#bbaf

How long had he lain there now—flat on his back, eyes wide open, unmoving except for the occasional twitch of his fingers against the sheets? An hour? Two? Long enough that the moonlight had shifted across the floor and the cold in the room had settled into his bones. He couldn’t tell anymore. Time had blurred at the edges, indistinct as smoke.

His gaze locked on the canopy above, blank and still and brittle. That same vacant stare had settled into his face like a mask over the last fortnight, carved in place by exhaustion and something uglier underneath.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of sleep in broken scraps—when it came at all. Two weeks of endless war councils and bloodied scrolls, of writing reports he could barely focus on, of holding himself upright at the table while half the room stared at him like he might snap at any moment.

And he might.

Gods, he might.

Benjicot ran a hand down his face, nails scraping over the stubble on his jaw, his skin slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. He felt like he was unraveling slowly, quietly—like a rope fraying thread by thread beneath a weight too heavy to name.

It wasn’t just the nightmares, though they came most nights now, grotesque reenactments of the battlefield, twisted memories of his father’s death, burning behind his eyes even when he was awake. It was the way no one dared speak plainly to him anymore. The way his men glanced at him like a man circling madness, too proud to ask for help, too angry to admit he was drowning.

He swallowed hard, pushing himself up on his elbows as the sheets pooled around his waist. The fire in the hearth had long gone out.

He couldn’t lie there any longer and had been awake since.

If he did, he feared the silence would swallow him whole. 

“Benjicot?”

 Serra’s voice was soft—barely more than a whisper—but it tugged him back, his eyes flickering up from the cold plate in front of him. Only when his glazed-over gaze met hers did she lower her chin slightly, studying him. The hollows beneath his eyes were darker today, the expression behind them vacant and unreachable.

“Did you hear me?” she asked gently.

“No,” he admitted, rubbing his temples with a sigh. “No, my apologies, dearest. What did you say?”

She smiled—soft and sweet, the corners of her mouth curling with practiced warmth as her shoulders eased.

“I said our son has begun to crawl,” she repeated, voice quiet. “He’s coming along very well. The handmaid’s updated me regarding his progress this morning—you’ve ought to see it for yourself.” 

He let out a passive hum, tired eyes blinking slowly as his eyebrows rose, “Mm, of course.” 

He could still feel her gaze on him, mouth tight as she tried to keep the warmth in her expression. But Serra wasn’t a fool—she saw right through the passive hum and glassy reply, and for a moment, silence pressed thick between them.

Benjicot exhaled slowly, dragging both hands through his hair. It was damp with sweat. Not from dreams this time, but from sheer exhaustion.

He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but something had been slipping. A part of him he couldn’t name, something deep in the spine that once made him sharp, made him relentless—was eroding. Every time he looked at a war map, every time he stood in the war council and heard reports of Bracken movements or lost supply trains, he felt himself drifting further from the boy who had once fought beside his father and the man who had sworn to avenge him.

Now, even vengeance felt dull.

But today, he would not drift. Not in front of Serra. Not in front of the others.

Benjicot let out a breath and forced himself upright.

His limbs protested, stiff and sore, but he stood, walked across the chamber, and tugged on his tunic without a word. He caught his reflection in the mirror Serra kept by the washbasin—dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw tight, beard a little overgrown. A haunted young lord still pretending to carry the whole world on his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Serra asked gently, rising from her chair.

He turned to her, fingers working the laces at his wrist. “I want breakfast brought to the solar. Ask them to seat Emrys, Oscar, and Ser Lyle. I want them fed—and informed.”

She hesitated. “Is something happening?”

Benjicot met her eyes for the first time since the fire had gone out in the hearth. “Something’s always happening. And I’m done hearing about it in fragments.”

“Will you eat?”

“I’ll sit,” he replied. “For now, that will have to do.”

The sun had risen high enough that gold filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, casting stripes of light over the long oaken table in the solar. The food had already been laid out: salted fish, small rounds of bread, cheese, soft fruit, and a tray of thick-cut beef that steamed faintly in the cooler morning air.

Benjicot stood by the far wall, near the window, until he heard the shuffle of boots on stone and the low murmur of his men entering.

Emrys came first, as always, posture careful but confident. Oscar followed, less comfortable with the setting, adjusting his tunic at the collar. Ser Lyle trailed behind them, already mid-complaint about the stiffness of the chairs.

Benjicot turned and nodded once, gesturing to the table.

“Sit,” he said simply. “Eat. All of you.”

They exchanged looks—surprised more by the calm tone than the request.

Emrys cleared his throat. “Is this… a war council, or…?”

