At Harlech Castle, the guards lounged by the gates, engrossed in a game of dice, their laughter mingling with the cold night air. One guard, noticing a lone figure approaching from the distance, squinted and muttered, "Who the fuc—" before a sharp smack to his head from his comrade silenced him.
"Idiot! It's the little lord," the other guard whispered urgently. "But why is he alone? Go open the gate!"
The heavy gates creaked open, and as Ethan approached, his face shadowed beneath the dim torchlight, the guards hurried to greet him. One stepped forward to take the reins of the white horse, bowing slightly. "Lord—" he began, but Ethan handed over the horse without a word and walked past, his cloak trailing behind him.
Inside, the castle's great hall was warm with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. His family gathered around the long table, their supper interrupted by Ethan's abrupt entrance. Maredudd, glanced up with a grin, his voice cutting through the quiet tension. "Oh, lovely of you to join us, brother. We were just discussing how you vanished—and how the elder oak was felled while you were gone."
Ethan didn't reply immediately. He poured himself a goblet of wine, the red liquid sloshing slightly, and began to eat, tearing into the meat with an unusual hunger. His siblings and stepmother watched, their eyes wide as he consumed the meal voraciously, washing it down with long draughts of wine.
Breaking the silence, Ethan finally asked, "Where is Father?"
Marred, his stepmother, leaned forward, her expression concerned but composed. "Your father left supper early. Now tell us, Ieuan, where have you been? We've been worried about you."
Ethan's eyes flicked to her, a flicker of contempt hidden behind a neutral mask. Worried? he thought. Lies yu're the reason his mother died. He wiped his mouth and replied, his tone measured but pointed, "As you can see, Mother, i am well."
The title drew raised brows around the table. Catrin chuckled softly, "Mother?"
Gruffudd, pointed at Ethan's chest. "Why is there a hole in your clothing? What happened, Ieuan?"
Ethan glanced down briefly at the torn fabric over his chest. "We were attacked," he said, taking another sip of wine. "Bandits. Only I survived, by the grace of God."
Gruffudd's brow furrowed, concern evident. "You fought them?"
Ethan shook his head, his voice calm. "No, I ran."
Gruffudd sighed heavily, rubbing his face in exasperation. "Of course."
Marred's face tightened with worry. "Are you hurt?"
Ethan stood, his movements deliberate, and spread his arms slightly. "I am unharmed. Excuse me, I must see Father."
Before he could leave, Catrin spoke up, her curiosity piqued. "Why do you need to see him? Tell us, Ieuan."
Ethan hesitated, then smiled faintly, his gaze distant. "It's nothing, just feeble matters you need not concern yourself with." He turned to the serving girl, and instructed, "Bring wine and food to my quarters."
Esma nodded, though her eyes lingered on him, a flicker of unease crossing her face. Why is he acting this way? she wondered.
Ethan left the hall, his footsteps echoing in the corridor as he made his way to his father's study. Inside, Owain Glyndŵr was bent over a desk, penning letters with a steady hand. These were to be delivered to his allies, with Gruffudd set to carry them. At the sound of the door opening, Owain glanced up briefly before returning to his task.
"Good, you're here," he said, his voice steady but laced with the weariness of a man burdened by rebellion. "Now tell me, where have you been?"
Ethan sat across from him, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He watched his father carefully, then spoke, his voice cool and deliberate. "I cut down the elder oak."
Owain's hand paused, the pen hovering over the parchment. For a moment, there was only the scratch of the quill on paper as he resumed writing, seemingly unperturbed. "You're at that age, I suppose. A rebellious phase? Or did you suddenly grow a pair?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Isn't he a bit too calm? He touched his lips.
Owain sealed the parchment with a firm press of his signet ring, the wax cooling under his fingers as he methodically arranged the letters. His gaze hardened as he turned to Ethan, seated silently in the corner of the room. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across Owain's lined face, emphasizing the weight of responsibility etched into every furrow.
"You and your brother are to meet with Gwilym ap Tudur," Owain began, his voice low and deliberate. "Together, you will attack the northern garrisons of the English." His tone carried the burden of strategy, of desperation. The southern parts were lost; this was all that remained.
Ethan sat quietly, his mind racing. Since the south is gone, what could you truly hope to achieve with these attacks? Are you sending your sons to die.... Owain moved closer, placing a hand on Ethan's shoulder. His grip was firm, but there was no warmth in the touch. Leaning in, Owain's voice dropped to a near whisper, laced with a bitter edge. "You're weak, and a half-blood. I never thought of you as a son. Out of pity for your mother, I took you in, and yet…" He trailed off, his face a mask of disappointment. "It's my fault."
Ethan looked up, meeting his father's gaze. Surprisingly, he felt nothing. No anger, no sorrow—just an empty void where emotion should be. Owain's expression softened for a brief moment before he spoke again, his tone solemn. "Go." The word hung in the air, signaling the end of their conversation.
Ethan stood, inclining his head respectfully. "Goodnight, Father," he said, his voice steady, masking any inner turmoil. As he left the room, Owain watched him go, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Was I too harsh? Don't come back here for your sake, his thoughts lingered.
Ethan made his way to his chambers, pushing open the wooden door to find Esma lounging on his bed, her posture provocative. Her eyes glimmered mischievously as she deliberately exposed her thighs. Ethan's gaze flicked to her, then to the tray of food beside the bed. He inhaled deeply, his enhanced senses picking up an unusual scent. Poison? No, an aphrodisiac. His lips curled in a faint, mirthless smile. What a sly fox.
"Leave me," Ethan said, his voice flat, dismissive. Esma's brow furrowed slightly. "I'm not feeling well. I'd like to be alone."
"Is it about the incident, my—" she began, but Ethan's sharp tone cut her off. "Leave."
Esma climbed off the bed, casting a worried glance over her shoulder as she left. Something about him was different, she thought. He hit his head surely...
Once alone, Ethan removed his boots and clothing, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He closed his eyes, his mind delving inward, focusing on the intricate network of nanobots within his body. He willed the tiny machines to gather around his heart, this particular machines had many photovoltaic cells primed to absorb energy from sunlight. For centuries, they had hibernated, dormant but capable. Now, they began their task, embedding themselves into his heart like a core, they had tiny capacitors stored with immense energy stored.
The process was taxing, and Ethan felt his energy dip, though only slightly. Without a power source, the nanobots would cease to function. But this was a success. His heart was now a living battery, a core that would sustain him. As summer approached, he would harness the sun's energy, ensuring he never lacked power for more complex tasks.
A faint smile played on his lips. This was only the first step.