The Shadow Trader

Historical Anchor

Recorded by Brother Wyn of Caermynach, this fireside tale preserves a critical memory of Early Iron Age Wales.

Set in 587 BC in the disputed borderlands of Abergwesyn, the account explores the lethal politics between the Ordovices of Powys and the Silures of Brycheiniog. It follows Nest ferch Ifor, a solitary healer hunted by both chiefdoms, revealing the brutal survival mechanics of the ancient world. For readers of Welsh mythology and historical fiction, this story introduces the foundational bloodline of the Bauthiad and serves as a vital cornerstone within the wider lore of the Book of the Western Veil.

Early Iron Age, c. 587 BC

Abergwesyn, borderlands between Powys and Brycheiniog

Long before the Romans came with their roads to remake the spine of Wales, there was a woman marked by something rare in the borderlands. Both the Ordovices of Powys and the Silures of Brycheiniog hunted her, which tells you she was uncommonly dangerous or valuable enough to claim. Perhaps both. What matters is how she learned to survive them, and why her line endured when so many others vanished into the hills and were forgotten.

Some lessons are taught with words. Others require wolves.

Prologue

Three of them came at dusk, dark shapes moving through dead bracken on the slope above the stream. Milisandra saw them while there was still time to run. Not much time, perhaps fifty paces before those shapes closed the distance, but a woman carrying a two-year-old child can cover ground when she must.

Mili stood instead.

The basket lay split and broken at her feet, yarrow and woundwort scattered across frozen earth where she'd dropped everything but her daughter when the first wolf appeared. The others materialised from hillside and shadow until the empty ground was occupied by three patient mouths.

They began their work. North, then east, then west, three directions closed by three wolves moving with the methodical certainty of trained hunters. The circle tightened with each rotation, leaving her with nowhere to go but south, where the gorse grew thick and thorned.

The ground beneath her boots was frozen hard. The kind of cold that comes up through leather and settles into the bones of your feet. Her heart hammered against her ribs, loud enough she wondered if the wolves could hear it, that drum announcing fear in a language older than Welsh.

The watching eyes held little malice and no mercy. They knew she couldn't run with a child in her arms. Exhausted prey made for an easier kill, and they knew that time served them. Wolves do not waste effort, so they waited.

Nest made no sound.

The child had learned early what noise brought in the borderlands where greater powers clashed and ground smallfolk between them. The child pressed her face against her mother's neck and went rigid, small fists gripping fur, knowing silence mattered.

The wolves tightened their circle.

Her mother's hand moved to the bronze knife at her belt. She drew it and pressed the edge against Nest's throat.

The dying light caught the polished bronze. On its surface, Mili saw her daughter's small face reflected, eyes on the blade. The taste of metal filled her mouth, and her breath came shallow and quick, white fog in the cold air that disappeared as fast as it formed.

She felt Nest's pulse against the blade, steady and trusting.

The pressure increased, just enough to dimple skin without breaking it. Her vision narrowed to the reflection in the bronze where Nest's face and her own hollow, grey features stared back at her. The wolves waiting beyond, all of it trapped in polished metal the width of two fingers. One stroke would be enough if she made it quick.

Her hand shook so hard the blade trembled against Nest's throat.

Then she saw it, through the reflection and past her own face. The gorse thicket stood fifteen paces behind them, dark against the slope, thorns thick as her thumb and branches woven so tight no light passed through. At the base, where old wood met new growth, a darker shadow.

A gap.

Mili pulled the knife away and gasped air like she'd been drowning.

She moved backward slowly, not turning, keeping her eyes on the circling shapes. Her free hand found the edge of the thicket and the thorns bit into her palm as she tested the depth and thickness. Deep enough. Thick enough. Barely.

The wolves watched her retreat without moving from their positions.

She found the hollow by feel, a gap between old growth and new where water had pooled and left a depression just large enough. The thorns guarding its entrance would have to be enough.

"Stay," she whispered into Nest's ear. "Stay quiet. Stay still. Your father will come."

Mili dropped to her knees and placed Nest at the hollow's edge, then pushed her daughter through the thorny opening as gently as desperation allowed. The child tumbled into the gap with a small cry as a thorn raked across her cheek, leaving a thin line of blood from eye to jaw. Her mother pulled the branches back across, sealing her in behind a wall of thorns thick enough to stop anything that tried to follow.