“It’s breakfast,” Benjicot said, lowering himself into the high-backed chair beside Serra, who had already taken her place and was nursing a cup of tea. “But I trust each of you. And it’s time I stopped carrying all of this in the dark.”

The cousins sat slowly, cautiously, but didn’t protest.

Benjicot glanced at the untouched food. The smell made his stomach turn, but he forced himself to tear a small chunk of bread from the loaf in front of him and set it on his plate. A show, if nothing else.

“I want updates,” he said. “Directly. From you. No more filtered reports. No more scribbled notes left outside my door at midnight. We’re at war. I want my table filled with commanders, not ghosts.”

Emrys blinked, then nodded. “Very well.”

Benjicot leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped. “We begin with the most recent patrols in Bracken territory. I know riders were sent out under Ser Darron. Where are they now?”

Emrys shifted in his seat and slowly began to answer.

And as the conversation turned from small talk to movement of troops, from bread and tea to threats and Bracken positioning, Serra sat quietly, watching her husband.

She didn’t interrupt.

But she noted the twitch in his right hand. The way he didn’t touch the beef. The way he refused to lean back in his chair.

She could feel it—he was slipping again. Trying to hold the castle together with callused hands and a jaw clenched tight enough to break. Her attention was briefly drawn to Emrys, his soft voice piping up.

“It seems…” Emrys slowly drawled, picking at his plate, nausea creeping up the back of his throat as he eyed the cooked beef. He glanced at Oscar who kept his eyes down, uncharacteristically quiet as Benjicot raised his eyebrows. 

“Well?” Benjicot prompted. He wasn’t known for his patience but Emrys knew his annoyance would be better than the inevitable rage and outburst that would follow, the minute his mouth opened—however, there truly was no sparing the truth. He would press until Emrys cracked and inevitably caved in telling him, and he would rather face the initial anger than the fury that would come down upon him if he’d kept it to himself. Oscar briefly looked up, his eyebrows twitching upwards as if to prompt him. He sighed aloud. 

“It seems they left a…gift. A scarecrow of sorts, a symbol,” he said, shifting stiffly in his chair as he then set down his fork. He paused, contemplating his choice of words as his jaw ticked, blinking rapidly, “it, uh…”

“Emrys, what is so significant about this scarecrow?” Benjicot asked, his tone sharper this time. 

“We believe the intent was for it to resemble your father,” he finally confessed, “a pig to the slaughter.” 

“I want them dead! Every last one of them!” He screamed, red in the face as his blade swiped the table and sent the dishes of meat and fruit flying to the floor in a flurry of broken glass. The sound echoed as Benjicot wiped his nose, his chest heaving as he stepped back from the table and began to pace back and forth, sword clutched in his hand. 

“You are not thinking clearly, Benjicot,” Emrys attempted to reason, hand at his belt as he stepped back from the mess. 

“This is what they wanted though, is it not?” Benjicot asked, his gaze avoiding him as it shifted back and forth, glued to the floor like he was sorting through the filing cabinet of his brain. It was only then did his gaze briefly lift, looking to his cousin who hesitated to reply, silenced once his cousin spoke again, “a war? They wanted a war, did they not? Why—why else would they do this?” He asked. 

Benjicot spluttered out a sound suddenly, muttering to himself incoherently—Emrys only made out a few words, a mindless babble of vile disgrace and bloody Brackens’, letting out a sharp sound that resembled a laugh. His hand covered his nose, wiping his nose again as his pacing stopped, still not yet finding Emrys’ gaze. Oscar was the first to find Emrys’ gaze instead, a look of concern crossing his features. 

“I think…I think you should rest before making any rash decisions, m’lord,” Oscar suggested. 

“No,” he said, tone curt and short but insistent, “no.” 

And it was then Benjicot laughed—genuinely laughed as he turned away from a moment, wiping the tears from his face as he hunched over for a moment. He crouched, a hand over his face as his laugh bordered a wail, the sound difficult to decipher as his cousins watched in silence. 

“I’ll kill every last one of them—by my own fucking hand if I must,” Benjicot seethed, his voice low now, trembling under the weight of something far darker than rage. He was crouched, one hand still pressed to his face, the other clenched white-knuckled around the pommel of his sword as though it were the only thing tethering him to the room— to the present— to himself.

Oscar took a cautious half-step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Benji…”

“Don’t,” came the warning, sharp as a blade drawn across skin. Benjicot stood slowly, shoulders squared but posture brittle, like a man held together by fury and fraying thread. “Don’t call me that. Not right now.”

Oscar froze, lips parted as though more words threatened to rise, but they never came.

Emrys moved with quiet purpose, stepping around the wreckage of shattered plates and spilled meat. “Benjicot,” he said deliberately, “you are the Lord of Raventree. You do not have the luxury of impulse. Not anymore. You know this.”

