The atmosphere in the alehouse was thick with the scent of sweat and ale, the fire crackling. Gruffudd was in the midst of another rowdy drinking game, cheering on the men around him, his laughter infectious. Ethan, at a table nearby, tugged at his fur coat, Callwen rushed to help him with the garment, almost as though it were a matter of life and death.
The men snickered, a few muttering as they caught the sight of Callwen's eagerness.
"Good dog," Gwyn slurred, his voice thick with the bite of his own ale. "The lord's too good to handle his own coat now?"
Callwen clenched his fist, his body tensing. "Why yo—"
Ethan, with a swift gesture, held up a hand to calm him. "Let it go," he murmured, his eyes steady.
"That's what I thought," Gwyn jeered, taking another deep drink, his smirk all teeth as he leaned back in his chair. He seemed to relish the moment.
At the other table, Gruffudd was reveling in his victory, slamming his cup down with a victorious shout. Another man, his friend, groaned beside him, barely able to hold himself upright.
"Ha!" Gruffudd bellowed, eyes twinkling as he wiped the froth from his mouth. "Your turn, my friend!"
The man shakily raised the cup to his lips, only to collapse, sending the ale splashing onto the floor in a spray of foam. Laughter erupted from the onlookers. Gruffudd's own laughter joined in, a raucous sound that filled the room.
The revelry continued, men singing and slapping each other on the back, until the poet rose to his feet, his presence commanding attention. The room fell quiet, all eyes on him as he raised his cup.
"Gather ye, good folk of Wales," the poet called, his voice thick with the weight of years. "For tonight, we honor the might of Gruffudd ap Owain Glyndŵr!"
The crowd cheered and raised their tankards in unison.
The poet continued, his voice ringing with fervor, "A lion-hearted son of Cymru, who stands as a storm against the English tide! His blade is justice, his resolve unbreakable. His name shall ring through the hills and valleys, sung by our children and their children's children!"
The room hummed with the poet's words, some nodding in agreement, others clapping their hands on the table.
"Though kingdoms fall and empires rise, Gruffudd's spirit will never fade! He is the flame that will light the way to victory!"
The crowd erupted in applause as the music countinued. The poet took a deep drink, his chest swelling with pride at the response.
Gwyn, having moved to a different table, scowled from the shadows and sat over to companion, an older man.
"Not enjoying the company of the young lord?" the man asked, watching Gwyn's dark expression.
"Why must I babysit a bastard like him?" Gwyn muttered, taking a long swig. "He can't fight for shit. All he does is sit there and we'll wipe his arse."
The older man raised an eyebrow, chewing on a piece of fish. "Careful now. He could have you hanged for that."
Gwyn chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Let him try."
Ethan, sitting a little farther from the two, overheard but didn't engage. He let the words wash over him, his mind elsewhere. The noise of the alehouse had grown too loud, and affected his sensitive hearing.
Stretching his hand out, he let it hang loosely by his side, his fingers brushing the rough wood of the table. Suddenly, beneath the surface of the ground, a movement stirred. Unseen by anyone, a thin thread, no thicker than a hair, began to form beneath his fingers. It wormed its way through the floorboards and crawled deep into the earth, snaking beneath the town, toward its destination.
The thread, powered by Ethan's, sought out Lord Waladr's residence. He followed the scent of Waladr, vibrations in the air carried along it, the faintest of soundwaves rippling toward him. Ethan focused, listening intently as the thread reached its mark.
At Waladr's house, muffled sounds reached him. Ethan's brow furrowed in realization. "What's this?" he murmured quietly. "A rendezvous with his wife?"
The woman's voice carried, teasing yet firm. "You think you can always sneak away from your duties, don't you?"
Waladr's chuckle followed. "Only when I'm with you, my love."
Ethan smirked, understanding enough from the sounds. After their intimate act, Waladr's wife gently laughed, the sound of fabric rustling as they both dressed.
Ethan's focus sharpened. His connection to the thread expanded, the vibrations becoming clearer. He followed Waladr's movements, hearing the shuffle of footsteps and the click of a door.
After some time in the study, Waladr sat at his desk, the atmosphere shifting as a man entered, his expression grave. "My lord," the man said, "you called for me?"
Waladr looked up, eyes calculating. "Yes," he muttered. "Deliver a message to Chirk. If the English get their hands on Glyndŵr's sons... it will be a crippling blow to the rebels, and we'll be well rewarded."
The man nodded, turning to leave. Waladr's gaze lingered on the window, a hint of greed in his eyes. "The rebellion is lost," he whispered to himself. "An opportunity like this will make us rich."
Ethan, listening through the thread, pulled his hand back, the connection retracting as if it had never been there. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing within. Waladr had betrayed them, and Ethan knew he had to act swiftly.