I was familiar with grief.
With loss, and the dull ache it carved into the chest when there was nothing left to do but breathe through it.
So I could sympathize, truly I did but the boy had made a mistake, one I did not agree with, one that any true knight of the old codes would have deemed unforgivable. Even now, at the back of my mind, a quiet, merciless voice whispered that he had been rightly punished for it.
Guest right was sacred.
To offer a guest food and rest was to bind yourself beneath the God you believed in — a promise older than written law. To shelter a traveler, was to place them under your protection until dawn.
To betray one who had eaten at your hearth was not merely treachery.
It was sacrilege.
The boy had broken that bond.
He had given someone who had shared his family's fire over to brigands. That alone might, perhaps, have been answered with exile or shunning, a mark of disgrace rather than death.
But that was only the first crime.
The greater sin was who he had betrayed.
A noblewoman.
In the eyes of the realm, blood mattered. Not just in the sense of worth but also in responsibility.
Nobles were not simply people; they were vessels of oath and lineage, living symbols of treaties, dowries, alliances, and claims that stretched far beyond a single life.
To harm one was to offend a house.
To sell one was to invite retribution.
A peasant boy delivering a noblewoman into the hands of brigands was not something that could go unpunished.
And that punishment would not fall on the boy alone. It would fall on his father's, his mother, his neighbors, the entire village itself.
A noble harmed without redress could justify razing an entire settlement to restore honor.
That was the truth of this world.
Tomas had not only endangered Syanna.
In handing Syana over he had placed Dregsdon beneath a blade that would not have cared whether guilt lived there or not.
He was wrong, both in the eyes of their own customs and the law of the land, Syanna did nothing wrong when she cut him from ear to ear.
But standing there, looking at his mother's ruined face — at the way her hands trembled as she clutched him, at the emptiness already settling behind his half-lidded eyes — it was difficult not to feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest.
The crowd had gathered in a loose ring now.
Villagers murmured to one another in frightened voices, glancing between the bodies strewn across the mud and the knight standing among them. No one came closer. No one stepped away either.
Grief has a gravity of its own.
What a waste.
The thought surfaced unbidden and lingered.
That was all this had been — a waste.
If they had waited five more minutes, Tomas would be alive.
If Tomas didn't betray Syanna.
If Syanna hadn't drawn her blade.
If I had left the cave earlier.
If I had ridden harder.
If.
If.
If.
The spiral was familiar. Dangerous.
I forced myself to let it go.
No amount of regret would unspill blood from the dirt. No prayer would return warmth to his skin.
What stood before me could not be undone and dwelling on it would serve no one, least of all the woman screaming his name into the smoke-heavy air.
I could not change what had happened.
But I could change what it became.
The sword in my hand hummed faintly, the runes along its length dimming as the last embers died. Slowly, deliberately, I turned it and slid the blade back into its sheath.
The sound — steel kissing leather — cut cleanly through the wailing.
I raised my voice then, louder than I ever liked to speak, carrying it across the square so that every gathered soul would hear.
"I am sorry for your loss, Helda," I said.
The words tasted thin, but they were all I had.
"I am sorry that I could not reach him in time. I was delayed by the mill — the work there is finished now. The wheel turns again, and the stream runs free."
The woman's sobs broke into something raw and animal, the sound tearing itself from her chest, but I forced myself to continue.
"When I arrived, the bandits were already upon him. They slit his throat before I could stop them."
Please just go with the lie.
A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers.
I let it.
"But for what it is worth," I said quietly, "the men who caused this are all dead. I pray that brings some small measure of solace."
It was lackluster and came across as a bit condescending, but how do you apologize to the mother of a murdered son whilst simultaneously pressuring them to lie about what had happened, before her sons body had even cooled.
My shame would have made the words come of across as fake, so I leaned into Louis de La Croix's indifference.
