence and Sire Kay had pulled knowledge across it—falcons, messengers, quick minds and quicker quills. Words had flown while they slept; words had done what horses could not.
At the square beneath the inner gate, the press eased. The castle guard made a lane without roughness—hands up, palms showing, eyebrows telling a hundred jokes about heroes and mud and sore thighs. Toby rode through feeling taller and smaller at once. The petals thinned. The air cooled in the shadow of the gatehouse. When the portcullis clanked up, its iron teeth rising with a groan, the sound felt like a welcome and a warning, both at once.
Inside, the outer ward carried on as always—grooms leading strings of horses, boys hauling wood, a cooper rolling a new barrel like a wheel of fortune. Normalcy after noise. It soothed him. He exhaled in a long, shaky line and looked sideways at his brothers.
Zak wore petals like a crown. “If anyone asks,” he said, voice hoarse, “tell them I didn’t cry. The wind did it.”
Reece wiped an eye and sniffed. “Strong wind today.”
“Gale,” Zak agreed.
Toby laughed. “Come on. Before Lawrence finds us standing and schedules it.”
They swung down from their saddles together and handed the reins over to a pair of stable lads who tried not to look wide-eyed. The familiar smell of hay and leather closed around them. Horses snorted, grateful and bored. Zak patted his mount’s neck with exaggerated tenderness. “You did all the work,” he told it. “I’ll take the praises.”
“Bath?” Reece ventured.
“Bath,” Toby said.
The petals fell from their cloaks in a little storm as they turned toward the steps. Behind them, somewhere beyond stone and talk and banners, the townsfolk were still calling. The sound followed them like a tide.
Highmarsh endures.
Featured Sci-Fi Serial
Sci-Fi Psychological Mystery Action
Teorin is close to uncovering the truth behind his father's disappearance, until a stolen drive puts him in the crosshairs of the one person he can’t outrun: the brother who left him behind.
What to expect
- Sci-fi mystery
- Character-driven plot
- Slow-burn investigation
- Brothers on opposite sides
- Cool powers!
- Optional meta layers
- Multi-POV cast
- Emotional gut punches & sarcasm
- A very snarky character in your comments
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