She straightened and turned to face them. The wolves had stopped circling and sat watching her, three dark shapes waiting to see what came next.

She picked up a stone from beside the stream, large enough to hurt, and threw it at the nearest wolf. It struck square in the shoulder.

The wolf rose to its feet.

She ran along the stream bank, away from the gorse, away from her daughter, and the wolves came after her at speed. They caught her within thirty paces.

From the hollow, Nest heard her mother cry out once, then nothing more.

The wolves returned to investigate the thicket, circling it and testing from every angle, but the thorns held firm and the branches were too thick to force and the hollow too deep to reach without pushing through pain their hunger couldn't justify.

They settled to wait, spreading themselves around the thicket so nothing could leave unseen. One took position by the stream where it could watch and drink, another found a patch of fading sunlight and closed its eyes, and the third kept moving in wide, lazy circles that covered the approaches from every direction.

The sun moved across the sky and the shadows lengthened while the girl in the gorse stayed silent and still, trusting her mother's final instruction.

When Ifor returned from Garth with bronze needles and sinew thread purchased with his winter's furs, he smelled the blood before he saw it. He dropped his pack and ran toward the stream where the stones were dark with blood and the water ran red.

Mili lay on her side, one arm reaching toward the gorse as though she'd been crawling. He dropped to his knees beside her and his hands moved to touch her face, her hair, searching for warmth that wasn't there. The ground was cold beneath him and his wife was colder still, and the sound that came from his throat was not a word in any language.

The wolves by the gorse thicket should have scattered at his approach. Three dark shapes sat watching instead.

The gorse, the thorns, his wife's body pointing toward the thicket like an arrow, the wolves waiting. Something was alive in there, something small enough to hide where teeth couldn't follow. Nest was alive in that hollow.

Three wolves between him and his daughter. His hand went to his belt where his skinning knife hung, the blade he used for pelts and small game, useless against three wolves who'd already killed and wouldn't run from one man approaching on foot.

His pack lay where he'd dropped it, bronze needles scattered across frozen ground, sinew thread, the fox pelts he hadn't sold, and beneath them all, wrapped in oiled leather, the iron spearhead he'd traded half his winter's take to own. Not hafted yet, but iron nonetheless, and iron had reach where bronze did not.

He moved toward the pack, eyes locked on the wolves.

He killed two of them with his spear before the third broke and ran. He stood over the bodies, blood on his hands and breathing harsh in the silence, and when he finally moved again it was to walk to the gorse thicket where a small sound was coming from the thorns.

He found his daughter alive, blood dried dark on her cheek where the thorn had marked her. He pulled her from the hollow and held her. Nest wept against his chest, her small body shaking with sobs that slowly quieted to hiccups, then to shallow breathing. When she went still, he carried her home.

Part One

Mist was building in the east when Nest left Garth, the grey wall creeping down from the high valleys where cold air settled at dusk. Griff caught the scent of it before she did, lifting his muzzle to test what the wind carried. She trusted his nose over her own eyes, one of many lessons learned in the high country before her father died.

The path climbed through the hills of Abergwesyn, where deer trails faded into granite and thin soil. The basket on her hip held payment from old Bryn for setting his broken fingers. Two bronze needles, a bladder of rendered fat, and the promise of smoked meat when autumn slaughter came. She'd learned to splint bone so fingers healed straight, and Bryn's would.

Griff ranged ahead with his snout low to the ground, testing the air as he'd done for thirteen years since Ifor brought him home from Garth as a pup. The old dog moved slower on steep climbs now, but his nose stayed sharp and he never wandered far. Ifor had never kept dogs before Griff. They left when you needed them most, he'd said. Gone for days chasing scent, next to useless for a week after they returned.

But a dog would have warned Mili about the wolves coming down the slope. A dog would have barked, and may have even protected her.

The wind shifted and the scar on her cheek pulled tight against the cold. She touched it without thinking, fingers finding the raised line from eye to jaw where the gorse thorn had marked her.

What she remembered from that evening wasn't her mother's face. Just the pressure of the blade against her throat and the starlight through bare branches when Ifor carried her home. Cold wind against the scar always brought the memory back, and she let her hand drop away from her cheek.

Griff stopped on the path ahead. His ears went forward and his body stiffened, snout lifting to pull the air in short, focused draws. The scent of humans carried on the wind.