I turned slightly, allowing them to see the street beyond — the blackened bodies strewn across the mud, the charred armor, the severed limbs half-buried beneath ash and cooling cinders.
"These men are the ones responsible."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uncertain.
"He will be remembered as a victim of their cruelty," I said at last.
The words were not entirely true.
But they were close enough to mercy.
And sometimes mercy mattered more than truth.
Helda collapsed over her son's body, her cries dissolving into broken gasps as she clutched him tighter, as though life might yet return if she held him hard enough.
Around her, the crowd slowly exhaled — fear giving way to grief, grief to something almost like relief.
A tragedy.
Not an execution.
Not a judgment.
Just another life taken too soon in a world that devoured the unprepared without hesitation.
I lingered a moment longer, helm heavy upon my head, smoke drifting lazily past my visor, and wondered — not for the first time — how many such scenes I would witness before even grief itself dulled.
I turned to leave.
Behind me, Helda's voice rose again, hoarse, cracking.
"This wouldn't have happened if that girl hadn't come here," she cried. "If she hadn't brought him—"
Her words broke loose in her grief, sharp and directionless.
"She's a curse! She ki—!"
"Enough."
The single word cut through the square like a blade.
I turned toward the tower.
Wencel stood at its threshold.
His eyes were rimmed red, still wet with tears, and the proud, chest-forward posture I had first seen in him was gone. His shoulders sagged as though the weight of the day had finally settled upon him.
In his trembling hands was the violin case.
He took a step forward.
"Ser knight," he said, his voice unsteady. "Please."
He held the case out toward me.
"As thanks," he continued quietly. "For saving our village. For… for saving us twice over."
He left the rest unsaid.
It was a cruel thing, I thought — to thank the man standing over your son's body, to offer gifts to the one who protected his killer, to mistake restraint for mercy and fear it might yet be withdrawn.
"I cannot," I said at once. "It is yours. It belongs to your family."
Wencel shook his head immediately, the movement sharp, frantic.
"No—no, sire, please," he said. "You have done us a service greater than coin could ever repay. One purse alone would not begin to—"
His voice cracked.
"And Tomas…" he swallowed hard. "He admired your playing. He spoke of it all morning. Wouldn't stop talking about it."
The words struck deeper than any accusation ever could have.
I opened my mouth to refuse again.
He did not allow me the chance.
He stepped closer, far too close for a man who had once puffed his chest at every visitor. His hands trembled as he pressed the case into my gauntleted palms, fingers lingering like he feared I might vanish if he let go.
"Please," he whispered. "Let something good come of today."
Behind his eyes was not gratitude.
It was terror.
The terror of a father who had lost his heir, his name's future, and now stood before a knight whose victims were still smoking on the street.
At the look in his eyes, I relented.
The clasp clicked softly as I accepted the case.
His shoulders sagged at once, relief crashing through him so suddenly he had to brace himself against the tower wall.
Then, as though remembering himself, he reached for his purse, fumbling with shaking fingers. Coins spilled across his palm before he managed to gather them.
"And the coin," he said quickly. "For the mill. For your labor. I wish I could offer more, but Jorren is in possession of the rest, for your horses. I—I would not insult your efforts by withholding it."
He held it out with both hands now, posture bowed, voice brittle.
"Please," he added again, quieter. "I beg you, ser."
Appeasement.
A man offering everything he had left to ensure the knight before him did not decide the village itself was the final price.
"No," I said, gently but firmly. "The violin is more than enough."
He nodded, unable to speak further.
"I am sorry," I told him, not as a knight now, but simply as a man.
Then I turned and walked away, toward the edge of the square and the narrow lane where Syanna had stabled her horse. Smoke still clung to the air, drifting low along the ground, carrying with it the copper stink of blood and wet ash.
I did not look back.
Not at Helda.
Not at the boy.
As I passed the last of the gathered villagers, something brushed my greave.
Soft.
I stopped.
A little girl stood there — the same one from the night before, the child I had given my food to while searching for Syanna.
