Chapter 23
Forget the Language of Peace
> It is not the battlefield alone that tests a man’s resolve, but the quiet seduction of peace. The warm embrace of home and hearth calls even the strongest to abandon the harsh roads of duty. Many fall not to the sword, but to the soft temptation of rest.
>
> — From the writings of Seneca the Younger
Godfrey moved fluidly through his sword forms, selecting a Somaran Sayf sequence known for its fierce slashes and tight, revolving parries—one of Tarlow’s favorites. The familiar motions were sharp and aggressive, perfectly suited for working out the frustration that lingered from the previous night. Each strike seemed to carve through the cold morning air, the sound of his blade slicing cleanly as he shifted his weight and spun.
The first light of dawn stretched over the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and blues, which reflected off the blade of Godfrey’s longsword, casting faint glimmers around him. He had awoken before the sun, restless, and quietly stolen a sausage from Griffon’s stores, intending to repay the man with extra labor later in the day. Now, he worked in a broad, oval pattern behind the larder, the movement of the sequence pushing him to a pace that left him gasping for breath.
When next Godfrey faced Corvin in his dreams, he hoped the practice with the unconventional Sayf form would give him an edge.
As Godfrey completed his thirtieth pass, he came to a stop, sweat soaking his bare upper body, steam rising from his skin in the cool morning air. He stood still, breathing heavily but evenly, eyes closed, focusing inward. He had been practicing Control, forcing his body to respond to his will, expanding his lungs into his diaphragm. Slowly, deliberately, he began a series of long, deep breaths.
Each breath came easier, his heartbeat slowing, his body responding as he’d been taught. Within moments, his breathing fell into a calm rhythm, his pulse steady, his mind clear. A small, satisfied smile crept across his face. It was the first time he had successfully mastered this technique, one that Uncle John had once described as an advanced Squire’s skill.
Godfrey opened his eyes, still savoring the calm that had settled over his body, and was met with a familiar sight. Emily was watching him from the same window he had noticed before. Her eyes were wide, curious, and unguarded, as if she had been standing there for some time, silently observing him.
She blinked, startled that he had caught her, and the window shutter snapped closed once more, just as quickly as it had the day before. Godfrey stood there for a moment, the brief connection lingering in his mind, before shaking his head and letting out a breath. It seemed he had another set of eyes on him in this place, though they felt far less threatening than the foes his uncles had described.
XXX
Godfrey swung the ax with a solid thunk, sending a satisfying shudder up his arms as the blade bit into the trunk of the small elm tree. Sweat had already begun to bead on his brow, and the thudding sound of the ax against the wood provided an almost musical rhythm to the task. Godfrey swung the ax with a final, powerful stroke, the blade biting deep into the tree's trunk. With a loud creak, the tree began to lean, then toppled over with a satisfying crash, sending up a flurry of snow as it hit the ground.
Godfrey stepped back, breathing heavily. He glanced down at the leather strap contraption Griffon had handed him before leaving. Simple to use, Griffon had said, though Godfrey wasn’t entirely convinced. The mass of straps and buckles in his hand looked more like an elaborate trap or an infernal puzzle designed by an Imperial Scribe, and less like something meant to haul a tree.
Griffon’s parting words echoed in his head. “Go get a tree a little distance from the house, so I can still have some pretty ones nearby.” Godfrey smirked to himself, knowing full well this was punishment for the sausage he had stolen at dawn. He didn’t mind—hard work was preferable to the thoughts that plagued him.
But now, staring at the tangled mess of leather, he frowned. He tugged at one strap, only for three more to tighten in response, making the whole thing worse. He bit back a curse, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. He was sure this was Griffon’s idea of a joke.
After what felt like an eternity of fiddling with the straps, Godfrey gave up on figuring out the proper method and instead hacked a few notches into the trunk. Godfrey grunted as he wedged the straps under the trunk, tugging them beneath the massive weight of the fallen tree. He looped the entire contraption around the tree, trimming away some of the thicker branches as he went. He knew this wasn’t how Griffon had intended it, but it was the best he could do. Once the straps were looped over the trunk and across his shoulder, he braced himself for the pull.
That’s when the real problem hit him—the tree probably weighed close to fifty stone. Godfrey could almost hear Griffon’s amused chuckle in the back of his mind, imagining the look of satisfaction on the man’s face when he returned to find Godfrey still struggling with the task. But Godfrey wasn’t about to give up.
He squared his stance, adjusting his feet on the hard, frozen ground. He pulled the strap taut across his shoulder, feeling the strain already start to bite into his skin. With a deep breath, he exerted Control. His thighs and back swelled with power, his muscles tensing and tightening. He felt the rush of energy as he pushed down into the earth, his body becoming a force of sheer will.
The weight was staggering. As soon as he tightened the strap across his right shoulder and gave the first tug, it felt like the trunk was trying to crush him into the earth. The leather bit deep into his skin, and he could feel his shoulder begin to scream in protest.
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He exerted more Control, strengthening not just his legs and back, but his shoulder and bones as well. His muscles swelled with the effort, the bone beneath reinforcing as he forced himself to adapt. The crushing pressure lessened, but only slightly.
