June was a better month for me than May, so I'm thankful for that! It was busy with birthday parties and school activities though, so I didn't get as much reading or writing done as I would have hoped. The Puds are now on school holidays, so I'm hopeful of free time to continue writing. After all, at 16 (nearly) and 18, they don't need me to organise their days anymore.
Daffodils and Dreams is the lowest reviewed book in my Brodyr Alarch series, with only three reviews on Goodreads, so if you fancy starting Harri and Ffion's story, just drop me a line and I can get a copy sent to you. 💙
With summer holidays and scheduling in mind, I’m opening early sign-ups for Ravens and Ruin — Ewan and Lowri’s retelling of The White Snake. You're welcome to sign up at any time! I’ll also be sending out additional emails once the release date is confirmed.
So, with that in mind, I thought I'd give a taste of what's to come for the youngest Brodyr Alarch brother:
By late afternoon, the sea winds had risen, brushing sharply against the travellers’ cloaks as they approached Caer Rhun. The fortress loomed out of the northern cliffs like a blackened crown, hewn straight from the granite face of the coast. Its battlements jutted over the ocean, dark and jagged as broken teeth. Mist curled at the base where the waves struck the rock with relentless fury, and gulls wheeled above like restless spirits.
Black banners snapped in the wind, their gold trim catching the last sharp light of the sun. The seal of Rhun—a coiled dragon with wings unfurled and tongue forked like lightning—glared down from every parapet, engraved into stone, stamped into iron, woven into the very flags that hung above the gates.
Ewan drew his horse to a halt just beyond the outer wall, the four warriors behind him forming a quiet, alert line. They drew glances from the Rhun guards, who stood motionless in matching black lamellar armour, gold edging gleaming like a threat.
He turned in his saddle, surveying Cadell, Maeron, Nevan, and Briallen. “We’re not here to start a war,” he said quietly, voice low and firm. “But we need to be sharp. This place breathes old grudges. Keep your eyes open and your blades where they belong—until they don’t.”
Cadell gave a crooked grin, Maeron simply nodded. Briallen adjusted her bow, and Nevan scanned the walls with a tracker’s calm unease.
A black-liveried steward approached, his gaze respectfully lowered. “Lord Ewan of Melthkior, your quarters have been prepared in the guest barracks. The King and Queen request your presence for the evening meal. You will be summoned when the time comes. As for the rest of you,” he gestured to the warriors, “you may choose to dine in your rooms or in the barracks. The decision is yours.”
Ewan gave a curt nod, masking his irritation at the formality behind a composed expression. “Very well,” he replied, dismounting from Taran and handing the reins to a waiting stableboy. His warriors did the same, their horses steered to the stables with practised ease. Ewan took a deep breath, the sharp tang of brine and iron filling his lungs.
The steward led them through the winding corridors of Caer Rhun, finally bringing them to the guest barracks, a long stone building tucked beneath the fortress’s towering walls. Here, the group split up, each of them eager for a moment of respite after the journey. Ewan made his way to his assigned room, letting the weight of the day settle in his bones.
A short while later, alone in the sparse, clean, and cold room, Ewan stood at the window, gazing out over the jagged coastline. The wind howled past, pressing against the glass like an unseen voice. His thoughts wandered to Lowri, to her presence that had become strangely familiar in such a short time. He could still feel the quietness that seemed to follow her, how the air around her seemed to still when she was near. It wasn’t just her calm demeanour that commanded attention; it was the way the others looked to her with a trust that transcended titles or rank.
She had a way of calming those around her, even in the most chaotic of moments. Yet, Ewan knew there was more to her than what she'd allowed the others to see. There was a depth to her, a quiet knowledge she carried that hadn’t fully been revealed, even to him. He had left her behind, and though he knew his reasons for doing so, the doubt gnawed at him now, sharper than before.
Fingers clasped, Ewan bowed his head, a quiet reverence settling over him as he sent a whispered prayer to Arianrhod. Lady of the Silver Wheel, Lady of Night and Sight… Arianrhod, watcher beyond the Veil, Guard her. Guard us. Let this not be folly.
His words were soft, though spoken as much in hope as in ritual. Arianrhod was his to call upon, his protector, his blessing. She had shaped him into who he was, as She had shaped his brothers.
There was no immediate answer, no voice or sign to reassure him, but as his thoughts lingered on Lowri, something inside him eased as though the air itself had lightened. The goddess had heard him, in Her own way, and that was enough for now.
A timid knock broke the silence. A young servant no older than fifteen, with a hunched posture and eyes that darted like a startled rabbit’s, peeked around the door. “The hall is ready, my lord. The King and Queen await.”
Ewan gave a curt nod and followed the boy through cold halls lit with amber lanterns and etched stone, where every step echoed. The great hall of Caer Rhun opened before him, vaulted and vast, built to impress, with tapestries in black and gold lining the walls. The long table gleamed with the flicker of candlelight, casting shadows on the faces of the nobles and warriors who filled the hall. The air smelled faintly of salt and roasted meat, mixed with something earthy, almost metallic.