The basket slid from her hip to the ground and her hand found the knife at her belt. Bronze blade, good for cutting herbs and stripping bark and sharper work when needed. Griff's growl came low from his chest, deeper than the warning he gave when strangers approached on familiar paths. This threat was closing in.

She moved off the path into the rocks, pulling him with her. From the higher ground, she could see into the next valley where thin smoke rose from her shelter. People moved around the stone walls and thorn barrier, three or four shapes testing the entry points she'd built to look accidental.

Her breath came quick, and her hand tightened on the knife hilt. Every lesson learned in the high country came down to one choice now. Run and everything she'd built here was lost. Stay and face whatever had brought them to a place no one was supposed to find.

Griff looked up at her, waiting for the decision.

The moment they know where you sleep is the moment you're no longer safe.

She touched her scar once more and moved toward the shelter through gathering dusk, Griff silent at her side.

The approach took her down through loose scree where each step had to be tested before weight shifted forward. Griff moved beside her without sound, belly low to ground. The eastern mist had thickened and now worked in her favour, blurring the distance between rock and shadow.

Fifty paces from her shelter, she dropped to her stomach behind an outcrop. Four men, all armed with bronze blades at their belts. Two moved inside the shelter while the other two stood at the entry points, alert and watching the approaches.

One of those outside called in, and an additional two emerged from her home. One of the intruders was carrying her sleeping furs bundled under his arm, the other holding the clay pot where she kept ground herbs. They spoke among themselves and gestured toward the valley, clearly deciding whether to wait for her return or abandon the trap before dark.

Griff went rigid beside her, his focus locked on something upslope.

A fifth man stood higher on the hillside with an arrow already nocked to his bow. He scanned the terrain methodically, working his way across the slope in slow sweeps that would eventually cover the outcrop where she lay pressed against cold granite.

Four men at the shelter to draw her in, one archer positioned to kill her if she tried to run. The mist that had hidden her approach wouldn't hide her retreat.

She controlled her breathing and watched the archer's pattern. His attention passed near her position, hesitated, and moved on. When his focus shifted to the far side of the valley, she began moving backwards through the rocks with the careful slowness that wouldn't catch his eye. Thirty paces upslope, then fifty, until the ridge rose between them and blocked his line of sight.

She dropped below the ridgeline and her body started shaking, breath coming fast and shallow like she'd been running for hours. Her hands found granite, and she pressed them flat against cold stone until the trembling slowed enough to think.

Five men hunting her. This was not a chance encounter. Someone had told them where to look, and they'd positioned themselves like hunters who knew their prey's habits. The archer on the slope, the four at her shelter, all of it planned with the kind of coordination that spoke to serious intent.

She needed to understand why before she ran. Running blind into country where both chiefdoms wanted her dead would just get her killed more slowly. Bryn in Garth might help if she could reach him, but Garth was half a day's walk and she had no supplies, little shelter, and these men between her and safety.

The mist had thickened while she'd been climbing. It pooled in the valleys now, grey and cold and offering the kind of cover she desperately needed. The scent of it reached her, that clean mineral smell of moisture gathering over stone before rain.

She worked her way back down through the rocks, using the thick air as cover. The voices carried better now that she'd positioned herself downwind, fragments of conversation drifting to her ear. Just about loud enough for Nest to follow.

Two men stood near her shelter's entrance. She recognised the posture before she saw the details. One carried himself with the loose confidence of Powys warriors, weight balanced forward on the balls of his feet. The other stood rigid, shoulders back, the formal stance drilled into Silures recruits in Brycheiniog's training yards.

Ancient enemies, standing close enough to share an ale skin.

Her heart hammered against her ribs while she crouched low behind granite, willing herself invisible.

"She's been treating warriors from both sides." The Powys man's voice carried an edge of grudging respect. "Fevered men talk. Gwirddail, the truth leaf, loosens tongues better than ale."

"Both chiefdoms thought they were her only source." The Silures warrior shifted his grip on his spear. "Now we know different."

"Y rhew keeps us wealthy." The first man spat into the dirt. "Real war burns the borderlands first. Once the fire is lit, we cannot change the wind's direction. Better the frost than the fire."

The second warrior nodded once, sharp and decisive. His hand moved to his chest, touching something beneath the bronze. "And the crone knows enough to light it. This must not happen."

"The villages believe the threat," the Powys man said quietly. "They stay small, they pay tribute, they don't unite. But if they think they'll burn anyway, we lose control of them all."

"Agreement stands, then. She disappears and the secrets die with her."

