Matthias Harlow
1253
Road To Dregsdon
The Forktail's blood was different from the Foglet's.
Monster blood, I was beginning to learn, tasted nothing like animal or human blood.
Maybe it was because such creatures were steeped in Chaos.
Perhaps I could taste the way magic manifested within them.
Where the foglet's blood had carried a sense of murky immaterialness, like drinking a half-remembered dream, the forktail's blood had weight to it.
It was thick. Heavy. Like gulping down a heady, scalding stew.
Strangely enough, I liked it.
Behind human blood, I would rank it a distant but respectable second.
The customary rush of memories was worse than with the foglets, though far less overwhelming than when I drank de La Croix.
A surge of foreign instincts flooded me—maternal protectiveness, territorial aggression, the urge to defend and dominate all at once.
Powerful emotions, but alien enough that I could recognize them for what they were.
I somehow kept myself in check, before I could hurt Brenn when he picked one of the eggs up.
I had hesitated before feeding, half-considering finally putting the ring on and leaving the corpse untouched.
But the thought of wasting whatever benefits the forktail might offer left a sour taste in my mouth long before I ever drank its blood.
So I bit the bullet.
In the end, I found myself… disappointed.
I hadn't expected to sprout wings or a bladed tail, of course. Still, the creature had been undeniably magical.
Nothing that heavy should have been capable of flight without sorcery involved, and I had been right about that much.
Unfortunately, being right didn't help me.
I gained no physical benefit at all. No lightness. No alteration to my mass. No echo of the magic that had allowed the beast to defy gravity.
I carried the experience of flight—its instincts, its sensations—but none of the ability itself.
At the very least, I had hoped to gain the capacity to make myself lighter.
Instead, I gained nothing but knowledge.
Perhaps one forktail, even one that large, simply wasn't enough.
I now found myself on the road to Dregsdon from the mill, speaking to Épine as we rode, to fill the silence of the road.
"Almost there," I murmured, patting her neck. "Just a little farther."
It had taken me a bit over an hour to make the return trip to the mill. I could have done it faster, but I hadn't left immediately.
A couple of hours had passed before I turned back, long enough for the dust to settle, for an opportunity to try and settle my thoughts, and for me to think through what I would say when I arrived.
The forktail's head hung from the side of the saddle, swaying with each step.
I could have left it behind. Probably should have. But I needed an explanation.
My armor was damaged. Deep gouges in the gilded plates, where something far heavier than a sword had struck me.
And more importantly, I didn't have the ashes of a wraith. No spectral residue. No proof of an incorporeal foe.
A story about being attacked while burying bones was plausible enough.
Knights fought monsters all the time, and monsters rarely waited their turn. It explained the damage, explained the absence of remains, and added another quiet line to my growing reputation as a capable knight.
The beginnings of a paper trail.
One I would need for my next plans.
And if I was being honest with myself… I wanted a trophy.
I didn't have a proper hook or frame for something like this, so I'd improvised. Rope and a bit of ingenuity.
Temporary, crude, but it held. The forktail's head bounced gently against the horse's flank, heavy and unmistakable.
As the mill moved further into the distance, my thoughts drifted somewhere far less immediate than splintered armor and suspicious villagers.
Earlier, when I crested the last low rise before the mill, the sun was already beginning its slow descent toward the treeline.
Late afternoon—around two, if I had to guess.
The road there was narrow and half-swallowed by grass, wheel ruts hardened into shallow grooves by years of carts hauling grain and flour.
A thin stream ran alongside it, clear and quick, slipping over stones smoothed by time rather than force.
The water caught the light and fractured it into silver ribbons that danced along the bank.
The millwheel was turning.
Slowly, steadily, its paddles dipping into the current with a familiar, comforting rhythm. Wood groaned, ropes creaked, and the whole structure gave off that low, working hum of something doing what it was built to do. No screaming wind. No frozen gears. No sense of wrongness.
Brenn had kept his word.
I had slowed my gait, the monsters head raised over my own taking it all in.
Job done.
The thought settled heavier than I expected, a quiet satisfaction.
Maybe I've caught the side quest bug.
The thumping of the forktail on Epine's rear reminded me of one of my pressing problems, I needed a Witcher.
Not to kill me—if anything, to stop me from eventually becoming something that deserved it.
However beneficial my gift truly was, it wasn't sustainable in ignorance.
Power without control had already cost me once, forcing me to kill without my consent.
I wasn't eager to repeat the experience.
Already the smell of rotten corpses made my mouth fill with venom.
The hum of a beehive stirred an urge to tear it apart for its contents. It was difficult to speak with the people of Dregsdon without instinctively viewing them as lesser—serfs barely worth consideration and now the wind blowing at my back made me want to leap off into the sky.
My mind was slowly turning into a tangle of contradicting instincts.
I knew for a fact that if my biology were not capable of handling thousands of years of photographic memory, I would be struggling far worse than I already was.
If there was anyone in this world who understood soothing monstrous instincts, curses, altered bodies, and the thin line between man and something else, it was Witchers.
And fortunately for my peace of mind, I knew where at least two of them would be this year.
The first was Geralt of Rivia.
Later in the year, he'd be near Barefield, just before events started moving toward what would eventually be The Bounds of Reason.
That path would put him in the company of Borch Three Jackdaws—another "knight" wearing a mask, though of a very different sort.
It was… tempting.
Geralt was central. A fixed point in a world that twisted itself around him. If I wanted to insert myself into the story of this world rather than be crushed beneath it, aligning myself with him early had its advantages.
More importantly, he was one of the few Witchers I was reasonably certain wouldn't try to kill me on sight.
That said… I doubted he'd be inclined to teach me anything unless there was something in it for him. For all that I liked him and as heroically inclined as he was, I couldn't deny the man was a gruff, sarcastic bastard with a deeply practical view of the world.
Friendship didn't buy lessons. Utility did.
