The young man arrived at the village after an exhausting five-day ride, during which he'd had more than enough time to reflect upon his failure. And thus it was with the heaviest of hearts that he arrived at the gates, was allowed in by the guard and made his way to the stables.

Dismounting and feeling his knotted muscles relax at last, he handed his horse to the stable boy, then stopped by the well to take some water, sipping it at first, then gulping and, last, splashing it over himself, gratefully rubbing the dirt from his face. He still felt the grime of the journey upon his body, though. His armour hung heavy and filthy and he looked forward to washing in the shimmering waters of the nearby river, hidden away in an alcove of a cliff face. All he craved now was solitude.

As he made his way through the outskirts of the town, his gaze was drawn upwards – past the stable huts and bustling market to the winding paths that led up to the ramparts of the former Drakken outpost that now served as the movement's headquarters. Here was where his fellow rebels trained and lived under the command of Haerald, whose quarters stood in the centre of the citadel's crumbling towers. He was often to be seen staring from the window of his tower, lost in thought, and the man pictured him there now, gazing down upon the village. The same village that bustled with life, bright with sunshine and loud with business. To which, ten days ago, he, leaving for Shadow's Worth had planned to return as a triumphant hero.

Never – not in his darkest imaginings – had he foreseen failure, and yet…

A familiar insurgent hailed him as he made his way across the sun-dappled marketplace, and he pulled himself together, pushing back his shoulders and holding up his head, trying to summon from within the great rebel who had left the village, rather than the empty-handed fool who had returned.

It was his brother, and man's heart sank further – if that were possible, which he sincerely doubted. Of all the people to greet him on his return it would have to be his youngest sibling, who worshipped the man like a god. It looked as though the boy had been waiting from him, wiling away the time by a walled fountain. Indeed, he bounded up now with wide and eager eyes, oblivious to the nimbus of failure that the man felt around himself.

"You've returned." He was beaming, as pleased as a puppy to see him.

The man nodded slowly. He watched as behind his sibling an elderly merchant refreshed himself at the fountainhead then greeted a younger woman, who arrived carrying a vase decorated with gazelles, her skin glinting in the midsummer sun. She placed it on the low wall surrounding the waterhole and they began to talk, the woman excited, gesticulating. The man envied them. He envied them both.

"It is good to see you're unharmed," continued the boy. "I trust your mission was a success?"

The man ignored the question, still watching those at the fountain. He was finding it difficult to meet his brother's eye. "Is Melindant in his tower?‟ he asked at last, tearing his gaze away.

"Yes, yes." The boy was squinting as though to divine somehow what was wrong with him. "Buried in his books, as always. No doubt he expects you."

"My thanks, brother."

And with that he left his sibling and the chattering village folk at the fountainhead and began to make his way past the covered stalls and hay carts and benches, over the paving, until the dry and dusty ground sloped sharply upwards, the parched grass brittle in the sunshine, all paths leading to the castle.

Never had he felt so much in its shadow, and he found himself clenching his fists as he crossed the plateau and was greeted by the guards at the fortress approach, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes watchful.

Now he reached the grand archway that led to the barbican, and once more his heart sank as he saw a figure he recognized within: Aslaugh.

Aslaugh stood beneath a torch that chased away what little dark there was within the arch. He was leaning against the rough dark stone, bare-headed, his arms folded and his sword at his hip. The man stopped, and for a moment or so the two men regarded each other as villagers moved around them, oblivious of the old enmity blooming afresh between the two rebels. Once they had called each other brother. But that time was long past.

Aslaugh smiled slowly, mockingly. "Ah. He returns at last." He looked pointedly over the man's shoulder. "Where are the others? Did you ride ahead, hoping to be the first one back? I know you are loath to share the glory."

The man did not answer.

"Silence is just another form of assent," added Aslaugh, still trying to goad him – and doing it with all the cunning of an adolescent.

"Have you nothing better to do?" sighed the man.

"I bring word from Melindant. He waits for you in the library," said Abbas. He ushered the man past. "Best hurry. No doubt you're eager to put your tongue to his boot."

"Another word," retorted the man, "and I'll put my blade to your throat."

Aslaugh replied, "There will be plenty of time for that later, brother."

The man shouldered past him and continued to the courtyard and training square, and then to the doorway to Haerald's tower. Guardsmen bowed their heads to him, affording him the respect such an experienced commandant rightfully commanded, and he acknowledged them knowing that soon – as long as it took word to spread – their respect would be a memory.

But first he had to deliver the terrible news to Haerald, and he made his way up the steps of the tower towards the man's chamber. Here the room was warm, the air heavy with its customary sweet scent. Dust danced in shafts of light from the great window at the far end, where Haerald stood, his hands clasped behind his back. His master. His mentor. A man he venerated above all others.

Whom he had failed.

In a corner, Haerald's carrier pigeons cooed quietly in their cage and around him were his books and manuscripts, hundreds of maps and letters, either on shelves or stacked in tottering, dusty piles. His sumptuous armor flowed about him, his long hair lay over his shoulders, and he was, as usual, contemplative.

"Master," said the man, breaking the thick silence. He lowered his head.

Wordless, Haerlad turned and moved towards his desk, scrolls littered the floor beneath it. He regarded the man with one sharp, flinty eye. His mouth, hidden within his grey-white bangs, betrayed no emotion until at last he spoke, beckoning to his pupil. "Come forward. Tell me of your mission. I trust you have recovered the potential bride…"

The man felt a trickle of perspiration make its way from his forehead and down his face. "There was some trouble, Master. The convoy was not alone.‟

Haerlad waved away the notion. "We are not a militia. When does our work ever go as expected? It's our ability to adapt that makes us who we are."

"This time, it was not enough."

Haerald took a moment to absorb the man's words. He moved from behind his desk, and when he next spoke, his voice was sharp. "What do you mean?"

The man found himself having to force out the words. "I have failed you."

"The princess?"

"Lost to us."

The atmosphere in the room changed. It seemed to tense and crackle as though brittle, and there was a pause before Haerald spoke again. "And the Drakken noblemen?"

"Escaped."

The word fell like a stone in the darkening space.

Now Haerald came closer to the man. His eyes were bright with anger, his voice barely restrained, his fury filling the room. "I send you – my best man – to complete a mission more important than any that has come before and you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses?"

"I did –"

"Do not speak." His voice was a whipcrack. "Not another word. This is not what I expected. We‟ll need to mount another force so –"

"I swear to you I'll find her – I'll go and...‟ began the man, who was already desperate to catch sight of the foreboding castle again. This time the outcome would be very different.

Now Haerald was looking about himself, as though only just recalling that when the man had left the village he had done so with two companions. "Where are the two other men?" he demanded.

A second bead of sweat made its way from the man's temple.