Nest touched the scar on her cheek without thinking. Twenty-five years old and they called her crone. Heat flooded her face, sharp and sudden. The insult landed like a physical blow, pricking deeper than it should have when men were hunting her to kill. Her mother had also been twenty-five when the wolves came.

She waited until the warriors moved back inside her shelter, then retreated upslope with the same care she'd used approaching. No sudden movements or loose stones, nothing to draw the archer's attention if he was still positioned above.

Griff found her when she cleared the ridgeline. He pressed against her leg without sound, still and watchful.

Garth was her only option. She'd left the village just this morning after setting Bryn's fingers for the second time in three months. Same hand injury, caused by the same ox. Beton had been chasing him with a broom, shouting up the lane for Nest not to go too far because she'd be needed again once she got her hands on her liability of a husband. The woman had spirit, and Bryn had terrible luck with livestock. Broken fingers twice, kicked ribs, two fevers that should have killed him. The man collected injuries like others foraged for nuts and berries. If anyone in Garth would offer shelter, it would be Bryn, if only because Beton would insist on settling the debt properly.

The journey back would take the night if she moved carefully. She touched Griff's head once, the coarse fur and solid warmth of him steadying her. Trust the dog first, then your knife. Ifor had taught her that before she could tie her first knot.

"We walk," she said quietly.

They moved through country she knew better than the warriors hunting her. She took them through the narrow cut between rocks where the ground stayed firm underfoot, avoiding the muddy routes that held footprints. When full dark settled, she found a hollowed oak and crawled inside with Griff pressed against her for warmth. The smell of rot and cold earth brought her back. Another hollow, another time, when thorns kept teeth away and her father left her mother where she'd fallen. She couldn't risk a fire, and sleep wouldn't come with men hunting her. She waited for first light when it would be safe to approach Garth. Every step had driven pain through her feet. Her breath hung white in the air before the darkness swallowed it.

The cold hours passed slowly, and dawn came grey and reluctant.

Garth looked peaceful in the early light, everything touched with the pale gold of dawn. Smoke rose from roundhouses in thin lines that disappeared into low cloud. She approached from the south, taking the wide route around the village edge where fewer eyes would see her arrive. The path kept her south toward the streams, skirting the dead pastures at Beulah. Nobody went through Beulah since Geifryn. Griff stayed close at her side.

Beton answered her knock before the second rap finished. The woman's face shifted from surprise to concern in the space of a breath.

"Nest. Come inside, quickly now."

The roundhouse was warm and smelled of barley porridge. A fire burned in the central hearth, the smoke rising through the roof hole in a steady column. Beton guided her to a stool near the flames and disappeared into the back of the house.

She returned with a massive ox bone, still dark with dried blood and strips of meat clinging to the joints. "Poor beast broke its leg last month. Whole village ate well." She held it out to Griff. "Your dog's earned a treat."

Griff settled by the fire with the bone between his paws, content.

Beton pressed a wooden bowl into Nest's hands. "And you'll eat too. You look half frozen."

Nest cupped the warm bowl and explained what had happened. Men had come to her shelter while she was away. She'd seen them from the ridge and escaped before they knew she was there. She needed somewhere safe while she decided what to do next, and she kept the details vague while watching Beton's face for any sign of judgment or fear.

Beton listened whilst folding her hands towards her lap, nodding at the right moments.

Nest ate the porridge slowly, letting the warmth settle into her bones. Between bites, she explained what she'd overheard. How both chiefdoms knew she'd been treating warriors from both sides. How they'd learned she knew secrets that could break y rhew.

"It's all set up to keep villages like Garth under their heel," Nest said quietly. "How long has this been going on?"

Beton nodded. Her eyes stayed on Nest's face, but something behind them had gone elsewhere.

"Long enough," Beton said.

The porridge was good. Nest took another bite and watched Beton's hands settle into her lap once more, then lift to smooth the fabric at her thighs. The cloth didn't need smoothing.

Griff had stopped chewing. The bone lay between his paws while his ears tracked something outside.

"Where are your little ones this morning?"

The question landed differently than it should have. Beton's focus sharpened, just for a moment, before she swallowed and the smile came.

"With my sister. Gives me peace to get the house sorted." Her eyes went to the corner where small furs lay folded, the ones Nest had brought last winter when fever took the village. She glanced toward the door, then back. "Bryn should be along soon. I’m sure he'll want to thank you properly for the fingers.”