Which brought me to the second witcher.
Reinald.
Where Geralt was still moving—still hunting, still choosing—Reinald was… finished. Or close enough to it.
Once, he'd been everything a witcher was meant to be. Thorough. Disciplined. Ruthlessly effective.
A monster hunter who didn't just kill beasts, but studied them. He'd kept meticulous notes, refined his forms to deal with faster, stronger prey, and had even taken up blacksmithing when he realized trusting others with his blades introduced variables he didn't like.
Then came the possession.
A demon, a Red Miasmal bound to him during a botched exorcism. A thing that didn't kill him outright, but hollowed him out slowly, riding his body, wearing his face, in an attempt to escape it's prison.
By the time the demon would be hunted, near two decades from now, Reinald was already broken—body ruined, name and traditions forgotten, a spirit barely holding together, a spirit that would demand the blood of an innocent just to slate his revenge against a cult that had grown into a church.
Going to him would be… dangerous.
But the potential benefits were obscene.
Drinking from him wouldn't just give me strength. It would give me structure.
An encyclopedic understanding of monster behavior. Lethal sword forms designed to deal with creatures faster than men, stronger than horses.
Reflexive combat logic built for chaos. Knowledge of runes, metallurgy, balance. The kind of insight that only came from decades of surviving things that wanted you dead.
Not to mention his impressive swords.
And that was the problem.
To gain all that, I'd have to undertake a massive risk, the spirit tormenting Reinald, a Red Miasmal was shown to have the ability to inflict sickness even in Witchers if exposed over a period of time, and whilst I couldn't get sick, neither supposedly could Witchers, it was a magical entity I was hesitant pitting myself against.
I exhaled habitually, watching Dregsdon draw closer on the horizon through the thinning fog.
Geralt was safer.
Cleaner.
Smarter.
Reinald was an instant answer to my problem, assuming I could hunt the miasmal and withstand the three hundred years of torture it put him through.
I glanced at my armor as I rode—dented, scored, the gold marred where the forktail's tail had struck me. It would need explaining. But I had the head lashed behind me, and a story prepared. Knights lived and died on narrative as much as steel.
I was already thinking ahead—about payment, about leaving town, about what direction I'd ride once the sun finally rose above the horizon—when the air changed.
Hooves.
Fast. Desperate. Poorly paced.
I looked up.
A rider burst from the bend in the road leading back toward Dregsdon, horse lathered, head high, gait uneven from being pushed far harder than it should have been.
I recognized both immediately.
The horse was one of the geldings I'd sold.
And the man clinging to its reins like they were the only thing keeping him upright was Jorren.
He nearly fell out of the saddle when he spotted me.
"Ser—! Ser Harlow!"
He hauled the horse to a stop a few paces away, boots hitting the ground awkwardly as he slid down rather than dismounted.
Sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering his hair to his forehead. His beard was matted, chest heaving so violently I thought for a moment he might retch.
Instead, he doubled over, coughing hard enough that I instinctively reached for him, steadying his shoulder before he collapsed outright.
"Easy," I said. "Breathe."
He sucked in air like a drowning man, eyes wild.
"Trouble," he rasped. "Gods—trouble at the village."
My calm mood evaporated.
"What kind of trouble?"
He forced himself upright, one hand braced on his knee, the other gripping my vambrace as if to anchor himself.
"Bandits," he croaked. "A group of them. Came out of the south road. Armed. Organized. Real bastards."
My jaw tightened.
"When?"
"Not long ago," he said. "They were just passing through at first, then somehow word of you and Lady Rhenawedd got to them, they musta figured with you been alone and all they could take you."
Something cold settled in my gut.
"And my charge?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn't like the answer.
Jorren met my eyes, fear naked and unfiltered.
"She's in danger, ser," he said. "They went for her after they ransacked my shop. Someone told them about me buying from you.
When they were done, they must've figured you'd left your things at the Ealdorman's. Sent a bunch of the bastards there to see what they could take. I ran here as soon as I was able."
Just my luck.
I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat.
So much for clean endings.
I swung back into the saddle in one smooth motion, already turning my horse toward Dregsdon.
"How many?" I asked.
Jorren scrambled to remount, barely managing it. "Fifteen. Maybe twenty. Hard to say—people were running."
Fuck. That would make it difficult to deal with them while still pretending to be human.
"Hold on here for a moment, catch your breath, you've done enough" I told him, as I saddled onto my horse, to give him a chance to rest, and kicked my horse into a gallop.
The road to the village couldn't be more than an hours ride, half that if I pushed Epine and I would.
They'd picked the wrong village.
And the wrong day.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Rudrik "Crowhand"
Crooked Tower, Dregsdon
1253
I hadn't planned on working anywhere near Dregsdon.
The job near Fort Tuzla had already been too close for comfort. Too many patrols, too many banners moving on the roads, too many soldiers pretending they weren't jumpy as hell.
The plan had been simple: hit fast, bleed the caravans dry, then vanish into the trees toward Caed Dhu. A fortnight in the forest. Quiet. Cold. Miserable—but alive.
After that, regroup in Nazair with the main gang. Resupply. Sell off what we could. Move on before anyone got clever.
That plan had held right up until Borik opened his rotten mouth.
Borik was a local, a guard to hear him tell it—sour-faced, shifty eyed, but of a solid build that spoke of being well fed, he smelled like wet dog and bad ale.
He didn't seem the kind of man to betray his neighbors to brigands.
I had been ready to knife him just to shut him up, but then the drunk bastard started talking about loot.
A knight, 'An arrogant cunt' Borik had addressed him as .
An isolated one.
Come back from the Black Forest itself.
Borik had sworn on his mother's grave that the knight had ridden through weeks earlier in a convoy of four. Heavy armor.
Good horses. Real coin. Then, days ago—only one returned, with a skinny lass behind.
One knight and a hostage for ransom to boot.
