Chapter 10: Gryffen

Chapter 10: Gryffen

On the third day, they reached the edge of the chaos.

The road descended into a wide, high valley—the approach to the Iron Pass. The difference was visceral. The neat fields were replaced by scorched earth. A crofter’s hut stood as a blackened skeleton. The air, once clean and cold, carried the faint, acrid tang of smoke.

And there, ahead, where the valley narrowed into the mouth of the pass itself, was a scene of tense stalemate.

On one side of a rushing, glacial river, a makeshift camp flew the banners of several eastern lowland lords—a silver gryphon, a green serpent, a black tower. Perhaps two hundred men-at-arms were arrayed in disciplined ranks, their pikes gleaming dully in the overcast light. At their head, on a sleek chestnut horse, was a man in polished half-plate: Lord Gryffen, his face handsome and cruel under a trimmed beard.

On the other side of the river, the north side where the cliffs rose toward the Hold, stood the clansmen. Perhaps fifty of them, looking outnumbered but utterly unconcerned. They stood in loose, fierce knots, axes and great swords resting on their shoulders. Behind them, on the high slopes, more figures moved among the trees. Duncan’s people.

And in the middle, on a stone bridge that spanned the torrent, stood Leigh’s father.

Lord Valerius was a tall, lean man like a hardened sapling. He wore no armor, only a worn leather jerkin over a grey tunic. His hair was more silver than black, tied back. He held no weapon. He stood alone on the bridge, facing Gryffen’s army, a solitary figure of calm authority.

“You see?” Gryffen’s voice carried across the water, magnified by the natural amphitheater of the valley. “You see the savages you have unleashed, Valerius! They burn and pillage under your banner! The King’s decree was for defense, not for you to wage a private war with these animals!”

Valerius’s reply was quieter, but it carried on the cold air with the force of truth. “The burns you see are Wheel encampments, Gryffen. The ‘pillage’ is the reclaiming of stolen cattle. The clans answer my call because the Wheel moves in the shadows your gold-eyed patrols never see. You are not here for justice. You are here for the copper veins under my cliffs. Turn your army around. There is no enemy for you here, save the one you are trying to make of me.”

Leigh’s heart swelled with a fierce, painful pride. This was her father. The discreet fist of the kingdom.

Makil took it all in with a single, sweeping glance—the posturing lord, the defiant clans, the solitary man on the bridge holding the peace by sheer will. He saw the game. Gryffen wanted a provocation, an excuse to cross that bridge and claim “restoring order.”

“Arlen, Rykker, with me,” Makil said, his voice a whip-crack of command. “The rest, hold here. Leigh—” He turned to her. For a second, his mask slipped, and she saw not the prince, but the man from the tiltyard, the partner in the map room. “Stay with the scouts.”

“Like hell,” she said, nudging her horse forward. “Leigh.”

“That’s my father. And I am the royal envoy. You need me.”

He held her gaze for a furious second, then gave a curt nod. “Then envoy, do your duty. But let me speak first.”

They rode forward, the four of them—Makil, Leigh, Arlen, and Rykker—a small, purposeful knot descending into the valley of tension. Heads turned. A murmur ran through both sides.

They rode straight for the bridge, passing between the frozen ranks of Gryffen’s men, who parted in confused silence at the sight of the prince. Makil didn’t look at them. His eyes were on Lord Valerius, who watched their approach, his expression unreadable.

They reached the bridge foot. Makil dismounted. Leigh did the same, her eyes drinking in her father. He looked older, wearier, but his spine was straight. His gaze found hers, and in it she saw a flash of relief so profound it nearly broke her composure, followed immediately by a warning.

“Prince Makil,” Valerius said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “You are far from court.” “The court’s business is where the kingdom’s peace is threatened,” Makil replied, his voice carrying. He turned to face Gryffen’s army. “Lord Gryffen. You have mustered your levies. Explain this display.”

Gryffen urged his horse forward a few steps, his confidence bolstered by his numbers. “Your Highness! Thank God you’ve come! This border lord has gone rogue! He’s invoked ancient, barbaric pacts to bring these mountain beasts down upon the King’s own lands! Look!” He gestured wildly at the clansmen. “They are the threat! I am here to uphold the King’s law!”

Makil’s voice was icy calm. “The King’s law authorizes Lord Valerius to defend the Iron Pass. My own eyes see the scorch marks of Wheel encampments, not raided villages. Where are the lowland victims of these ‘depredations’ you claim? Bring them forth.”

Gryffen hesitated. “The people are terrified, in hiding—”

“There are no victims, Gryffen,” Valerius cut in, his voice still quiet but now edged with steel. “Because the clans have been hunting the Wheel, not our people. The only terror here is the one you brought with two hundred pikes to a fight that wasn’t yours.”

Gryffen’s face flushed. “And who are you to judge a royal decree? You, who consort with savages?”

“He is the man,” Makil said, taking a step onto the bridge, placing himself physically between Gryffen and Valerius, “who holds the Pass. A duty given by my grandfather, upheld by my father. A duty he is now fulfilling, with the tools appropriate to the terrain and the enemy.” He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the clansmen. “The crown recognizes the service of the Highland Clans in this matter. Their efforts against the Shattered Wheel are noted, and appreciated.”

A low, approving rumble came from the clan side. Duncan, standing at their forefront, grinned fiercely.

Gryffen was sputtering. “Appreciated? Your Highness, this is an outrage! These... these animals—”

“Enough.” Makil’s voice did not rise, but it silenced the lord instantly. It was the voice of a prince who had faced pirates and won, a voice that now filled the valley. “You will take your men, Lord Gryffen, and you will return to your holdings. The Crown’s envoy,” he gestured to Leigh, “is here to oversee the stabilization of the pass. Any further mustering of arms on this border without a direct royal command will be considered sedition. Do you understand?”

The word sedition hung in the air, cold and final. Gryffen’s jaw worked. He saw his ambition crumbling. The prince was not the broken, disinterested figure court rumors suggested. He was here, aligned with the border lord and his wild allies, and he had the authority to ruin Gryffen where he stood.

With a face like thunder, Gryffen wrenched his horse’s head around. “This is not over,” he muttered, but it was a weak man’s retreat. He barked orders, and his army, confused and leaderless, began the slow, shuffling process of turning back.

The immediate threat dissolved like mist. Valerius let out a long, slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He looked at Makil with new eyes—not just as his prince, but as a man who had just wielded power with precision and courage.

Then his gaze went to his daughter. “Leigh.”

“Father.” She wanted to run to him, but she held her ground, the envoy.“You brought a prince as your escort,” Valerius said, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“He insisted,” she said, her eyes finding Makil’s. He was watching the retreating army, his profile sharp against the grey sky, but he seemed to feel her look and turned. In that shared glance was the understanding of a battle won, a trust solidified.

“Come,” Valerius said, gesturing toward the cliffs where his Hold stood, a stark, formidable fortress carved into the living rock. “Let us get off this bridge. There is much to discuss. And the cliffs,” he added, his smile fading, “have other eyes. The Wheel is not yet finished.”

As they turned to follow him, Leigh felt not the elation of victory, but the cold, certain knowledge that this had been only the first skirmish. Gryffen was a symptom. The Shattered Wheel was the disease. And the real fight, she sensed with a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air, was just beginning.