Her hands moved to her lap again, pressing against her thighs three times, then three again.

Outside, boots scraped against stone, more than one pair moving into position.

The fire crackled and smoke rose through the roof hole in its steady column while Beton kept smiling. Griff's breathing had changed, quick and shallow, the way it got when wolves came near the hilltop.

Nest lifted her bowl and drank the last of the porridge, then set it down carefully. Her hand found the knife at her belt and tested the hilt's position without looking down.

Part Two

"I should check on my supplies," Nest said, rising from the stool. "Left my basket outside when I knocked."

Beton's smile flickered. "I can fetch it for you."

"No need. The morning air will do me good after the cold night."

She moved to the door before Beton could object further. Outside, the village looked normal in the early light. Women moved between roundhouses carrying water, and children played in the lanes. Except Beton's children weren't playing. They stood with a neighbor two houses down, watching Bryn's roundhouse with the stillness of sparrows before a hawk strikes.

Nest walked along the side of the building, her movements casual, like someone stretching stiff legs after travel. The wall curved and she followed it around to where she could see the main lane.

Warriors lined both sides. She recognised the postures before the details. Powys on the left, weight forward and loose. Silures of Brycheiniog on the right, rigid and formal. One kept his hand at his chest. Between them stood Bryn, pale as bone left in sun, his hands empty and useless at his sides. The same hands she'd set twice in three months.

The two groups weren't fighting. They stood glaring at each other across the lane, but neither moved from position.

A chariot waited at the lane's end, horse already harnessed.

Nest's hand found the wall beside her. The wattle felt rough under her palm, still damp from morning mist. Her heart was beating too fast, and she made herself breathe slowly through her nose the way Ifor had taught her when they tracked wolves in winter. Count three, hold three, release three. The chariot meant they expected her to run. The warriors at both ends meant running wouldn't work. Bryn's empty hands meant he'd already chosen his village over her life.

She pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the door, keeping the same easy pace she'd used leaving.

Beton looked up when Nest came back inside, her expression carefully pleasant. "Find everything?"

"Basket's fine where it is." Nest settled back onto her stool by the fire. The warmth felt good against her skin despite everything her body wanted to do. "Your porridge has helped. I was colder than I thought."

"More?" Beton reached for the pot without waiting for an answer.

"Please."

The wooden bowl filled again, steam rising. Nest ate slowly, counting her breaths, watching Beton's hands as they moved through familiar tasks. Straightening the sleeping furs. Checking the fire. Moving a clay pot from one shelf to another for no reason that made sense.

Griff had finished his bone. He lay by the hearth with his head on his paws, eyes tracking Beton's movements around the roundhouse.

"Bryn will be sorry he missed you," Beton said. Her voice carried the same false brightness. "He's had to step out. Village business."

"Of course." The porridge tasted like barley and salt and nothing else. Normal. Nest took another bite. "Nothing serious, I hope."

"Oh, you know how it is. Something about the shared pastures. Always some dispute this time of year."

The lie sat between them like smoke. Outside, boots scraped against stone. Closer than before. Beton's hands stilled on the pot she'd been adjusting, then continued their pointless movement. When she spoke again, she swallowed first.

"Does your sister live far?" Nest asked.

"Just three houses down. Close enough to help when needed."

"That must be a comfort."

"It is."

The fire crackled. Smoke rose through the roof hole. Beton smiled and smoothed fabric that didn't need smoothing. Outside, men moved into better positions, and both women pretended not to hear them. Nest set down her bowl.

The chariot horse stamped once.

Nest stood.

The movement came without thought, her body deciding before her mind caught up. She crossed to the door in three strides and pushed through before Beton could rise from her stool.

She ran.

Her boots struck packed earth, and her heart slammed against her ribs. Shouts erupted behind her. The Powys warriors broke from their positions, bronze blades drawn. Twenty paces to the chariot. Fifteen. One angled to cut her off.

"Griff!" Her voice cracked on his name. "TO ME!"

Griff burst through the doorway behind her. The warrior was already running when the old dog hit full stride and launched himself across the lane. He struck the warrior chest-high. The man went down hard with Griff on top of him, teeth already at his throat.

Nest reached the chariot and grabbed the reins. Her hands closed on leather and she pulled herself up just as a Silures warrior came from behind the chariot's far side. She saw the spear in his hand, saw him plant his feet and draw back.

