Page 90 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“Finn, do you actually need me for this? I’m starving.” She looks at Rye, with something almost shy in her expression. “Ryewood, would you mind if I joined you for dinner instead?”

The look on his face. For tides’ sake, he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

“I thought you’d never ask, little fox.”

Little fox, his lovesick nickname for her. He says it like we’re not all standing right here. The man has absolutely no shame.

Gemma flushes, and Rosie makes a noise that might be a laugh disguised as a cough.

“Right,” I say flatly. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves a lot of options,” Gemma shoots back.

“Exactly.”

I turn my horse before I have to watch Rye help her down. There are some things a brother doesn’t need to see.

The meeting hall is larger than I expected and packed. At least eighty people crowd the space, farmers, tradesmen, workers with calloused hands and hollow cheeks. This is more than whispers of unrest. This is an organization.

And at the center of it all is Grier. I’ve known the man for years, fought beside him, trained under him, but watching him now, standing before these people like he was born to lead them, I realize I’ve only ever seen half of who he is.

“The crown takes and takes,” a woman is saying, her voice raw. “My children haven’t had a full meal in weeks.”

“The old Queen never would have allowed this,” an older voice calls from the back. Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.

I don’t know enough about the old Queen, no one at the castle ever talks about her. Out here, they say it like she still belongs to them.

“We know.” Grier’s voice is calm and steady. “That’s why we’re here, not to start a war, but to make sure no one starves while the nobles feast.”

The room murmurs in agreement. These aren’t revolutionaries hungry for blood; they’re parents, workers, and people pushed to the edge.

Beside me, Rosie has gone very still. I can tell how much this is affecting her.

For the next three hours, Grier listens to person after person step forward with their grievances about nobles seizing land, merchants hoarding grain while children starve, workers dying in mines while the nobles could just pull it from the ground. The anger isn’t only aimed at the King. It’s also aimed at a system that lets the powerful prey on the weak.

An older man near the back speaks up, voice weathered as his hands. “It’s not just the nobles. The land itself is failing us.”

Murmurs ripple through the room.

“Weather’s gone wrong,” he continues. “Used to be you could predict the rains. Now?” He shakes his head. “Now the ground doesn’t know what season it is. There’s snow in late spring, heat waves in autumn, and orchards blooming right before winter.”

An old farmer with sun-spotted hands nods slowly. “Something’s broken,” he says. “The land itself feels hollow and drained.”

“My grandmother used to tell stories,” an older woman says quietly. “About when the land was healthier and the seasons made sense.”

A heaviness falls over the room because these aren’t complaints about taxes or nobles. This is something deeper, something no one in this room knows how to fix.

“And the twin hunts are getting worse,” someone in the back adds. “Three families in the outer villages this month alone. The King’s men aren’t even pretending anymore. They’re dragging children from their beds.”

The blacksmith’s jaw grinds. “One of them was my neighbor’s girls. Five years old.”

My fists clench under the table. The anger is easy. It’s the fear underneath it that I don’t know what to do with.

Grier takes each one seriously. He doesn’t promise miracles or make speeches; he just listens, asks what they need, and tells them what he can and can’t do. Even the things he can’t fix tonight, I can see he’s already planning how to try.

By the end, half the room is in tears, not from despair, but from being seen.

After the main gathering disperses, we follow the three local leaders, a blacksmith, a healer, and an older woman with sharp eyes, into a barn out back. There are a few thin sacks of grain on a shelf against the far wall.