But Brennach planted himself at her shoulder like another wall of the castle and said, in the flat tone of a man who meant to be obeyed, “If this is a feint, they want you beyond the gate.”
He was right. And even though she wanted to help, she stayed.
She stood on the wall above the gatehouse with rain needling her face and wind tearing loose strands from her braid. Below, the castle churned with alarm. Boys too young for battle ran waterskins and spare bowstrings from store to gate. Women from the lower chambers gathered children close and stared toward the smoke as though staring hard enough might keep fire from crossing the fields. A dark-haired woman held a fluffy orange-and-white cat close, whispering calming words to it. Tomas moved through the yard with a slate in one hand and three men answering him at once, his face drawn tight with strain. Father Cillian passed from hearth to doorway tofrightened villager like a dark bird crossing ruin, speaking low, blessing where he could, steadying where he was needed.
Aingeal stood above them all and felt how narrow her rule had become. The safety of her people depended, in part, on the very man whose lie had helped shatter her future. That was the bitterest truth of all.
She watched Seamus take the ash road, watched Cormac swing east with the heavier riders, and watched Reginald, no, FitzUrse now, cut north under her command and vanish into the gray.
Rain thickened, then thinned again. Smoke climbed black against the low sky. From this distance, she could no longer make out faces, only movement: small dark figures splitting and converging over wet ground as the attack unfolded.
Seamus came into view first on the far line, where the old ash stand broke the slope in a jagged sweep of trunks. His riders hit the north track with such force that even from the wall, Aingeal felt the violence of it.
Cormac’s troop appeared later, farther east, cutting inward at the very moment the raiders tried to break and drive cattle toward the marsh.
And Reginald…
Aingeal found him not by certainty of sight, but by motion. There was a ruthless economy in him she would have known anywhere now, and the knowledge of that made her chest ache with fresh sadness. Even through smoke and rain, she saw it. The way he wasted nothing. The way he seemed to read the whole field at once and place himself exactly where danger would break next.
This was what he had done to her, she thought. Made himself visible even at a distance. Made himself matter in ways that had nothing to do with Donal O’Raida and everything to do with the man beneath the stolen name.
He rode without banner, without title, without any claim the men around him had reason to honor except skill. And still they followed him. Not all, but enough. That meant his worth had never rested wholly on the false alliance. Even stripped of it, he could still bend chaos toward order by the simple fact of who he was.
Aingeal gripped the wet stone until her fingers ached through her gloves.
Then the smoke shifted. For one terrible instant, the whole holding vanished into a wash of black wind and rain, and Aingeal lost the field entirely. Her heart struck so hard it blurred her sight.
She thought, with raw, helpless force:
Do not die.
The prayer came so fast she barely recognized it as her own.
When the smoke tore open again, the north line had broken. Two raiders fled toward the marsh with Seamus’s men after them. Cormac’s riders were driving the scattered cattle inward instead of letting them be taken.
And near the burning outbuilding, one lone figure on a dark horse wheeled back toward the flame at the very moment everyone else was pulling clear.
Aingeal stopped breathing.
“What is he doing?” Tomas demanded from below.
The horse disappeared into smoke. Moments later, a man emerged on foot like some demon emerging from the netherworld. Reginald. He had dropped from the saddle and gone into the half-burning shed like a madman or a saint, and now he came back out with a child wrapped in his cloak and held hard against his chest.
The whole wall went still.
Even the men beside her, archers, gate guards, a kitchen lad gripping a bucket too large for him, fell silent for that one impossible heartbeat.
Reginald thrust the child into a man’s arms and turned back at once, shouting for water and tools, already hauling one half-burned beam clear with another man beside him.
Something in Aingeal’s chest tore in a new direction. He had no reason to do that. No hope of reward. No false name left to preserve. He had already been exposed. He could still be imprisoned. Still cast out before nightfall.
And still he had gone into the fire. Not as Donal.
As himself.
Around her, the men on the wall began speaking again in broken, reluctant fragments.
“He went in there…”