With his entire body braced, Godfrey pushed down into the earth once more, bending his knees and using every bit of strength he could muster. His breath hissed through clenched teeth as he pulled.
The tree shifted again. It was a slow, agonizing drag, the trunk groaning against the ground as Godfrey heaved it forward. His body strained, but it moved. Inch by inch, the tree yielded to his efforts.
XXX
With a final, desperate tug, Godfrey managed to haul the tree next to the tarped woodpile adjacent to the larder. The moment the weight left his body, he collapsed onto his back, gasping for breath, feeling as though the effort had hollowed him out entirely. His muscles felt shredded, weak, and grainy, as if they might never recover. His entire body shivered from the strain and the cold. Yet, despite the exhaustion, he felt better than he had in weeks.
For a moment, he lay there, staring up at the clear winter sky, letting the sharp air sting his lungs. He finally pushed himself onto his knees, the motion sluggish and painful. His eyes followed the furrowed path the tree had carved through the snow and frozen earth. From the edge of the forest to where he now sat, the ground bore testament to his grueling work, the snow packed and churned, the earth torn asunder.
A small smile crept onto his face. It wasn’t pretty, but it was done. He glanced at the tree, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction.
At that moment, Godfrey wished for nothing more than a vial of whitefire to restore some of the energy he'd burned through. He had no idea how it was made, or where to get more, however.
Just then, he heard footsteps crunching through the snow. He looked up to see Mary approaching, eyeing the scene with mild amusement.
Her gaze flicked from the felled tree to the trail he’d carved through the earth, and then to him, still shivering on his knees next to the woodpile.
"Looks like you've been busy." she remarked, a hint of a smirk on her lips.
Godfrey shrugged, and gave a tired grin, trying to play off the fatigue. “Well, your family needed firewood, and I delivered, didn’t I?”
Mary raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Such a talented woodsman surely didn’t leave his ax behind, right?”
Godfrey’s face blanched as he quickly looked around, scanning the snow-covered ground for the missing ax. His panic was cut short by Mary’s laughter, echoing across the yard.
Just then, Godfrey’s stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl. He winced, and Mary’s laughter rang out even harder, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Looks like firewood isn’t the only thing you’re in need of," she teased. "Come on, lunch is almost ready.” She paused, giving him a knowing look. “Oh, and wash up first. Fill the bucket and take it on the other side of the larder this time. There seem to be eyes everywhere around here.”
Her smirk left little doubt that she knew more than she let on.
XXX
At dusk, Godfrey was still hard at work, chopping the elm tree into usable firewood. The rhythmic crack of his axe echoed in the still air, most of the wood turning into splits to keep the hearth warm through the cold nights, with some set aside for kindling and billets to fuel the smokeroom. His body was sore, but the physical labor kept his mind busy, forcing the memories of Oakvale and Hawker into a distant fog.
As he paused for a breath, the sound of soft singing reached his ears. It was a delicate melody, weaving through the quiet twilight. Godfrey stopped his chopping, listening. Emily’s voice, clear and pure, floated gently on the breeze as she carried a bucket toward the rain barrel.
He watched as she broke the thin layer of ice on the water, her movements unhurried. In the fading light, he saw her in profile, a soft, contented smile playing on her lips as she dipped the bucket into the cold water. For a moment, Godfrey was struck by the simple beauty of the scene. Emily was a vision of warmth and home, a quiet embodiment of everything peaceful and good.
She was a thing of hearth then, a thing of home, and it made him ache in a way he hadn’t expected. In that moment, she seemed to represent all the comforts he had lost, all the joys of a life he feared he might never know again—the place where you could return to find simple love, where there was peace in the everyday. A life he had barely begun to understand before it was ripped away.
He felt small then, and broken. The dark thoughts swirling in his mind pressed down on him, suffocating the brief flicker of peace he had felt watching her. Those flickering flashes of blackness within would not, could not, let him feel what she felt—could not let him be what she was. The ache in his chest deepened.
He couldn't immerse himself in the moment, in the here and now. His soul was fractured, his thoughts a constant, churning storm of grief and guilt. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he longed for that simplicity, that warmth, it eluded him.
She looked at him then, and for a brief moment, her blush, illuminated by the fading orange rays of the tired sun, was all he could see. And—
A deep, guttural howl shattered the peace, a sound so unnatural it seemed to ripple through the earth itself. It started as a distant, eerie wail, but grew, stretching out with a menacing resonance that filled the air. The forest, so quiet before, now echoed with that terrifying sound.
Emily dropped the bucket, water spilling across the ground as Godfrey spun toward the dark woods, every muscle in his body tensing. His eyes scanned the treeline, heart racing, as the howl echoed through the trees like a predator announcing its presence. Something was coming.
Then came the shouts. Godfrey's head whipped toward the sound just as Griffon burst from the edge of the forest, his expression wild and urgent. His bow was drawn, an arrow already nocked, his free hand waving frantically as he sprinted across the meadow, breath visible in the cold air.
At first, Godfrey couldn't make out what he was saying. The words were lost on the wind. But as Griffon drew closer, the single word became clear, and Godfrey’s blood began to race.
"Direwolves!"