Ewan sat at the table, his posture straight but relaxed. The king and queen sat across from him, their expressions courteous but veiled in a layer of polite restraint. He could feel the weight of their gaze, like the eyes of a hawk sizing up its prey, but for now, they said nothing of the skirmishes or the tense border situation. Instead, they exchanged silent, knowing glances, their lips curling into the faintest of smirks before the conversation shifted to trivial matters.
"Let us speak of the borders in private, Lord Ewan," the queen said, her voice smooth as silk, with a barely perceptible glance at her husband. "This feast is a time for pleasantries, not disputes. It would be... unseemly."
The king gave a slight chuckle, his deep voice rumbling. "Indeed, my queen. Let us enjoy the meal first." His eyes twinkled with amusement as they shared the briefest of smiles, a knowing exchange between the two of them, as if they were both privy to something Ewan was not yet meant to understand.
Ewan nodded stiffly, pushing the thoughts of war aside, for now. He glanced down at his plate, where a delicate dish of white meat was placed before him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, the meat pale and tender, its aroma both rich and faintly strange, as though it held a secret of its own.
"This is a rare dish," the queen remarked, as though reading his thoughts. "A delicacy of our northern lands. I trust it will suit your tastes, Lord Ewan."
Ewan hesitated for a moment, his instincts warning him, but the queen’s eyes were fixed on him, expectant. He picked up his fork and took a bite, the meat melting in his mouth with an unexpected richness, the texture smooth and almost ethereal.
A moment passed as the flavours unfurled on his tongue, and then something inside him shifted. He could feel it in his chest, a hum that seemed to ripple outward. He swallowed, then took another bite, the taste sharper this time, more pronounced, as though something had awakened within him. His gaze flickered to the open windows where the faint cry of a raven echoed on the wind. The sounds of the world outside suddenly felt clearer, more distinct. His senses sharpened, and the low murmur of conversation around him seemed distant, like a faint song in the background of a deeper, more primal understanding.
A rustling noise from the far corner of the room caught his attention. The flicker of movement, the soft footfalls of something smaller… A mouse scuttled across the floor beneath the table. The sound was almost as if the animal was speaking to him, its movements clear and deliberate.
Ewan froze, his heart quickening. His thoughts swirled as the sounds and scents of the room shifted, layering over each other. The low whisper of the fire crackling on the hearth, the clink of silverware against plates, the soft shuffle of servants—all of it suddenly heightened, as if he could hear each noise with perfect clarity.
Then there was the caw of a crow, distant but unmistakable. And beneath the raucous call, the soft whisper of wings, the language of birds… He could understand it, every flicker of movement and sound. It was as if the air itself had split open, allowing him to hear the unspoken. He understood the patterns, the intent, and the message in the call. He could hear the ravens above, the fluttering of their wings, their conversations among themselves, and yet, it made no sense.
His hand trembled ever so slightly as he set his fork down, the taste of the meat lingering, strange and familiar. There was an energy within him now, an awareness that had never been there before.
The king and queen noticed his pause, their eyes sharp, but their expressions unreadable. Ewan forced himself to meet their gazes, but something dark seemed to flicker at the edges of his mind. He could almost hear the whispers of something ancient, something that had been dormant for too long.
"Lord Ewan?" The queen's voice was low, almost too soft, as she broke through his thoughts. "Is the dish to your liking?"
"Yes," Ewan replied, his voice sounding distant even to himself. "It is unlike anything I’ve tasted before."
The queen smiled, her eyes twinkling with something hidden but knowing. "I’m glad you find it so… memorable."
A small shiver ran through Ewan, but he kept his expression steady. He didn’t know what had just happened, but something deep within him whispered that he had crossed a threshold. And now, the language of birds, animals, and the world itself was open to him, though he could not yet fully understand what that meant.
The meal continued, but Ewan's mind raced, a thousand questions flooding his thoughts. He kept the secret to himself, the strange new power coiling within him. It was too soon, too dangerous, to speak of it. The last course of the evening meal had been cleared, and the murmur of conversation echoed through the high-ceilinged hall. Ewan pushed aside his goblet, still tasting the strange white meat on his tongue, though no trace of it remained on his plate. The sounds of the hall pressed in on him.
"Are you well, Lord Ewan?" the queen asked, her voice like silk brushed across glass. Her dark eyes held a glint of amusement or something sharper.
Ewan blinked and nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Yes, your Majesty. Just weary from the ride. Rhun’s hospitality is generous."
The king chuckled. "We pride ourselves on that." He gestured for his steward to refill the cups. "Rest well. We’ll speak of treaties and borders come morning—behind closed doors, where fewer ears listen."
Ewan inclined his head. "Of course."
As he rose from the table, he caught the faint rustle of wings again, just beyond the open archway. He paused and looked, but there was nothing. And yet, he knew the crow perched above the stone lintel. He could feel its feathers shift, could sense its thoughts like a breeze against his mind. ‘Watch. Wait. Danger walks cloaked.’