Three horses' worth of gear, coin, arms, and armor gaurded by a single rider.
"An easy score for you boys," He had slurred 'and a lesson to that slobbering golden cunt.'
I had near spat at the ground when Borik said it.
Easy score my arse.
Knights were walking bulwarks. Plate thick enough to laugh at sword strikes arrows, and even crossbow bolts, the only sure way was to bludgeon em and that entailed getting within slashin distance.
But this one?
Alone, and gone again.
Not even in the village to stop them.
Except for a recently rescued noblewoman they could use as a hostage or ransom if they could make a clean getaway.
Too tempting. Gods-damned tempting.
They'd tested the waters first—hit the blacksmith's shop. Quick, clean. The old bastard had bolted faster than Rudrik expected, but not before they'd stripped the place bare.
Supplies. Tools.
And silver.
A proper ingot.
That had sealed it.
Silver didn't sit in a smithy in a no where hole like this unless someone rich had been nearby. Someone who hadn't sold everything yet.
Which meant the rest was still at the tower.
So now we stood in the muddy street, staring up at the Ealdorman's ridiculous leaning tower.
"Positions!" I barked, raising my voice over the roars of excitment. "You—Lemm, Torv—windows! Don't let anyone slip out the back!"
Boots splashed through mud as my men spread out, weapons drawn, breath steaming in the cold air.
Rudrik strode up to the door and slammed the pommel of his axe against the wood.
"Open up!" he shouted. "By order of men who don't give a fuck about titles!"
A few of the boys laughed uproariously, as they banged on the barricaded door.
"Again!" I snapped.
The door shuddered under another blow.
"Last chance, you fat bastard!" someone yelled. "Open nice, or we open it loud!"
I grinned, teeth bared, heart pounding with the familiar mix of greed and danger.
"We only want the the coin and the girl, give them to us and we will leave your village and your family alone."
Inside that tower was coin. Armor. Maybe relics hauled out of the Black Forest itself.
And if the knight came back?
I rolled my shoulders and tightened my grip on my halberd.
Then they'd see if one knight was really worth twenty armed men.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Rhenawedd Lysene
I was a ways from the 'tower' escorted by Tomas when the commotion started.
Against my better judgment—and spurred mostly by boredom— I had accepted his offer to show me where he practiced with his bow.
His infatuation was obvious. Painfully so. He tripped over his words, straightened his posture whenever I looked his way, and nearly walked into a rain barrel trying not to stare.
It was irritating.
But it would have been a lie to say it angered me.
For weeks now she had felt less like a person and more like a criminal awaiting execution.
A possession to be thrown away. A problem to be solved. A grimy, beaten animal tied to a post, waiting for the axe to fall.
Here—walking beside a boy who flushed every time she spoke—she was simply… seen.
Not as a burden. Just a girl.
Perhaps that was why she indulged him.
They had passed through the winding lanes of Dregsdon together, boots crunching softly over gravel and dried reeds. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys.
Children darted between buildings. Somewhere a woman shouted about rotten turnips.
The village felt smaller away from the main road—tucked in on itself, half-swallowed by marsh and fog.
Tomas led me beyond the last cluster of cottages, down a narrow footpath beaten flat by years of use. It wound past a leaning fence, over a shallow ditch bridged by old planks, and opened onto a stretch of firmer ground at the village's edge.
An archery yard in the loosest sense.
Three straw targets leaned against a low earthen rise. One had been patched with sackcloth and twine. The others bore so many punctures they resembled nests for angry insects.
A stump held a waterskin and a bundle of arrows bound in leather.
Tomas gestured awkwardly. "Um. This is it."
"It's… practical," I acquiesced.
He brightened. "Mother says that's better than pretty."
He stood stiffly at first, rambling again—about hunting hares, about how often he practiced, about how he hoped to join the Temerian levies someday, though he doubted his mother would let him.
Every sentence sounded rehearsed, each one delivered like he was reciting lines to impress her.
She let him talk.
Eventually, though, he ran out of words.
Silence settled between them.
An awkward one.
Though eventually when he stopped trying so hard to be impressive, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed.
His speech smoothed. He became simply a boy holding a bow he had used since childhood.
I watched him string it with practiced ease.
"That bow," I said at last. "Did you make it yourself?"
He blinked, surprised. "N–No. Jorren helped. The wood's alder, the miller cut it for me from near the river bend. I carved the grip, though."
I stepped closer, examining it. The bow wasn't elegant, but it was cared for. The leather wrap was worn smooth by years of use.
"You use it often," I observed, his wrists, the scars from where he didn't release the string properly. "From the look of your wrists, you hold it to close to your hands."
Tomas stared at her. "I… do?"
"Yes," I said. "You probably use a vambrace now so you don't keep flaying your skin."
He flushed, but smiled this time instead of stammering. "Guess that's what happens when no one ever teaches you properly."
"I use to hunt,," I replied, "it was one of the few things my parents did not bar me from doing."
Anything to be free from me, even if only for a couple of hours.
I reached out, fingertips brushing the bowstring. "May I?"
He nodded immediately, handing it over as though offering something precious.
I tested the draw—lighter than I expected, but I was still far too weak to draw it fully. It was functional.
Honest.
"When you release," I said thoughtfully as I handed it back to him, "your wrist twists. It costs you distance."
His eyes widened. "It does?"
I demonstrated, slowly mimicking the motion. "Try keeping it straight. Let the bow do the work."
He listened. Really listened.
And when he loosed the next arrow, it struck closer to center than any before.
Tomas stared at the target, then at me, grin splitting his face.
The smile, more of a smirk really, that crossed my face came out without any input from me.
For the first time in weeks, I was beginning to feel like myself again.
Tomas lowered the bow slowly, still staring at the target as if it might vanish.
Only then did I really look at him.
He had his father's eyes—warm sea-green, the color of shallow coastal water when the sun caught it just right.
