The wet slap of Ysmay's severed head hitting stone rang in Dot's ears long after it stopped rolling. Coppery blood misted the air, thick enough to coat his tongue with every shallow breath. Somewhere close, fat drops of it pattered onto flagstones like slow rain.
Boldr's voice cut through the ringing silence, low and almost playful.
"They say you can't be killed."
Dot didn't answer.
Blood from Ysmay's head crept slowly toward his boots.
A slow, cruel smile split his face.
"Let's find out."
Somewhere in an unknown inn, the scent of old woodsmoke and boiled onions hung heavy.
Garon jolted awake with a ragged gasp that tore at his stitched shoulder. White-hot pain bloomed outward, pulsing in time with his heartbeat; he could feel the coarse thread pulling tight against swollen flesh.
"Lie still," the old man murmured without turning, voice rough as gravel. "Or those stitches will pop like wet thread."
The mattress beneath Garon was thin, lumpy with straw that poked through the rough linen and pricked his back. A single tallow candle sputtered on the table, throwing long shadows that danced across cracked plaster walls.
Garon dragged his gaze around the low-ceilinged room: warped beams overhead, a small hearth still giving off faint warmth, the faint metallic tang of old blood mixing with the onion steam.
"Who are you?" His throat felt raw. "Where am I?"
The old man carried a bowl over. Steam curled upward, heavy and comforting.
"Drink while it's hot. It'll quiet the pain."
Garon's lip curled. "I asked you a question. I am a prince. I command you to answer."
The old man set the bowl down with a soft clink and looked at him — really looked at him — for the first time. His eyes were pale and unhurried.
"You were bleeding out in a ditch two days ago," he said quietly. "Princes don't bleed out in ditches. So right now you're just a boy with bad stitches and a sword too big for him." He turned back to the hearth. "Drink. Then we'll talk."
Garon stared at his back. The steam drifted across his face.
He drank.
Warmth spread through him immediately — loosening the knot in his shoulder by slow degrees. When he lowered the bowl his hands were steadier than they'd been in days.
The old man settled into the chair across from him.
"The sword," Garon said. "You know what it is."
It wasn't a question. The old man had looked at the sword the moment he walked in — not with fear, not with awe. With recognition.
"I know what it does to people who aren't ready for it." The old man's eyes moved to the blade against the wall. "Four men. In that inn room. You don't remember swinging."
Garon's jaw tightened. "I told it to stop."
"And did it listen?"
The silence stretched.
"No," Garon said quietly.
The old man nodded slowly — the nod of a man whose suspicion has just been confirmed. He said nothing for a long moment, just looked at Garon the way a person looks at a problem they've been turning over for years and are only now deciding to speak aloud.
"What do you know about the blade?" he asked finally.
"It's old. It kills things that shouldn't be killable." Garon paused. "And apparently it kills things I don't intend to kill."
"That last part," the old man said. "That's the part that matters." He rose and moved to the window, looking out at the dark. "A weapon that chooses — that's not a weapon anymore. That's something else entirely." A pause. "The question is whether you're holding it. Or it's holding you."
Garon looked down at his hands. At the faint lines across his knuckles from the grip. Marks he hadn't noticed before.
"How do I know the difference?" he asked. Quieter now. Not a prince asking. Just a boy.
The old man glanced back at him over his shoulder.
"You just did," he said simply.
Outside, the night air hit him like a slap—sharp, damp, smelling of wet earth and pine resin. Far across the dark valley, the castle crouched against the moonlit sky: black towers jagged as broken teeth, windows glowing the dull orange of distant fires. The wind carried the faint, unmistakable iron scent of old battlefields.
Garon's breath fogged in front of his face. "What… is this place?"
"It's getting colder," the old man called from the doorway, voice carrying on the wind. "Come back inside, boy."
Thornhold
Yiva's boots pounded wet cobblestones; each slap sent jolts up her shins. Her lungs burned with the acrid bite of smoke still clinging to the city air. She reached the stable yard gasping, sweat stinging her eyes.
She threw the saddle blanket over Dot's horse. The animal's hide was warm and slightly damp, flanks heaving with leftover panic. When her shaking fingers brushed its neck, the coarse mane tickled her wrist; the horse blew a long, shuddering snort against her forearm and finally stood still.
She swung up. The saddle leather creaked under her weight. She gathered the reins—rough, salt-stiff—and kicked the horse into a canter toward the main gate.
Torchlight flickered across the gatehouse ahead. Hooves rang on stone.
Halfway there her fingers locked around the reins so tightly the leather bit into her palms. The horse skidded to a halt; its iron shoes sparked against the cobbles.
For long seconds she sat frozen. Behind her the city exhaled: distant shouts, the metallic clatter of armor, the low roar of fire eating timber somewhere deep in the alleys. Ahead lay darkness and open road.
Her chest ached.
She turned the horse in a slow, reluctant circle. The beast's breath steamed white in the cold.
Another corner of the city.
Sylric tipped the last of the sour ale down his throat; it burned like thin fire all the way to his stomach. Tankards clashed around him, laughter rolled over the bar like thunder, but beneath it all came the unmistakable rhythm—boots on stone, dozens of them, moving fast toward the capital.
He pushed off the stool. Wood scraped. He stepped outside into air thick with the smell of spilled beer, horse dung, and coming rain.
Across the torchlit square Yiva sprinted, cloak whipping behind her like a black wing, headed the same direction.
Sylric broke into a run without a backward glance.
Behind him the tavern keeper bellowed, boots slapping pavement as he gave chase over an unpaid tab. Sylric didn't slow.
---
**Quitfort**
Julius's boots slipped on loose gravel as he sprinted toward the town's crumbling edge. Behind him the demon dogs came in a black tide—snarling wetly, claws scraping stone, the stink of hot fur and rotting meat rolling ahead of them like a physical wave.
He threw himself behind the jagged stump of a fallen monolith. Granite chilled his back through his shirt. The stampede roared past: hot breath, spray of drool, the reek of sulfur and musk choking the air.
The blind man halted a few paces away, cane tapping frantically. "Julius?" His voice cracked. When no answer came he turned, shuffling back the way they'd come, calling into the dark.
High on the ridge above, Ceasar stood motionless. Wind tugged at his cloak.
He raised one hand. Violet light crackled along the length of his weapon—sharp ozone smell cutting through the demon stench.
A heartbeat later the front rank of the horde simply vanished. No sound. No scream. Just silent, blinding erasure—flesh and shadow torn apart in a violet flash that left afterimages burning behind Julius's eyes and the taste of burnt metal on his tongue.
The Allthing council
A vast circular chamber. The air was cold and still, smelling faintly of old incense and wax. High-backed seats formed a perfect ring; every one occupied by a masked figure leaning forward in perfect unison.
Candle flames barely moved.
A single low voice—impossible to tell from which shadowed face it came—broke the silence.
"Where is He now?"
The question lingered, heavy as iron.
No one answered.
Chapter end.