The spear took Griff in the ribcage. The sound it made going in was soft, almost gentle, nothing like the wet tearing that followed when the warrior twisted the shaft.

The scream that came from Nest's throat was not her voice. Griff's eyes found her. Still trying to protect her even as blood filled his mouth.

The horse bolted. Nest barely held the reins as the chariot lurched forward, wheels catching on stone before finding purchase. A spear flew past her head and struck the chariot frame beside her with a sound like a hammer on bronze. Another fell short as the distance grew.

Behind her, warriors were running for their horses. Ahead, the track led south towards the Mountains of Epynt.

Griff's eyes finding hers. Her mother reaching toward the gorse. The images came and she forced them down. She didn't look back.

The track climbed.

Nest's arms burned from fighting the reins. The horse had settled into a rhythm, but the gradient demanded everything from both of them. Foam gathered at the animal's mouth, and its breathing came harsh and ragged. Her own lungs felt raw.

Behind her, hoofbeats. Not close yet, but coming.

The track followed the ridge south, rising steadily toward Mynydd Epynt. Dust rose with each turn of the chariot wheels, a pale cloud that hung in the dry air before settling. She'd prayed for rain all summer. Now she thanked the gods for every rainless day that had baked this track to powder.

The dust thickened behind her. She heard coughing, horses snorting, the pursuit slowing as the cloud enveloped them. Not enough to stop them, but just enough to buy distance.

Her legs braced against the chariot frame with each jolt. The wood creaked and the wheels struck stones that sent shocks up through her spine. Her hands ached where the leather cut into her palms. She couldn't ease her grip. If she lost control on this gradient, the chariot would overturn and she'd go down the slope with it.

The horse laboured on. One step, then another, climbing towards the mountain top where the air thinned and the track narrowed. She had no destination. Just away. Distance and time could mean survival. Even if it was a fool’s hope.

Griff's bone still lay beside Beton's hearth. His blood still wet on the lane stones.

She couldn't think about that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The track curved sharply ahead, and she took it without slowing. The road followed a natural bend where the ridge folded back on itself. Troed y Ceffyl, the hunters called it. Horse's Hoof, named for the shape from above.

Nest leaned into the turn, the chariot tilting hard. Wheels skidded on loose stone before catching again. For one breath, she thought they'd overturn, then the horse found its footing and pulled them through.

A flash of light caught her eye as she straightened. South, down the slope to her left. Something bright reflected the afternoon sun for a moment, then vanished. Distance made it impossible to see clearly. Shield or blade, perhaps, but she had no time to wonder.

The track climbed again after the turn, rising toward the shoulder of Mynydd Epynt. Ahead the ridge narrowed, rock on one side and empty air on the other.

Movement above. Higher up the slope, a single horseman sat silhouetted against the sky. He'd taken the direct route over the hilltop while she'd followed the winding track. Now he waited, watching.

Her heart hammered. They'd split their forces, and it was working. While she'd gained distance on the main pursuit, this one had cut ahead.

The horseman's hand moved to his chest. Nest saw it clearly even at this distance. His fingers pressed there, held. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

His hand dropped. He turned his horse and started down the slope toward the track ahead of her, angling to intercept.

The track narrowed further. Steep drop to her left now, mountain wall to her right. The horseman would reach the track before she could pass that point.

Nest yanked the reins hard. The horse screamed but turned, leaving the track entirely. Rough ground, rocks and scrub and impossible angles. The chariot bucked and rattled beneath her.

She held on.

The chariot hit a boulder she didn't see and the whole frame lifted, airborne for a heartbeat before crashing down. Wood splintered. The horse screamed again and kept running, dragging the wreckage behind it. Nest clung to what remained of the frame, her hands locked on the reins.

Ahead, the ground dropped away.

She saw it too late. A gorge cut across the slope, steep rocky walls plunging to a stream far below. The horse tried to stop but momentum carried them forward. They went over the edge.

A gust of wind hit her from the side, sudden and powerful. It shoved her away from the horse, away from the falling chariot, and slammed her into the rock face. Her ribs ground against stone. Her hands found a root jutting from the cliff and she gripped it with everything she had left. Her feet scrambled against rock until they found a narrow ledge.

She held there, pressed against the stone, breathing in short gasps that sent pain through her chest.

Below, the terrible sounds of the crash. Then silence.