Her hair was tangled, her face smudged with soot, but her eyes were bright with stubborn warmth.
She held out a flower.
Not truly a flower, a foxtail plucked from the roadside, its pale head already shedding seeds.
"For you," she said.
I hesitated.
"Thank you for the stew," she added quickly. "And… for saving us."
She scrunched her brow a bit as if looking for the right words, then eventually she looked up at me with complete certainty.
"You're the braverest knight ever," she said.
The words struck deeper than accusation ever could.
Slowly, I removed my gauntlet and accepted the foxtail. The stem bent easily between my fingers.
"Thank you," I said.
She beamed, then ran back toward the crowd.
A murmur followed her.
Then a voice rose.
"The Braver!"
Another joined it, louder this time.
"Sir Matthias the Braver!"
A third laughed shakily, half in disbelief, half in awe.
"The Ash-Walker! The one who burned them where they stood!"
"He slew an army!"
"With steel and fire!"
"He stood alone!"
The words layered atop one another, tumbling into legend even as the bodies still smoked behind me.
"The Braver!"
"Hail the Braver!"
"Hail!"
The name spread through the square like a spark catching dry straw — fear turning to relief, relief to reverence. Men raised their caps and helmets. Women pressed hands to their mouths or clasped them together in prayer.
Some wept openly now that it was safe to do so.
Children craned to see me as if I were something out of a song.
I mounted my horse amid the cheers, the violin case secured at my side, the foxtail tucked carefully into my belt.
It should have felt like triumph.
Like redemption, proof that I was capable of saving lives, not just taking them.
Instead, as I rode from Dregsdon beneath the bruised evening sky, only one image followed me past the gate, a boy's pale face staring upward, eyes wide and empty, blood cooling beneath his mother's shaking hands.
The cheers faded behind me.
The titles remained.
And no matter how loudly they called it, it could not drown out the silence that followed in my wake.
The road out of Dregsdon curved gently east, bordered by hedgerow and low stone walls broken by years of neglect.
I had ridden perhaps a couple of miles when I saw them.
Two figures approaching from the opposite direction.
Syanna rode Epine with practiced ease, her posture straighter than it had been days ago, shoulders pulled a bit tight against the evening wind. Beside her, mounted on one of the geldings I had sold, rode Jorren.
The old smith looked exhausted — face lined deeper than before, shoulders slumped.
Relief stirred quietly in my chest.
We slowed as we drew near.
"Ser!" Jorren called, raising a hand. "By the gods, I was hoping I'd find you."
"It seems she found you first," I said, glancing to Syanna.
She inclined her head. "He was riding like the world was ending."
Jorren huffed. "With all due respect, Mi'Lady it felt like it was."
I dismounted, helm still on.
"The bandits have been dealt with, the village is safe." I told him simply. "There will be no more trouble from them."
His shoulders sagged as if a great weight had finally been lifted.
"Thank Melitele," he breathed.
He reached into his saddlebag then, fingers fumbling before producing a leather coin pouch. He held it out with both hands.
"The coin we owed you," he said. "I managed to leave with it before they stole everything."
I hesitated, then accepted it with a nod.
"You have my thanks."
"And—" he added quickly, almost apologetically, "I'm hoping to hear you recovered the rest."
"I did," I replied. "The silver ingot and the dagger are with me, I retrieved them on the way out."
A genuine smile cracked through his fatigue.
"I'm glad," he said softly. "Thank you, sire. For everything."
There was nothing I could say to that without exposing what I was hiding, he'd find out himself when he made it to town.
So I only nodded.
Then, with deliberate ceremony, I moved to Syanna's side and offered my hand.
"My lady, your horse"
She blinked once — then nodded in acceptance.
I helped her down from Epine, careful, proper, exactly as a knight should.
She opened her mouth to speak.
I cut her off gently.
