A Righteous Knight

Chapter Three: Shadows of the Past

The dawn light filtered through the cracks in the barn, casting soft beams across the hay-strewn floor. **Thomas** stirred awake, the remnants of dreams mingling with the harsh reality of their situation. He glanced over at **Ellie**, who still slept peacefully, her face illuminated by the morning sun, untouched by the horrors they had fled. He marveled at her innocence, wishing he could shield her from the reality that loomed over them like a dark cloud.

Rising quietly, Thomas stepped outside the barn, the cool morning air refreshing against his skin. He could hear the village slowly coming to life—children's laughter echoed in the distance, and the sounds of livestock stirred in their pens. For a brief moment, the normalcy of village life offered a stark contrast to the chaos and destruction he had witnessed just the day before.

Sir **Alaric** emerged behind him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning, Thomas," he said, his voice hoarse yet warm. "How did you sleep?"

"Not well," Thomas admitted, his heart heavy with thoughts of his father and the farm. "I keep thinking about them... about home."

Alaric nodded solemnly. "It's hard to let go of those memories, especially in times like these. But we must focus on what lies ahead." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Today, we will speak with the lord of Brentwood. He will need to know about the Viking raid."

Thomas felt a weight settle in his stomach at the thought of relaying the tragic news. "What if they don't believe us? What if they don't want to help?"

"They will listen," Alaric replied firmly. "But we must present ourselves as credible and prepared. We can't afford to show weakness."

Ellie joined them, her eyes still heavy with sleep. "What's going to happen today?" she asked, her voice small.

"We're going to speak with the lord," Alaric explained. "We need his support to gather the men and defend against the Vikings."

As they prepared to leave the barn, Thomas's thoughts drifted back to the farm. He recalled the warmth of his father's hand on his shoulder as they worked the fields together, the way Edmund had taught him to plant seeds, nurture crops, and have pride in their harvest. "He always said, 'Be strong and never give up,'" Thomas murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ellie placed a comforting hand on his arm. "He would want us to be strong, too," she said softly. "We can't let his sacrifice be in vain."

With a renewed sense of purpose, the trio set off toward the lord's manor, the path winding through the village. The people of Brentwood greeted them with curious glances, whispers of concern rippling through the crowd. Children played nearby, their laughter a bittersweet reminder of the joy that now felt so far away.

As they approached the manor, its imposing structure loomed over them, a symbol of authority and stability. Sir Alaric led the way, his armor glinting in the sunlight, a reminder of the knightly duty he bore. They were ushered into a large hall, where the lord of Brentwood awaited them, seated at a grand table laden with food and drink.

"Ah, Sir Alaric," the lord greeted, his voice booming yet welcoming. "What brings you to my hall today?"

Alaric stepped forward, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "My lord, we come bearing grave news. The village of Westerfield has been attacked by Vikings. We barely escaped with our lives." He gestured to Thomas and Ellie, his voice steady. "These are the children of Sir Edmund Hawthorne, who perished in the attack."

The lord's expression shifted, concern etching deep lines across his forehead. "Vikings? Here? This is troubling news indeed. Tell me everything."

As Thomas recounted the events of the attack—the chaos, the screams, his father's bravery—he felt the weight of the story pressing on his shoulders. Each word felt like a stone dropped into a deep well, echoing back the loss that threatened to consume him. He glanced at Ellie, whose face was pale, her eyes wide as she absorbed the reality of what they had lost.