They softened his face, gave him an openness Wencel himself entirely lacked.
Thankfully, he had not inherited his father's physique.
Years of farm work and archery had broadened his shoulders, stretched him lean rather than heavy. His arms were corded with use rather than vanity, the sort of muscle earned by hauling grain by day and loosing arrows until dusk.
His hands were rough, calloused where they should be, yet careful with the bow—almost reverent.
His hair was black and perpetually unruly, curling at the nape no matter how often it was cut, and his skin carried a deep sun-touched tan earned honestly beneath open sky rather than beneath velvet canopies and useless etiquette lessons.
He was… attractive. I was objective enough to admit that.
Not in the polished way knights and courtiers were, groomed and preened like decorative birds, but in the effortless way of someone who had never once been told his face might be worth currency.
I watched him loose arrow after arrow, enthusiasm unflagging, joy easy and unguarded.
And, traitor that I was, I found myself wondering—briefly—if I should flirt with him.
To lean into the way his ears still flushed when I stood too close. To watch him trip over his words again, not from nerves this time, but intent.
It wouldn't have been the first time I'd kissed someone unsuitable. But this would be different from stolen kisses with a handsome would-be cutthroat in the alleys of Beauclair.
That had been rebellion for attentions sake.
This would be… normal.
The thought was tempting.
And deeply uncomfortable.
Perhaps part of it was simple loneliness. Weeks of being spoken about instead of spoken to. Of being guarded, escorted, corrected, managed.
Another part was simply humiliating.
A knot tightened in my stomach as memory surfaced uninvited—the tavern, the maid's shy smile, the way Matthias had looked at her.
Not leering.
Not predatory.
Just… hopeful.
The same way I had just looked at Tomas.
I didn't like the jealousy that followed.
It felt childish. Petty. Like I was back in the palace pulling my sister's hair because Mother had chosen to read to her instead of me.
Never me.
And yet it lingered all the same.
Stupid pale violin-playing bastard.
I exhaled sharply and stepped back, planting my hands on my hips.
"You're improving," I said, forcing lightness into my voice. "Keep this up and you'll outshoot half the militia."
His grin returned instantly, brighter than before. "You really think so?"
"I'm certain."
For a moment, we stood there in the late afternoon glow—arrows scattered in the dirt, grass whispering in the breeze, the village close enough to hear but far enough to forget.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a cursed relic waiting to be handed off.
I felt like a girl getting away with something.
Tomas hesitated beside me, shifting his weight the way people did when they wanted to ask something but weren't sure they were allowed to.
He loosed another arrow. It struck wide this time, thudding into the dirt.
"…Can I ask you something?" he said.
I arched a brow. "You already did."
He flushed. "Right. I—well. It's about your knight."
That made my shoulders stiffen despite myself.
"What about him?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "People've been talking. In the inn mostly. About how he never takes his helm off. How pale he is when he does. And… his eyes."
I kept my face carefully neutral.
"What about his eyes?"
"They say they're red," he admitted. "Some say they even glow, depends who's had more ale."
That almost earned a smile.
"And?" I prompted.
"And I was just wondering," he continued, words tumbling now that he'd begun, "what's his deal? I mean—he doesn't act like I thought a knight would."
I folded my arms loosely.
"And you think this is suspicious."
He winced. "No! I mean—maybe? I don't know. I just… wanted to understand."
The truth rose immediately to my tongue.
And just as quickly, I buried it.
"He was born with an affliction," I said instead.
Tomas blinked. "An affliction?"
"Yes." I lifted my chin, adopting the tone I'd learned from court—the one that discouraged further questions. "It left him paler than most. Sensitive skin. Sensitive eyes."
I gestured vaguely toward the sky.
"The sun irritates him. Burns easily. Causes pain if he's exposed too long. That's why he stays helmed and keeps to the shade when he can."
"Oh." Tomas frowned slightly. "That's… rough."
"It is," I said, more sharply than intended.
I softened it a moment later.
"He wasn't expected to live long as a child. Most people with his condition don't, their parents don't understand and think them cursed, or monstrous.
The fact he grew strong enough to wear armor at all is… remarkable."
The lie came easily to me
Tomas was quiet for a few seconds.
"…Is that why he's so serious all the time?"
I snorted softly. "No. That's just his personality, I've come to find he likes being somber,probably thinks it makes him more impressive like all boys do, though to be fair to him he does have good reason to be."
He nodded at that a bit.
"And you?" he asked carefully. "What's your relationship with him?"
I hesitated.
"He's my sworn protector," I said. "And my guide."
"That's all?"
I glanced sideways at him. "Would you prefer something scandalous?"
His ears turned red instantly. "N–No! I just meant—"
"I know what you meant," I said gently.
I looked back toward the village, where the crooked tower leaned against the sky and the mill wheel turned steadily in the distance.
"He saved my life," I said. "More than once. When it would have been less detrimental for him to simply leave me be."
That, was not a lie.
Tomas nodded slowly, absorbing that.
"…I think he's frightening," he admitted. "But in a good way. Like a storm you'd rather have between you and the wolves."
Despite myself, I smiled.
"Yes," I said quietly. "That's exactly how he is."
He hesitated, then added, almost as an afterthought, "He played the violin last night."
I glanced back at him.
"My mother wouldn't stop talking about it," he continued quickly. "She said she's never heard anything like it. Not from a soldier, anyway. She kept saying she wished she'd asked him the name of the song."
He scratched his jaw, eyes lighting as he spoke.
"Do knights often play like that? I mean—he didn't play like a minstrel. It was… sad, but not miserable."
I didn't answer.
He didn't seem to notice.
He rambled on, words tumbling freely now—about how he'd never heard music like that outside festivals, how his mother cried a little but pretended not to, how it felt odd that someone who looked so dangerous could make something so gentle.
Normally I would have shut him down. I would have long grown bored.
