CHAPTER 90: TONIGHT, WE RIDE

The moon hung high in the sky, pale and pitiless, casting a cold silver light over the courtyard of House Rowe.

The great gates of the estate stood sealed, and the world beyond them was quiet, but within, the soft sound of swords being sheathed, and armor clinking against each other, could be heard.

Lord Rowe stood at the very center of it all. His full armor gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, each plate polished and fitted perfectly, though heavy with more than just its own weight.

Upon his shoulders sat the crimson cloak of his house, trimmed with gold. But it had no crest or identifying markers in it.

In his hands he held his greatsword, its point resting against the stone at his feet, the blade glinting with reflections of the moon’s pale fire. His gauntlets clasped tightly around the hilt, as though if he released it for even a second, he might lose the will that was binding him together.

Behind him lay the coffin. The coffin of his daughter. His heiress. His blood. Juniper.

He did not turn to look at it now, he had already burned its image into his soul, but he felt its presence, heavy and undeniable. It weighed on him more than the steel upon his body.

Arrayed before him in rows of silent discipline were his soldiers. Dozens of them, sworn to his banner.

Each one wore armor darkened with pitch, concealing every emblem or crest, the helmets crafted to give no hint of their identity. They were shadows under the moon, stripped of their names and faces, bound only by loyalty to House Rowe.

Lord Rowe raised his head, his eyes glinting beneath the helm, and turned to regard his men. He inhaled, drawing in the cold night air, feeling it burn in his lungs like fuel for the fire already raging in his chest.

When he spoke, his voice was low but carried with iron across the courtyard.

"House Rowe has fed you." His tone was harsh, filled with both pride and fury. "We have clothed you. We have sheltered your wives, your sons, your daughters. You have lived beneath our walls, eaten of our bread, and grown strong under our protection."

He raised his sword slowly, the steel scraping against stone as he lifted it until the blade stood upright, catching the light of the moon.

"And now," he thundered, his voice rolling across the gathered men, "it is time to repay that loyalty!"

The soldiers’ armor shifted as they straightened, their attention locked on their lord.

"They murdered her." Lord Rowe spat, his teeth grinding together. "They murdered Juniper. My daughter. Your lady. The heiress of this House! And yet, they expect us to sit idle while her body grows cold in her coffin?"

He swept the blade across his men, pointing at them all in turn. His voice grew rougher, louder.

"No! Tonight, we remind them that House Rowe does not bow! That blood calls for blood! That justice will be carved into the night with our blades!"

A growl of agreement rumbled through the soldiers.

"But hear me well." Lord Rowe lowered the tip of his sword toward the ground again, planting it like a banner. "The deed we set out to do tonight is treason in the eyes of Camelot. Treason against the King. Treason against the Academy. They will call us traitors. They will hunt us down. For striking against one carriage, every noble, every soldier, and every magus of the kingdom may come for us."

He paused, letting his words settle into their bones. For a heartbeat, the courtyard was silent. Then, his tone hardened.

"That is why you wear no colors tonight. That is why your armor bears no crest. You are no longer men of names. You are the vengeance of House Rowe. Ghosts that the world will not see coming. Shadows that will fall upon our enemies and vanish before they can speak."

He lifted his sword once more, holding it high above his head, its blade gleaming like the fang of some great beast. His voice boomed, filled with rage, grief, and unshakable command.

"We ride tonight to kill the murderer! To take justice into our hands when none else will! Ride with me, soldiers of Rowe, and let the night bear witness to our wrath!"

The soldiers raised their swords, their spears, their shields, their cries breaking the silence of the estate. A thunderous roar echoed through the courtyard, the sound of men ready to die for vengeance.

Lord Rowe turned sharply, swinging the sword back to his side. His steps were heavy as he moved toward his warhorse, a great black steed clad in iron barding. The beast snorted, stamping its hooves as if it too understood the storm it would soon charge into. Rowe mounted with ease, settling into the saddle, his cloak flaring as the wind caught it.

His men followed, mounting their own steeds one by one until the courtyard was filled with the sight of soldiers on warhorses and the creak of leather straps.

Lord Rowe raised his sword to the sky one last time, the moonlight striking against it, a symbol of defiance and vengeance.

"Tonight," he roared, "we ride!"

And with that, he spurred his horse forward. The gates of House Rowe opened with a groan, and the soldiers thundered out into the night, their faceless armor glinting faintly in the moonlight.

The night was cold, as if the grim reaper was out and about, waiting to receive a damned soul, and the road stretched before them like a silver vein beneath the light of the moon.

Lord Rowe already knew where to go.

He rode at the head of his soldiers, his warhorse’s hooves striking the earth like war drums, each beat echoing the fury burning in his chest.

The path was narrow, bordered by tall pines that swayed gently in the night wind, but there was no gentleness in their charge.

They rode with purpose, the fury of grief pushing them faster, harder. The hooves of dozens of horses struck like thunder, shaking the air, a sound that announced blood and fire to anyone unlucky enough to hear it.

Lord Rowe’s eyes burned beneath his helm, fixed on the road ahead. His rage had turned cold, narrowed to a single purpose.

Justice for his daughter. Justice for Juniper.

And then he saw it.

The carriage.