Boots on the ground above. Men's voices, cautious. The wind had shifted, coming from the west now, cold and sudden. Rain began to fall, light at first, then harder.

"Bad sign," someone muttered.

"Check it," another voice said.

Footsteps approached the edge. Nest looked up.

A warrior stood above, looking down. Their eyes met. One heartbeat. Two. Three. His eyes flickered to his chest, where something lay beneath his armor, then back to her.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only hold on and wait to see if he would finish what the fall had started.

"Well?" The voice came from behind him. "Anything?"

The warrior looked at her for one breath longer. Then he turned away.

"Dead," he called back. "Nothing could survive that fall."

The west wind howled in their faces.

Part Three

Nest had crawled a quarter mile through mud and rain.

She couldn't tell if it had been hours or minutes since she'd hidden below the rocky bank, pressed against wet stone while boots scraped above and voices faded into distance. She'd waited until silence became certainty, then pulled herself up using roots and rock face, testing each hold before trusting it. Her ribs had ground against stone with every movement. When she'd finally dragged herself over the lip of the gorge, she'd lain in the mud until her breathing steadied enough to move again.

Now the stream lay ahead. She could hear water running over rocks, close enough to follow.

She crawled on her elbows and knees, mud caking her palms, stones cutting through cloth. Her head wound had opened again, and blood ran warm into her eye. She wiped it away and kept moving.

Her ankle folded beneath her twice. The second time, she stayed down for a long moment before continuing on her elbows alone.

The water sound grew louder. Fifty paces. Thirty. Ten.

When she reached the source, she stopped.

Water bubbled up from between rocks, clear and cold, forming a small pool before spilling downslope. The grass around it grew thick and green despite the season, and the air tasted different here. Cleaner. Older.

Nest dragged herself to the pool's edge and reached for the water with both hands.

Wind struck from the west. It caught her arms and drove her backward into the hillside. She hit the slope hard, ribs screaming, gasping.

She stared at the pool. The water lay still, undisturbed. But she'd felt the wind like a blow to her chest.

Second attempt. She crawled forward on her elbows, slower this time, and stretched one hand toward the surface.

The gust hit harder. Focused. It slammed her back against rock and earth, pinning her there for a breath before releasing. Fresh blood ran warm down her temple.

Nest lay against the hillside, breathing hard. Her throat burned with thirst. The water bubbled clear and cold an arm's length away, and she couldn't reach it.

Third try. She pulled herself forward with her elbows, determined, ignoring the pain in her ribs. Her fingers touched the edge of the pool.

The wind roared up from nowhere. It lifted her entirely and threw her back, slamming her against the hillside with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. When she could breathe again, the message was clear.

Not this water. Never this water.

She turned her head. Downstream, where the water spilled away from the pool and ran between stones, no longer bubbling. Just a stream now, ordinary and cold.

She crawled to it. Pressed her face into the flow and drank.

The water tasted sweeter than rain, colder than snowmelt, with warmth underneath that spread through her chest and eased pain she'd stopped noticing. It settled into her like sunlight through winter clouds.

She drank until her stomach couldn't hold more, then rolled onto her side with water still running over her hands. Her ribs hurt less, and the bleeding from her head had slowed. She could breathe without gasping.

Nest closed her eyes and let the rain fall on her face.

She lay there in the mud.

For twenty-three years she'd kept moving. Wolves, solitude, her father's silence after her mother died. Learning to set bones and close wounds and walk alone through country that killed the careless.

Griff was dead because she'd called him.

The thought came and she couldn't push it away anymore. His eyes finding hers even as the spear went in. The old dog launching himself at a warrior to save her. She'd called him and he'd died for it.

Her mother reaching toward the gorse, drawing wolves away. The blade at her own throat a lifetime ago, dimpling skin but not breaking it. Beton's eyes going to the corner where small furs lay folded.

Everyone who protected her died. She did not blame Beton for choosing to save her own children. She would have done the same. Wouldn't she?

The sobs came hard enough to hurt her ribs. She pressed her face into the mud and wept, shaking so hard her teeth rattled, rain washing the remaining blood from her head wound into her mouth. When she could breathe again, nothing had changed. Griff was still dead. Her mother was still gone. And she was still here. For all his lessons, her father had failed her. No. She had failed. Stayed quiet when she should have run. Helped everyone when she should have chosen no one. Believed that surviving long enough would make her safe. It hadn't.