“I know what they did.” Benjicot's voice cracked, a hoarse, venom-laced thing. “They didn’t just want a war, Emrys. They wanted to disgrace my blood. Mock my father’s death. Put his likeness on display like he was nothing. Do you understand?” His eyes, red-rimmed and fever-bright, finally met Emrys’, “They pissed on his grave in effigy.”

“And if you ride out tonight, like this,” Emrys countered, firm but not unkind, “then they’ll get exactly what they want. A Blackwood lord who fights like a boy, not a man. A son who forgets the honor his father died with.”

The words landed heavy, and for a moment, silence stretched taut between them.

Benjicot’s breath hitched. He turned away, sword falling from his hand with a dull thud on the stone floor. “What would you have me do?” he asked, but it wasn’t truly a question. It was a confession—empty, exhausted, and desperate.

“Make them regret it,” Emrys said. “But not like this. Not with your rage leading the charge. With your mind.”

Oscar finally stepped forward, this time with more confidence. “We reinforce the roads. Send riders north and east. Track movements. If this was meant as provocation, then the Brackens are not finished. They want you to strike blind. So we open our eyes wider.”

Benjicot wiped his face again, his skin blotched and flushed. He looked to both of them—his kin, his council, his last anchors to reason. “We strike back,” he said. “But we do it right.”

Emrys nodded, relief threading through his features. “A message,” he said. “One the Brackens won’t be laughing at.”

Benjicot didn’t smile, but something steadied behind his eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous timbre, “Fetch the ravens. Ready the scouts. And burn that fucking scarecrow.”

He hesitated to leave, his wife’s hand catching his wrist as her brows pulled into a look of concern, “Ben…” 

Only then had he snapped out of his daze, his gaze lifting to look at her. She reached up, touching his cheek with a slight tilt of her head, her eyes softening with something that resembled sadness, “Promise me.” 

Benjicot’s shoulders dropped, sighing out a breath, “Promise what?” He asked, voice low as his gaze briefly flickered to where his men stood; watching them from his peripheral. 

“Not to do anything rash,” She said, “not to go there.” 

“Serra…” He said, voice drifting as he looked up again at her. 

“Don’t do it,” She said, her tone firmer this time, “promise me.” 

He visibly had to fight the urge to snap, sighing again as turning his wrist in her hand in order to free himself. His hand sought hers, fingers lacing through hers to press his palm against that of his wife’s, “I can’t…” “Yes, you can.” 

--

The moon was barely more than a crescent, hanging like a blade over the Blackwood men as they rode single-file through the marshy edge of the southern riverbank. Mist coiled low, creeping like breath along the water’s edge. The air stank faintly of moss and old ash—scars from raids that never quite healed.

Benjicot led the ride, cloak pulled tight against the damp air, his hood shadowing his face. Behind him rode his cousins: Ser Lyle Blackwood, broad and aging but as loyal as the oaths he’d sworn as a boy; and Oscar, quiet and younger, eyes darting constantly between the trees like he expected ghosts behind every root.

None of them spoke. Not until the river crossing was behind them and the Bracken lands loomed ahead.

“This is madness,” Lyle finally muttered under his breath. “We said we wouldn’t start a war in the dark.”

“They started it in the light,” Benjicot growled. “Mocked our dead and dared us to stay silent. I gave them silence long enough.”

Oscar frowned. “You gave your word to Emrys. And Serra.”

Benjicot’s hands clenched tighter around his reins. He didn’t answer—not directly. Instead, he pulled his horse to a stop atop a low ridge overlooking the remnants of a burned-out watch camp, Bracken-made and Bracken-abandoned. Only one thing still stood there intact: a post of sharpened wood where heads had once been staked.

He reached into his saddlebag.

Wrapped in cloth was a crude effigy of a crow—its wings made of bound black feathers, pitch dripping from its body like dried blood. A heart, carved from old pine, was wedged between its twisted beak.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “You made that yourself?”

Benjicot didn’t look at him. “It’s not for you to understand.”

He dismounted, slinging the crow under his arm as he stalked toward the post.

The others hung back, uneasy, but watched him lash it into place with coarse rope and a strip of leather once belonging to his father’s saddle. The wind caught the feathers and turned them slowly, casting a flickering shadow across the grass.

A warning. A curse. A promise.

He stared at it for a long time.

“That’s done,” Lyle said lowly. “Now we ride home before—”

“Hold!”

The shout came from the ridge behind them.

Steel hissed free. Horses shifted and whinnied.

Benjicot turned sharply, hand flying to his sword.

Three riders emerged from the trees—Bracken colors visible even in the moonlight, their armor dulled but not silent. One of them had a horn slung over his back, though it remained untouched.

