They took it because the constable, Jad shield him forever in light, had arranged for a man within to unbolt the main gate for them when darkness came.

They were, to put it bluntly, not expected. Not in winter, at night, in snow. That never happened.

It was war against a hated, occupying foe, with traitors to Ferrieres among them inside the fortress walls. The constable’s force wreaked a slaughter that night among the enemy soldiers, among known allies of the Anglcyn—and then within the populace that had permitted them.

That last was not truly fair or just, and they knew it. Permitting was not the point for citizens dealing with occupying soldiers. But warnings and messages needed to be sent in war. Ferrieres had a larger population than its enemy across the channel but was terribly divided, with a vain, rivalrous, glory-seeking aristocracy, each lord leading his own force while hating the others more than the Anglcyn, it often seemed. They had been losing this long war. Surrendering cities and territory. Not yet to the point of destruction, but…not so far away from it.

Retaking the castle, town, and harbour of Curton had been a memorable moment. Had indeed sent a message. And he’d been there, young Robbin de Vaux, commanding a cohort, killing in the name of the king, wielding a sword behind his constable. In the name of Jad, too, although both sides claimed to have the god’s favour, of course.

He had been promoted, honoured, rewarded. Owed so much, really, to that night and to the constable. All, really. And he carried, to this day, right to this frigid night in Orane, a memory of riding through snowfall towards a castle on the coast. A pivot in his life. The moment when fortune’s wheel had begun to carry him upwards.

Tonight the wheel might bring him down, he thought. He might be dead within days.

There were more lights in the queen’s home now, he saw. He’d been to her city palace a few times, for functions. Dances. He didn’t dance by choice, but he did of necessity. His wife had taught him how.

Lights didn’t mean the queen was awake in the middle of the night, but they did suggest that she was. Robbin de Vaux felt a rare uncertainty. He had trained uncertainty out of himself in most circumstances. Not this one, however. Not sitting astride his horse over a ruined body. This body.

The constable used to say, before a battle, “Now we are for chaos and old night.”

It was night now under the stars and the blue moon rising—though the city and country did not yet know the chaos that might be coming.

He wished he were home and in bed. A foolish wish but a real one.