"Not now," I said quietly, as not to be overheard. "We'll talk when we've made camp."
She studied my face through the helm for a moment, searching for something.
Then she nodded.
I mounted Epine after I helped her onto her horse, before turning towards Jorren.
"Safe travels," I told him.
"And to you, Ser Matthias," Jorren replied, bowing his head.
We turned east shortly after, deliberately skirting the roads that would carry us back toward Dregsdon. Neither of us spoke as the village disappeared behind the low hills, swallowed by dusk and distance.
The land opened into long stretches of scrub grass and uneven stone, the road thinning into a hunter's path scarcely wide enough for two horses abreast. I chose a shallow hollow well off the trail, sheltered by a stand of crooked birch and a fallen tree whose roots jutted from the earth like broken ribs.
A defensible place.
A quiet one.
Syanna remained silent as I worked, dismounting only when I told her it was safe. She helped where she could — holding poles, gathering kindling — but there was a stiffness to her movements, an unease she could not quite mask.
The kind that came from knowing a reckoning was coming.
By the time the sun dipped below the treeline, camp was set.
Two small tents stood opposite one another, canvas pale in the firelight. A modest flame crackled between them, smoke drifting lazily upward through the branches.
I fashioned rough stools from cut logs and set them near the hearth and when everything was sone, I took of my damaged armor, opting to wear a white shirt and some black trousers..
From my saddlebags I produced the dry rations I'd stocked earlier — salted beef, hard bread, a small packet of dried berries I'd paid too much for.
Syanna took the food without comment.
She sat across from me, knees drawn close, cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders, chewing slowly at the salted beef. The firelight sunk into her hair and painted long shadows across her face.
Neither of us spoke.
The crackle of the flames filled the space where words should have been.
She avoided my eyes, staring instead into the coals, jaw tightening every time the fire popped. I could feel the weight pressing on her from across the fire — coiled tight beneath her skin.
My silence must have felt like judgment.
"I am heading west," I said at last. "Toward Maribor."
The word barely left my mouth before her head snapped up.
"What?" she asked.
The hurt was immediate — sharp, naked, unguarded.
"I?" she questioned.
"I have business in Barefield. Maribor seems as good a place as any to get my bearings," I replied evenly. "Dregsdon was never meant to be more than a stopping point."
The words sounded colder aloud than they had in my head.
In truth, the decision had been made long before the blood dried in the street.
Barefield lay along Geralt's path this year — close enough that fate all but demanded an introduction. If anyone understood discipline over instinct, it was witchers.
Geralt especially. He had survived mutations, curses, moral compromises, and decades of walking the line between man and monster without losing himself entirely.
If I could learn how he meditated then perhaps when the time came to put Reinald to rest, I would not drown beneath the weight of his life.
Because I knew what awaited me if I drank from him.
Centuries of knowledge. Monster lore. Sword forms refined for reflexes beyond human limits. The memories of a man who had been tortured for three centuries.
And if I absorbed all of that without preparation…
It might overwhelm me.
Across the fire, Syanna's fingers curled around the strip of salted beef until it tore with a soft rip.
"So that's it?" she snapped. "I defend myself and you toss me away for it?"
The accusation cut sharper than her raised voice.
"That isn't what I said," I replied calmly.
"It's exactly what you said," she shot back, rising to her feet. "You decide where we go. You decide who deserves mercy. And the moment I don't fit neatly into your idea of right and wrong, suddenly I'm inconvenient."
I exhaled slowly.
"Syanna," I said, quietly, "why did you kill the boy?"
The question landed like a thrown stone.
Her chair scraped sharply as she lurched to her feet.
"I already told you!" she shouted. "He was going to give me up to those brigands — those rapists! He dragged me out like cattle! I was defending myself, I am not lying!"
"I never said you were," I replied calmly.
That stopped her short.
"I believe you when you say he was going to hand you over," I continued. "I believe every word of it."
She hesitated.