But I didn't.
Maybe it was because he was the first person in weeks who saw me as either a monster, or a child needing to be kept safe-as much as she was gratel to him for doing so- Tomas looked at her as if he saw the person I hadn't felt like in weeks.
He liked me because I had shown him how to hold a bow.
Because I listened.
He isn't as pretty as he is, but he is comely enough.
I circled him slowly as he talked, boots crunching softly over dirt and fallen arrows.
He followed me with his eyes, still speaking.
"…and I know he's your knight and all, but I think it's incredible, really. I mean, if I could do something like that—fight like that and play like that—I think—"
I stopped in front of him.
He stopped talking.
Up close, I could see the way his breath hitched slightly. How his shoulders stiffened like he was bracing for a blow.
"Tomas," I said lightly.
"Yes?" His voice cracked just a little.
"Have you ever kissed someone?" I asked in the same tone one would ask about the weather.
His back straightened instantly.
"Of course," he blurted. "Plenty of times."
The lie was terrible. I tilted my head. "I don't believe you."
His ears turned red. "I have," he insisted, far too loudly.
I stepped closer.
"We could change that," I whispered.
He froze. Completely.
Like a startled deer.
"If you want," I added. He swallowed.
Hard.
Then nodded. Just once.
That was all. I rose onto my toes, closing the distance inch by inch—
—and then shouting tore through the village.
A crash. Wood splintering.
A scream.
Tomas flinched violently. I spun toward the sound as more voices joined it—angry, panicked, male.
Steel rang.
Smoke drifted upward beyond the rooftops.
The moment shattered like glass.
"That came from the around tower," Tomas said, already reaching for his bow.
My stomach dropped.
We ran.
Against my better judgment, against every sensible instinct I had left, we ran toward the shouting.
The village looked wrong the moment we reached the first bend in the road.
Smoke curled low and dirty between the houses. One of the market stalls had been overturned completely, its canvas torn loose and flapping like a wounded bird.
Crates lay smashed across the street, apples crushed into the mud under dozens of boot prints.
Jorren's smithy had been gutted.
The door hung from one hinge, blackened and split. Tools lay scattered in the street, bent or stolen. His forge still glowed faintly, unattended, hissing like it was angry about being left alone.
People had barricaded themselves indoors. Shutters were drawn. Doors barred.
Too late.
There were bodies.
Not many—but enough.
A woman lay near the well, her basket spilled beside her, grain soaking dark in blood. An old man slumped against a wall, skull caved in.
And closer to the tower—
I stopped short.
My breath caught painfully in my chest.
A man lay face down near the cobbles, one arm twisted beneath him, helmet knocked aside.
I recognized him immediately.
The guard.
The loud one.
The one who'd spoken too freely when Matthias arrived.
His throat had been cut so deeply his head lolled at an unnatural angle, eyes still open, staring at nothing.
Tomas made a sound like he was going to be sick.
I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him behind the shattered remains of a wagon near the tower square, crouching low as voices carried through the smoke.
At least a dozen men stood gathered before the crooked tower.
More filtered in and out of the streets—armed, armored in scraps, laughing as they kicked in doors and hauled out anything of value.
They were battering at the tower door now.
A log used as a ram slammed again and again into the reinforced oak.
THUD.
"Again!" someone shouted.
THUD.
Tomas raised his bow.
Before he could loose, I seized his wrist.
Hard.
"What are you doing?" I hissed.
"I can hit one," he whispered back desperately. "I can—"
"No," I snapped, barely keeping my voice down. "You loose that arrow and they stop stealing and start killing."
He stared at me, breath shaking.
"They'll kill them anyway."
"They won't," I said. "Not yet."
His jaw trembled. Tears welled despite his effort to swallow them back.
"I can't just—do nothing," he choked.
I pulled him closer by the collar, forcing him to meet my eyes.
"If you shoot," I said quietly, viciously, "they stop robbing and start hunting. They burn the tower. They kill the hostages one by one until they find us. And then you die first."
That broke him.
His shoulders collapsed inward, bow lowering as tears streaked down his face.
"I don't know what to do," he whispered.
I squeezed his hand once.
"Then stay alive," I said. "That's enough for now."
A man stepped forward from the bandit crowd.
He was tall and broad, head mostly bald save for a fringe of dark hair. His armor was better than the rest—patched mail beneath a leather coat, boots of real make.
On the back of his left hand was a tattoo.
A black bird in flight.
A crow.
He raised his voice, calm and practiced.
"Ealdorman Wencel!" he shouted. "Last chance! You've got one minute before we start breaking bones."
The battering stopped.
The tower door creaked as someone inside shifted it.
The man grinned.
"We know what you've got in there," he continued. "Coin. Silver. The knight's belongings."
My stomach clenched.
"And," he added casually, "we know you're sheltering the girl."
Cold spread down my spine.
"Send her out," the crow-marked man called. "Along with what belongs to her armored friend."
He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"Do that, and casualties aside this stays a robbery."
Silence followed.
Then—
"I'll give you thirty seconds," he said pleasantly.
Beside me, Tomas went rigid.
I felt it immediately. His breath stuttered.
His grip tightened around his bow until his knuckles went white.
Slowly, dreadfully, with tears in his eyes he turned toward me.
And I knew.
I knew what he was thinking before he said a word.
"No," I whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "Tomas—don't. You can't trust them. Men like that don't keep promises."
My voice shook. I hated how it sounded.
Begging.
"They'll kill your parents anyway," I said urgently. "Or come back later. Or burn the tower once they're bored. Please—"
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Over and over.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Then his hand closed around my wrist.
Hard.
He was stronger than me. Farm strength. Desperate strength. Panic giving him courage he'd never had before.
"Tomas, stop—!"
He dragged me out from behind the wagon, my boots scraping uselessly through the mud.
I struggled, twisting, striking at his arm, but he hauled me forward anyway.