“Trespassing and leaving gifts, are we?” the lead guard sneered. “Didn’t think Blackwoods had the balls to come this far south.”

Benjicot didn’t flinch. “Keep talking, and I’ll send your teeth home in a sack.”

Lyle muttered a curse. “Benjicot—”

The Bracken riders drew closer. Their leader leaned forward in the saddle, eyes narrowing at the effigy twisting in the wind.

“That yours?” he asked. “Clever. You think that’s going to scare Lord Andros? Or did you come to beg forgiveness like the rest of your flock?”

Benjicot drew his blade with one smooth motion.

“I came to remind your house that Blackwoods remember their dead. We don’t burn their likeness into pigs and call it victory.”

The Bracken’s smile faded.

“You calling my lord a coward?”

“No,” Benjicot said, stepping forward. “I’m calling him next.”

The tension snapped like a drawn bowstring.

The clash of steel rang out sharp and sudden as the Brackens dismounted, drawing blades, but Lyle and Oscar were already moving. Swords met with grunts and curses, feet slipping on wet grass. It wasn’t a full battle—but it wasn’t a skirmish either. It was a warning written in blood.

Benjicot moved like he was possessed—his blade cutting low and fast, not wild, but full of something brutal. He ducked a swing, elbowed the Bracken guard in the jaw, and buried the hilt of his sword into the man’s ribs, sending him crashing to the ground.

Oscar fended off another with a gash to the arm but kept on his feet. Lyle held the third at bay with sheer size and grit, shouting for them to fall back.

One of the Brackens blew the horn before Benjicot could stop him.

The sound echoed like a death knell through the trees.

Benjicot snarled. “Mount up!”

They leapt back into their saddles, tearing away from the ridge just as more torches flared in the distance.

The horn blast echoed once, then again.

The second call was closer.

Benjicot’s heart pounded, his hand still slick with blood, not all of it his. The horses thrashed beneath them as more torches appeared in the dark—coming fast from the tree line to the west and the ridge above. They were boxed in.

“Shit,” Lyle barked. “There’s more of them—north flank! We’re cut off!”

Oscar turned sharply in his saddle, his face pale, sword dripping. “What now, Ben?”

Benjicot’s eyes scanned the dark. They’d planned for quick and quiet. They had no supplies, no backup, and no clean retreat route. The Brackens were surrounding them. Not yet on top of them—but only moments away.

For the first time since crossing the river, Benjicot faltered.

Not because of fear.

But because he knew Serra would wake up to find him gone. Again.

He could see it—her hands tightening at the tent flap, the quiet anger burning through her calm, the look in her eyes when she realized he’d broken his word.

And their son. Too young to understand, too small to remember his father’s scent if he never came back.

He exhaled roughly, pulling off one leather riding glove and twisting it in his hand. He reached for Oscar.

“Take this,” he ordered. “You’ll ride if you see a break. No heroics. If I fall, you get across the river.”

Oscar looked at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re not dying here—”

“You will if you hesitate.” Benjicot grabbed his forearm. “If I fall, you ride. Get back to Raventree. You send word to Serra. You tell her…” He hesitated, his voice cracking slightly. “You tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I broke my word to protect our name. Our people. Tell her…” He swallowed, hard. “That I loved her. And that Meryn will remember me for something other than silence.”

Oscar nodded slowly, jaw clenched, the glove stuffed into his belt.

“We don’t die tonight,” he muttered. “We’re not giving the Brackens that.”

A voice called out from the trees:

“BLACKWOOD! DROP YOUR SWORDS! You’re outnumbered! You fight, you die.”

Another half-dozen torches appeared.

They were surrounded now, flanked in the narrow ravine, the ridge behind them cut off, the shallows too far to cross on horseback without being cut down.

Benjicot’s blade dropped slightly—not in surrender, but in calculation.

They couldn’t win. But maybe, just maybe… they could negotiate. Delay. Find the one Bracken who might still carry a sliver of restraint.

His jaw tightened.

“I want to speak with Myrna,” he called back. “If you’ll give quarter, I’ll speak to her. She’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

Lyle and Oscar both turned to him in disbelief.

“You think she’ll save us?” Lyle muttered.

“I think she’s the only one who still remembers when my life meant more than a name on a list of enemies,” Benjicot said quietly.

A moment of silence.

Then came the answer:

“You’ll see her. But drop your weapons. All of you.”

Benjicot paused only a second before nodding. He turned to his cousins.

“Do it.”

The swords hit the dirt, one by one.

And as the Bracken riders closed in, weapons drawn and faces hard, Benjicot only hoped Serra would get the message in time—that if this was his last stand, it wouldn’t come as a silence in the dark.

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