"But that isn't what I asked," I said gently.
Her breath hitched.
"I asked why you slit his throat, Syanna."
She opened her mouth to argue — anger already forming — but nothing came out.
"He was holding you," I went on, voice steady. "You had the dagger. You could have wounded him. Disabled him. Broken free."
Her hands trembled at her sides.
"You didn't," I said softly. "You killed him."
Silence stretched between us, thick as smoke.
"I didn't have time," she snapped finally. "They were coming. He wouldn't let go."
"I know, but that's not why you killed him."
"You weren't there!" she shouted. "You didn't see his face when he grabbed me. He kept whispering 'sorry' like that made it better. Like that made what he was doing acceptable."
She swallowed hard.
"He didn't even hesitate to give me to them! As soon as he asked for me the coward handed me over!" she said, voice cracking. "Someone who had treated him kindly. Someone who spoke to him like a person."
Her fists clenched.
"In that moment," she whispered, "he wasn't an innocent boy to me."
She looked up then — eyes wet, furious, unashamed.
"He betrayed me."
The word fell heavy between us.
"I didn't kill him because I was afraid," she said, and I wasn't certain she even realized she'd admitted it. "I didn't kill him because I thought it was the only way."
Her voice drifted, hollowing out as her gaze fixed on the fire.
"I killed him because he chose to hand me over. I trusted him and he broke that trust."
I exhaled slowly.
"Like your sister."
The name struck like a blade.
Her jaw tightened. She didn't deny it.
The flames hissed softly between us.
I watched the sparks rise and vanish, and for a moment all I could see was the street in Dregsdon — the bodies, the blood, the ease with which it had ended.
"Death should not come so easy" Were the words I found myself saying.
And yet…
Twenty-one men.
Five minutes.
My hands hadn't even shaken.
"Those men were guilty," I said quietly. "Every one of them. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves who would've left that village in ash."
I looked down at my gauntleted hands.
"And I killed them without hesitation."
My fingers curled slowly.
"Like I told you, before this world," I continued, "before this body… I had never taken a life."
She glanced up.
"Not once," I said. "Not in anger. Not in fear. Not even by accident."
The firelight glimmered faintly against the edge of my sword where it rested nearby.
"Now I do it with frightening ease."
She had a look on her face like she was wondering where I was going with this.
"It isn't just the feeding," I admitted. "The blood changes things, sharpens instinct, blurs distance. But even beyond that… killing itself has become easy."
Too easy.
"I don't want that," I said. "I don't want death to be my first answer. Or my second."
I looked at her then.
"I'm afraid that if I stop questioning it — if I ever stop hesitating — then it won't matter who deserves it and who doesn't, they'll all just be food."
The words sat between us, honest and ugly.
"I understand why you did it," I said at last. "Truly. Betrayal cuts deep, made all the more painful because it never comes from an enemy."
She flinched faintly.
"But if we start deciding who lives and dies based solely on hurt," I continued gently, "then eventually the world becomes nothing but wounded people killing one another and calling it justice."
The fire popped again.
"I don't condemn you," I said. "I won't."
A pause.
"But I won't pretend it didn't matter either. That he didn't matter."
My gaze softened.
"He was wrong," I said. "He chose badly. Cowardly."
Then, quieter:
"But he was also a boy who had never been tested before that moment."
I leaned back slightly, staring into the flames as they folded in on themselves.
"You asked me to take you on as my squire," I continued. "To teach you the sword. To give you a way to protect yourself."
The word protect lingered between us.
"I won't teach you just so you can become better at killing," I said. "I won't sharpen a blade meant to be swung in anger or spite. If that's what you want, you don't need me — this world is already full of men eager to show you how. Men like those bandits."
She said nothing.
The firelight danced across her face, catching on the tension in her jaw.
"What I can teach you," I went on, "is how to survive. How to stand your ground. How to keep your hands steady when fear tells you to lash out."