"Wait!" he shouted toward the square.
The bandits paused.
Heads turned.
The crow-marked man lifted a brow.
Tomas's voice cracked as he pulled me into the open.
"I—I've got her!" he yelled. "She's the one you're looking for! The noblewoman!"
Every eye landed on me.
"This?" one of the men scoffed. "This skinny thing?"
Laughter rippled through them.
"Thought she'd be prettier."
"Looks half-starved."
"Knight must've been slumming."
Heat flooded my face — fear and fury tangled together until I could barely breathe.
The crow-marked man raised a hand.
"Quiet," he said.
The others obeyed instantly.
He studied me with interest, eyeing the make and quality of my clothes then nodded once.
"Aye," he said. "That'll do."
He glanced at Tomas. "You've got my word, lad. Your parents won't be touched."
He jerked his chin. "Go on."
One of the bandits started toward us.
Tomas's grip loosened — just slightly.
Just enough.
Something inside me snapped.
A bubbling twisted burning feeling that started from the bottom of my stomach and rose all the way up to my chest.
Betrayal.
My hand dove into my waistband.
The dagger came free from the hidden scabbard in one smooth motion — Crespi's blade, still sharp.
I didn't think, or hesitate.
I glowered as I slashed out.
The steel raked across Tomas's throat, the blade almost catching in his neck as it knocked what felt like bone.
Warmth sprayed my fingers and face.
His hands flew up instinctively, eyes wide, mouth opening in a wet, hissing, gurgling sound.
He looked at me, tears falling from his eyes, lips mouthing my name.
He had the gall to look surprised.
A scream tore through the square.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!"
From the tower.
A sound no woman should ever be able to make — raw, animal, broken.
But I was already running.
Mud splashed beneath my boots as I bolted past the stunned bandits, past the widening pool of blood, past the boy who had traded me for hope.
Behind me, someone shouted.
Another laughed.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a killer." the leader laughed "Don't let her get away you bastards!."
I ran.
Mud sucked at my boots, cold and slick, trying to pull me down with every step. My lungs burned, each breath scraping my throat raw, but I didn't stop. I didn't look back.
The streets of Dregsdon twisted unfamiliar beneath my feet, lanes branching where I didn't remember them doing so, fences appearing out of nowhere, carts overturned into choking barricades of wood and wheel.
I ran toward the gate because it was the only direction that made sense.
Behind me came shouting.
Boots.
Laughter.
"Don't let the little bird slip!" a man barked behind me.
Another voice joined in, breathless and amused.
"Gods, she's fast for a starved thing!"
I vaulted a broken cart, nearly slipped, caught myself on splintered wood and kept going.
"Slow down!" he shouted again. "Ain't no sense makin' this hurt more'n it has to!"
My chest ached. My vision tunneled. I could taste iron in my mouth.
I ducked between two leaning houses, scraping my shoulder raw against stone.
"Cut her off!" the man yelled. "She's headin' for the gate!"
Boots thundered closer.
"Don't run, girl!" he called, closer now—too close. "Crowhand just wants you talkin' nice-like!"
A bark of laughter followed.
"You'll be safer with us than out here alone!"
Anger flared hot and blinding.
I burst through hanging laundry, tore free from grasping cloth, and nearly fell as my foot plunged ankle-deep into mud.
Behind me he swore.
"Spirits damn it—stop squirmin'!"
I turned sharply down a side lane I barely recognized.
The man behind me laughed again, wheezing.
"Cornered now! I can hear you pantin'!"
I risked a glance back.
He was grinning.
"Got you now, you little bitch!"
I burst around the bend—
And collided face-first into solid iron.
I staggered back a step, breath punching out of me.
Then I looked up.
Matthias stood in the street in front of me, framed by the low afternoon sun.
Still.
One gauntlet hung loose at his side.
The other hand was bare.
And on that hand—
The ring.
Black metal. Infernal script catching the light like oil on water.
For half a heartbeat I forgot how to breathe.
Then I ran again—straight behind him.
I slammed into his chest and dove behind his arm, fingers clutching at his cloak, face smeared with blood that wasn't all mine.
He didn't ask.
Didn't move.
Didn't even look at me.
The bandit rounded the corner at full sprint—
Saw Matthias.
And skidded.
"Oh shite—th-the knight—!"
Too late.
Matthias's bare arm snapped out.
His forearm caught the man square across the throat with the full force of his momentum added to Matthias's own inhuman strength.
There was a crack like a breaking beam.
The bandit lifted clean off his feet.
His body spun once in the air, boneless and wrong, before slamming face-first into the mud with a wet, final sound.
He didn't move again.
Matthias watched him land.
Then calmly slid his gauntlet back on.
Only then did he turn to me.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly, drawing out his sword, it was different from when I saw it last, one side a darker shade of metal than the other, with runes running down one edge of the blade.
And for the first time since the screaming started, I believed I might live.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Matthias Harlow
I had expected infernal laughter when I finally—inevitably—slid the ring onto my finger.
Some grand reveal.
A smug voice whispering that my soul was forfeit.
That it could only be removed through centuries of servitude.
There was none of that.
Only an artificial sense of satiety settling into my veins, like hunger forcibly numbed. My senses dulled—not gone, but muted. The world lost its overwhelming sharpness. Smells no longer layered atop one another in suffocating detail. Sound stopped clawing at the back of my skull.
I could still smell.
It simply wasn't… divine anymore.
I had donned the ring while running toward town on foot. I'd left my horse behind once I'd put enough distance between myself and Jorren. Riding would have been too slow.
Judging by the fact that I arrived barely in time to catch Syanna as she fled into me, luck had favored me for once.
None of the blood on her face was hers.
That mattered more than anything else.
Behind me lay one dead bandit, his neck shattered so completely his head rested at an angle nature had never intended.
Ahead of me stood six more.
They stared.
At the corpse.