She cried until she had nothing left, then lay still, breathing in gasps that sent pain through her chest. The rain continued, cold and steady. The stream ran over her hands. She was alone in the mountains with no home to return to and no plan beyond the next breath.

Nest registered the arrows slowly. Four warriors on the ridge above, maybe five. Points aimed at her chest. She was too broken to run.

An older man stepped forward. Grey in his beard, scars on his hands, eyes that weighed and measured. Behind him stood a younger warrior with a troubled expression, and further back, a third man watching her with an intensity that made her skin prick despite the exhaustion.

She knew that one. The gorge. His eyes meeting hers on the ledge, hand moving to his chest. The lie he'd told: "Dead. Nothing could survive that fall."

His hand rested there now, fingers against his armor where something lay beneath.

The older man spoke. "We saw you try to drink from the source. Three times the wind drove you back."

Nest's mind moved like honey in winter. Source. Wind. Three times.

"They always die when they drink from the source. The springs are sacred. Protected. Those who drink directly from them never wake." He paused. "But you were stopped."

She tried to make sense of his words. Sacred. Protected. Stopped.

"Who are you?"

"Nest ferch Ifor." The words came from somewhere distant.

"Why were you here?"

She couldn't explain pursuit, escape, crashes, or crawls. "Warriors hunting me. Both chiefdoms. I ran."

"Which chiefdoms?"

"Powys. The Silures of Brycheiniog."

His questions came faster. "Why?"

"Healer. Treated both sides." Each word took effort. The rain continued, cold against her neck. "Knew too much about y rhew. About the gap between them."

The man glanced at the warrior from the gorge. Something passed between them, wordless, brief. When he turned back to Nest, his voice carried decision.

"I am Afan. You're coming with us."

Nest had nothing left. No fight, argument, or energy for questions.

The younger warrior stepped forward and offered his hand. She took it. Her ankle twisted but he caught her weight, mud sucking at her boots as he steadied her.

Warriors surrounded her, not threatening, guarding. They began walking east toward Caer y Bathau.

Nest went with them.

Epilogue

Three years passed.

Nest ferch Ifor came to Caer y Bathau broken. The Bauthiad took her in. She healed their children, tended their sick, and closed wounds that needed closing.

The Bauthiad watched, and remembered.

In the second spring, she married Deiwyn, the warrior who'd steadied her when her ankle folded in the mud.

They married on an evening when new growth scented the air and blackbirds called from the hawthorn. The Bauthiad gathered in the high meadow above the springs. Afan spoke the old words over bread and mead. Deiwyn's hands were steady when he took hers. Nest could breathe without counting heartbeats for the first time since Griff had died.

Near the back of the gathering, a warrior stood watching. His hand moved to his chest, fingers resting there. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Nest's eyes found his across the crowd. She smiled.

Cynfyn smiled back.

A year later, on a night when rain drummed against the roundhouse roof, Nest gave birth to a daughter.

The labour was long, but the child came strong. Caer y Bathau's women attended her while Deiwyn paced outside. Her lungs were raw and her grip fierce.

Nest held her daughter against her chest, feeling the small weight, the warmth. She was quiet for a long moment.

"Arianwen," she said. Silver-bright. Blessed.

Deiwyn came in, his trained mask of a warrior failing to conceal his joy. He touched the baby's head with one finger, gentle as settling dust, and his eyes filled.

Afan stood in the doorway. "The wind knew," he said quietly. "Annwn knew."

Nest said nothing. Some things didn't need saying.

Six hundred and forty years later, this child would stand in defence of Annwn itself. But that was later, and belongs to other tales.

The Shadow Trader disappeared into the borderlands in the year of bitter cold and blades. What emerged was a Keeper, a wife, a mother.

The Bauthiad would teach their children what Nest learned that day;

“The wolf that hunts alone will not outlast the coldest winter.”

She had been skilled and clever, surviving twenty-three years in country that killed the careless. But the wind at the gorge, the springs that drove her back; Annwn was not saving her from death. It was pushing her toward her new pack.

Some lessons are taught with words. Others require wolves, or wind, or the right pack at the right time.

Nest ferch Ifor learned them all, and she taught her daughter how to stand.

That was enough.

Step Deeper into the Book of the Western Veil

If this fireside tale captured your imagination, the best way to explore the ancient world of Brother Wyn and the lost mythology of Wales is through Keep Your Head. It is a standalone short story that introduces the character-driven history and archaeology of the series.