For a moment my thoughts drifted — unbidden — to Louis.
To the way he had been trained: discipline before strength, patience before fury. Honor even in death. Lessons spoken plainly, repeated endlessly, ignored just as often. I wondered if she would listen better than he had… and feared what it would mean if she didn't.
I looked at her then, fully.
"But only if you understand something first," I said. "The sword is not justice. It does not decide who deserves to die. It only does what the hand behind it commands."
I let the words settle.
"If I teach you, it will not be to make you dangerous."
A pause.
"It will be to make you restrained."
The flames crackled between us.
"I will train you," I said at last, "but only if you swear three things."
She lifted her eyes.
"First," I said, "you will never lie to me. Not to spare my feelings. Not to protect yourself. Not to manipulate my mercy. If we are to trust each other, I need truth — even when it's ugly."
She nodded faintly.
"Second," I continued, "you will never use what I teach you to harm an innocent. Not in fear. Not in rage. Not because it would be easier than walking away."
My voice hardened slightly.
"If you ever do, my teaching ends that moment."
The fire shifted, embers glowing brighter.
"And third," I said quietly, "you will never draw your blade unless you have already decided you can live with what follows."
I met her gaze.
"No half-measures. No 'I didn't mean to.' No blaming the moment."
I exhaled as the wind whispered through the trees beyond our camp.
"If you can promise me those three things," I said, "then I will teach you everything I know."
A softer note entered my voice.
"But if you cannot… then I would rather you remain helpless than become something I'd regret having taught."
I looked eastward, where the road vanished into darkness.
"It is two weeks' ride to Maribor," I said. "You have until then to make your choice."
I let the silence stretch.
"Do not rush your answer."
Sylvia Anna Henrietta
The fire crackled like it was listening. I hated that he'd given me time.
Two weeks.
As if my life hadn't already been nothing but waiting, waiting to be spared, to be traded, to be executed, to be useful enough to keep alive.
I stared at the flames and did not look at him.
If I did, I might have said something I couldn't take back.
The night air bit through my cloak. The smell of smoke clung to my hair, my clothes, my skin.
Three promises.
Never lie to him.
Never harm an innocent.
Never draw steel unless I was ready to live with the consequence.
They sounded simple. They weren't.
Because lies were how I had survived.
Because innocence was rarely obvious until it was already too late.
Because sometimes you drew the blade first simply so you wouldn't be the one bleeding second.
I pressed my fingers into my palms.
He thought he was being subtle, masking it as teaching restraint.
But I could see it in the way he watched me careful, though not fearful. Measuring not my danger, but my choices.
Like he was trying to decide what kind of person I was.
He looked at me the way others always had: as something damaged.
Broken.
The difference was that he didn't step away from it.
He didn't recoil. Didn't reach for chains or orders or distance. He didn't speak to me like I was already lost.
He stayed, despite it all he's still here.
Even now, after everything, he was still sitting across from me, still offering a path forward instead of turning his back.
That mattered more than I wanted to admit.
It still stung though— knowing he saw the cracks.
But he also saw something worth teaching.
Worth trusting.
The fire spat a spark into the dirt.
I watched it fade, and realized something unsettling:
No one had ever expected anything better from me before, maybe spurned by this expectation I spoke up.
"I didn't plan it," I said finally.
My voice sounded strange to my own ears .
"When Tomas grabbed me… I didn't think." I swallowed. "I just remembered how it felt to be dragged before. How every one who ever mistreated me said it was for my own good."
The flames blurred.
"I didn't want to be imprisoned again."
My jaw tightened.
"So I chose myself."
The words came out sharper than intended.
I looked up then, meeting his gaze across the fire.
"I don't regret living," I said. "I won't ever regret that, asking me to would be asking me to lie."
The silence that followed wasn't judgment.
It was understanding.
I looked away quickly.