At the rune-script along my blade, glowing faintly like coals beneath ash.
At the gold and crimson of my armor catching the lowering sun.
At me.
They hesitated.
I did not.
I stepped forward.
The first man lunged anyway—panic overriding sense. A wood-hafted spear came thrusting toward my chest.
I knocked it aside with the flat of my blade and stepped inside the reach in the same motion. My pommel smashed into his face. Bone collapsed. He fell without a sound.
The second man screamed and rushed me from the right.
I pivoted, cut low.
The half-silver edge sheared clean through his knee.
He fell howling.
I finished him with a downward thrust through the throat before his scream could travel far.
A crossbow twanged.
I twisted and batted out of the air with back of my arm.
The bolt scraped my vambrace and vanished into the dirt behind me.
I was already moving.
Two men advanced together—poorly trained, trying to flank.
I threw myself between them.
The sword came up under one man's ribs, silver and steel biting deep. I felt resistance—then give.
Before the body even hit the ground I tore the blade free and reversed the grip, driving the steel side through the second man's eye.
He convulsed once.
Stopped.
The last two broke.
The bowman ran.
The other swung wildly, screaming, axe raised overhead.
I stepped into him.
And caught the axe by the handle
He tried to overpower me but he could not even budge and inch, I squeezed and he screamed alongside the sound of splintering wood and cracking bone.
His teary eyes widened as he begged me for mercy.
I took his arm off at the elbow.
The scream cut short as I opened his belly with a second stroke and let his insides spill steaming into the street.
The runner didn't make it ten steps.
I hurled what was left of the axe.
It traveled end over end and due to luck more than skill, sunk into his head him with a crack like splitting wood, the force of which threw him face first into the dirt.
Silence followed.
Not triumphant nor heroic.
Just the sound of blood dripping into mud.
Only then did I turn back to Syanna.
She stood behind me, face full of blood and wide eyed.
Alive.
The ring cooled against my skin.
The hunger slept.
"Whose blood is that?" I asked quietly. "It's not yours."
Syanna's jaw tightened.
For a moment she said nothing—then her gaze dropped, and the words came out brittle and fast, as though if she slowed she might shatter.
She told me everything.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
I sent her away, I had no choice but to.
Toward the road. Toward open fields. Toward Epine, and hopefully Jorren.
"If she isn't there," I told her "hide somewhere safe. I'll come for you when it's done."
She tried to argue.
I didn't let her.
"One of us has to answer for what happened, it would be easier for everyone involved if you aren't around Syanna." I told her a bit harder than I meant to, she acquiesced and made her way out of town.
I killed three more men on the way to the tower.
One tried to surrender, he burned as my sword caught him alight.
Another was dragging a woman by the hair, I cut his legs out from under him and left him there crawling and screaming .
The third ran, he did not make it far.
None of it weighed on me. Not after what they had done.
The crooked tower rose ahead like a broken tooth against the dying light.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the body in the mud.
Tomas lay where he'd fallen.
Hands still clutching at the tear in his neck.
Blood pooled dark beneath his throat.
I slowed.
What am I going to do with her?
I pushed the thought away.
It would be hypocrisy to condemn her for defending herself, I had done far worse on lesser fears.
Still… the boy's face lingered.
And Syanna had said his mother had seen it.
That weight would come due later.
The tower door splintered under another impact.
They were seconds from breaking through.
Then my boots scraped stone.
The man barking orders froze.
"Oh shite!" he shouted, spinning. "Look alive, you bastards—we got company!"
Eight men turned.
Axes. Swords. One crossbow already half-raised.
The leader stood apart from them.
Tall. Balding. Scar splitting one eyebrow clean in two. A black bird tattoo stretched across the back of his right hand, wings spread wide as if ready to take flight.
He took one look at the corpse behind me, then at the rune burning along my blade.
"…Well," he muttered. "That's unfortunate."
One of the men laughed nervously. "It's just one knight."
Crowhand didn't smile.
"That," he said slowly, eye one the glow on my sword, "is not just a knight."
The rune along my sword pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat finding rhythm.
Heat rolled outward.
I stepped forward.
"Drop your weapons," I said. "Lie flat. Maybe they won't hang all of you when this is over."
A few of them hesitated.
The leader snorted. "Hear that, boys? He's generous."
He raised his halberd. "Kill him."
The crossbow fired.
I moved.
The bolt pinged off my pauldron as the runescript on my sword flared. The heat bled through the metal, and when my blade met the crossbowman's chest—
Fire exploded.
Not embers.
Fire.
The man screamed as orange flame tore through his tunic, crawling across leather and cloth like something alive. He dropped his weapon and ran three steps before collapsing, shrieking as his skin blackened.
The men froze.
"What the fu—"
I was already among them.
My sword cut through the next man's shoulder and the rune answered again. Flame poured from the wound, igniting him from the inside out. He fell thrashing, setting the ground alight where he struck.
Panic erupted.
"Fire—!"
"Gods—he's burning them!"
They broke formation instantly.
One man tried to flee past me—I caught him across the spine and he fell with a scream as his legs gave out from under him.
Another swung wildly, terror driving his strikes. I parried once and split his chest open.
The smell changed.
Burning cloth.
Burning meat.
Fear.
They shouted over one another, stumbling, crashing into each other as flames spread from body to body. One man caught his companion by accident, grabbing his arm for help only to ignite himself as well.
Their discipline collapsed.
That was all I needed.
I moved like a butcher through a burning slaughterhouse—short cuts, ruthless angles, no wasted strength. Fire followed every strike, as if making up for the fact that it hadn't until now, turning wounds into funeral pyres.
A sword glanced off my helm.
I answered by cutting the man's thigh open.
He didn't even finish screaming before the flames took him.
Two tried to rush me together.
I stepped between them.
One died by steel.
The other by fire.
The last two broke.
"Run!"
They made it three steps.
I hurled my sword.
