The Long Lake stretched vast and pale under a sky the color of ash. Mists clung to the water in wavering veils, stirred by a wind that whispered low through the reeds and tugged at the sails of the solitary barge drifting homeward. Its wooden hull creaked with age and labor, burdened not with cargo this time but with silence—a kind that clung tighter than damp air and settled deeper than the lake’s silted bed.

Bard stood at the tiller, one hand steady on the worn handle, the other resting against the edge of the stern. His shoulders were broad beneath a faded leather coat, darkened in patches by the lake’s spray, and his long black hair was tied loosely at his nape, strands still whipped free by the breeze. His jaw was set hard, unshaven for two days now, and his eyes—blue, sharp, and far too old for his age—never stopped scanning the waters ahead.

He’d taken the northern route again, skirting the edge of Mirkwood. Fewer patrols, fewer boats, and far fewer questions. The elves of the Woodland Realm had paid fair for the fish this time—salted carp and river trout from nets he’d laid before dawn three days past. He’d stayed only long enough to unload and nod once at the gatekeeper. Then back to the lake. Back to the cold. Back to the quiet.

Ingrid’s absence had hollowed the world.

It had been months now, and still Bard rose each morning reaching for a warmth beside him that was no longer there. Still, he found himself setting three bowls at the table when his hands moved faster than thought. Still, he turned toward the door when his eldest, Sigrid, called from the kitchen—half-expecting Ingrid’s voice to follow, scolding Bain for something trivial or laughing low in that way only he ever heard.

But laughter had left the house with her last breath, and Bard, who had always been a man of few words, now carried a silence deeper than grief.

He breathed in the lake air, thick with the faint scent of pine and something sharp beneath it—old peat, maybe, or the mossy rot of fallen branches from Mirkwood’s southern eaves. The tiller groaned faintly in his hand, and he adjusted it without thought. The barge drifted on.

The lake was wide here, far from the bustle of Esgaroth’s docks. Only the calls of gulls and the rhythmic slap of water against the hull kept him company. The children would be waiting for his return. Tilda would have fallen asleep by now, curled beside the hearth with Bain’s old blanket tucked around her. Sigrid might still be awake—she had her mother’s restless mind and her father’s quiet. Bain, no doubt, had tried to help cook supper, likely burning something in the attempt.

Bard’s lips quirked. Just slightly. Then the moment passed.

The sun had dipped behind the trees to the west, casting the lake in dusky gold, when he saw it.

At first, he thought it a fallen branch. The shape was dark and bobbed oddly with the waves. He squinted, leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as the barge carried him closer. Not wood. Not drift. Fabric. A cloak—no, a person—spread like spilled ink upon the water.

His heartbeat stilled.

“By the lake…”

He moved quickly, setting the tiller and grabbing the long-handled hook from the side rail. As the form came into focus, Bard could see tangled hair trailing like weeds, pale arms adrift and limp, legs tangled in a soaked hem. A woman.

Unconscious. Or dead.

He dropped to his knees beside the side rail and reached with the hook. The edge of her sleeve caught. Carefully—too carefully for a man hardened by years and grief—he drew her closer, until he could lean out and wrap his arm beneath her shoulders.

She was cold.

He grunted with the weight, hauling her over the side and onto the deck, where she collapsed in a sodden heap. Water poured from her clothes, pooled on the wood, and her hair spread out like a curtain of night. Her face was deathly pale.

“Hold on,” Bard muttered, more to himself than to her. “Hold on.”