"I don't know if I can promise all three," I admitted. "Not yet. I've been lied to my entire life by "'friends', by prophets, by my own blood. It's hard to swear honesty when it's the only shield I've ever had."
I picked at the dirt with a stick.
"But I can promise this," I said quietly. "No one wants to become a monster, to be hated and feared by everyone around you."
The words felt bitter.
"I've always dreamt of growing up to be a just Duchess, to prove all their fears wrong, to show them they were idiotic for taking the words of a long dead madman over the actions of their own child."
My eyes flicked briefly to the darkness beyond the fire, to where he sat half-shadowed, pale skin and platinum blonde hair making him look like a spirit rather than a man.
"I don't want power just to hurt people who make me afraid, I want to be strong enough to never need to fear anything in the first place."
The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of insects and nocturnal birds.
"I want to stop being afraid." I repeated.
I exhaled slowly.
"When you stood between me and those mongrels in the street," I said, "when you didn't even look at them as if they were worth fearing… I wanted that."
Not the strength.
Not the killing.
The certainty.
I hugged my cloak tighter around myself.
I wanted to trust him.
But I couldn't.
Too many things didn't add up.
The way he acted, for one, not merely learned, but ingrained. Every step deliberate. Every shift of weight unconscious. The way he stood when he thought no one was watching, shoulders set, posture exact. The way he dismounted all of his actions the perfect image of a knight.
It wasn't something one could pretend to be, or rather pretend so well that even I could not spot any tells.
It was Toussaintois bearing, through and through.
And yet he claimed he had never been a knight.
His speech slipped sometimes. Too polished for someone who said he came from another world entirely, he told me he learned common from a man from Beauclair, yet he also told me he was only here for two weeks.
Then there was the fight in the clearing.
The moment he spoke in de La Croix's voice.
Like he had worn the man's skin.
My fingers curled tighter into fists. He had done much to prove he wasn't a monster driven by his impulses, but the image of what had occurred in Caed Dhu still lingered at the back of my mind.
And there were smaller things, too. The way he knew when danger was coming before it showed itself.
The way he understood this world — monsters, customs, roads, politics — with the certainty of someone who had already lived it.
But the most pressing of all, a fact I had ignored simply due to the comfort it brought.
He called me Syanna.
Not Sylvia.
Syanna.
A nickname only my sister had ever used.
He knew me too well for someone I had only just met, my temperament and judging by his motivations as well.
I stared into the fire, watching the embers fold inward and collapse.
So many secrets. So many unanswered hows and half answered whys. The silence between us stretched, heavy.
Then, quietly, I spoke. "If I swear those things…" I said, choosing each word with care, "will you swear something too?"
His attention lifted at once. I met his eyes again, searching them for intent."Will you promise to be truthful with me?" I asked.
"Not only when it's easy. Not only when it benefits you." A pause. "Will you tell me the things you're hiding?
The fire cracked softly between us."If you can do that," I said, my voice barely above the wind through the trees, "then maybe… I can keep my promises."
He didn't answer right away.
For a long moment he only stared into the coals, jaw set, expression distant — as though weighing something far heavier than the question itself.
I could almost see it happening behind his eyes. Doors opening. Others closing.
At last, he exhaled.
Slowly, deliberately, he ran his hand through his pale hair.
The night air brushed his pale skin, the fire catching faintly in the strange red of his eyes. They softened as they met mine. In a way I could only describe as honest.
"You're asking me to promise something dangerous," he said quietly.
The admission startled me more than refusal would have.
"There are truths that cannot be spoken lightly, somethings that would bring you harm or confusion." he continued.
He studied my face, perhaps searching for fear. For doubt.
Finding neither.
A faint, tired smile touched his mouth.
"…All right."
He nodded once, as if sealing something internal.
"I swear it," he said. "No half-truths. No comforting lies. No stories shaped to make me look better than I am."
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"But honesty cuts both ways."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, firelight dancing across pale skin.
A beat.
"What do you want to know?"