Autumn had stripped the trees along the lane, leaving their branches bare against a pale, low-hanging sun. Smoke rose in thin columns from the village chimneys, carrying the scent of woodfire and baking bread.

At the head of the column rode Sir Alaric Ashwood, his cloak damp with morning mist, the white lily of his Order stitched bold upon his chest. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, over the faces that paused in their work to watch the knights pass.

The door was open.

A figure stood in the doorway, brushing flour from her apron, watching the procession with a quiet, unreadable expression. She was older now, her hair streaked with grey, but her posture was still straight, her eyes still that pale, northern blue.

For a breath, Alaric's hand tightened on the reins.

Then the bells of the village church began to toll, and the moment scattered like startled birds.