The rune flared brighter than before.
The blade punched through the first man's back, he reached for his companion as he caught aflame—and the second burst into flame also.
They collapsed together, burning.
Silence followed.
Crackling.
Screaming dying into wet hisses.
Only one man still stood.
The tattooed man stared at the bodies smoldering around us, jaw clenched tight.
"…That's cheating," he muttered.
I pulled the sword from the still smoking corpse of the last man, as I turned to face their leader.
"Should've brought water," I said.
He lifted his halberd.
And charged.
Time to put on a show.
He was fast.
The halberd swept low first, blade skimming inches above the stones, meant to take my legs out from under me. I quickly retreated, the weapon shrieking just in front of my boots, then twisted aside as the spike on its reverse came stabbing up for my gut.
He knew how to use it.
I maneuvered inside the weapon's reach and slashed for his torso.
He wrenched the haft sideways at the last second. My blade bit into the shaft instead of flesh, silvered edge carving deep, the rune flaring bright—but the wood held, reinforced with iron bands.
He grinned.
"You're quick," he snarled. "Not just a pampered armored shite with a pointy stick."
He drove the butt of the halberd into my ribs.
The impact would have shattered a normal man, even bruised a knights ribs. I skidded backward across the stones, armor ringing like a struck bell.
He advanced, spinning the polearm with practiced ease, keeping the head between us.
"You knights always think close is better," he said. "But reach wins wars."
He lunged.
The axe-blade almost tore across my shoulder plate,I quickly put the blade between us and braced. I felt the blow all the way down my arm.
I snarled and surged forward anyway.
Steel met steel.
The rune ignited again.
Crowhand yanked his weapon free just in time, the flame licking along the halberd's head but failing to catch.
He blinked.
"Ah," he muttered. "So it's not constant."
I smiled behind my helm.
"Observant."
He pressed harder then—wide sweeps, brutal overhead chops meant to drive me back, forcing me to defend instead of strike. The halberd slammed into the street, gouging stone, sending chips flying.
One blow caught my sword and knocked it wide.
The next was meant to take my head.
I ducked under it and rammed my shoulder into his chest.
He staggered—but didn't fall.
He smashed his forehead into my helm, in attempt to ring my skull, he followed up with an attempt to hook the halberd behind my knee and wrench, I let him.
I went down hard.
My opponent planted a boot on my chest and raised the blade.
"For what it's worth, knight," he said, breathing hard, "you made a fine mess of my evening."
The halberd came down.
I caught the shaft with my sword, one hand on the hilt the other on the flat of my blade.
Metal shrieked.
His eyes widened as I pushed him aside as I kicked his legs from under him, causing him to fall to my side.
I quickly rolled onto my feet and he to his knees as I slashed at his arm, only managing to catch his sleeve as he pulled his hand back.
Flames bloomed.
He recoiled with a curse, dropping his halberd to tear off the tunic and rose to his feet.
He drew his sword instead—shorter, broader, nicked from years of use.
"No tricks now," he growled. "Just you and me."
I advanced.
We traded blows in close—fast, vicious, steel screaming with every impact. He was skilled, brutally so, fighting dirty and efficient, targeting joints, exploiting openings.
He cut my thigh.
I split his forearm.
He flinched expecting to catch aflame, this caused him to swing wildly.
I ducked his swing and slammed my pommel into his jaw, then kicked his knee sideways. Bone cracked. He fell with a snarl.
Before he could rise, I brought my sword down—
He raised both hands to block.
The blade sheared through them.
Both.
They hit the ground still twitching.
The balding man stared at the stumps, shock overriding pain for half a heartbeat.
Then he screamed.
I grabbed his collar and dragged him upright.
"No gods," he spat through blood. "No mercy."
"None," I agreed.
I took his head clean from his shoulders.
Fire followed the cut.
The body fell burning.
The head rolled once… twice… and stopped at my feet.
Silence spread across the street.
Smoke drifted upward into the dying afternoon sun, flames guttering in the mud, bodies reduced to blackened shapes where men had stood only moments ago.
I stood alone among them, sword still glowing, armor covered in blood and broken, from where the forktail had raked me.
Eventually behind me, the tower door creaked open.
And a parent's wail of grief split the evening air.
It wasn't a scream meant for battle or fear.
It was raw.
Animal.
The sound of something breaking that could never be mended.
Footsteps pounded across stone behind me.
I turned just in time to see Helda burst from the tower.
Her hair had come loose from its pins, gray streaks flashing in the firelight. She didn't look at the bodies burning in the street. Didn't look at the severed head near my boots. Didn't even seem to see me at all.
Her eyes locked on the far end of the square.
On the crumpled shape lying in the mud.
"Tomas—!"
She ran.
Straight past me.
Past the smoldering corpses, past the blood pooling on the mud, skirts darkening as she splashed through it. She dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she gathered his body into her arms.
"No—no, no, no—"
She pressed her forehead to his, rocking, fingers slick with red as she tried to cover the wound at his throat with trembling palms.
"Wake up," she begged. "Please—Tomas, wake up, mama's here—"
Her voice broke.
She looked up then.
At me.
At my armor doused in blood and ash.
At the sword still glowing faintly in my hand.
Her face twisted—not with fear, not with confusion—
With grim, tear streaked certainty.
"She killed him!," Helda screamed, her voice tearing itself raw. "She killed my beautiful boy!"
The words rang across the square, louder than steel, louder than fire.
Villagers emerged slowly from hiding. Doors cracked open. Faces appeared at windows. Eyes fixed not on the bandits—but on me.
On the knight.
On the golden figure standing among the dead.
Helda clutched Tomas's body to her chest and screamed again, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
"My son—my beautiful boy—he was good—he was only a boy—"
The fire crackled.
The rune dimmed.
I stood there, unable to move.
A knight framed in fire—
And a mother kneeling in blood.
"My beautiful boy..."