Chapter 25

But I Have Promises to Keep

> The Empire, a patchwork of stolen lands and scorched earth, so arrogant it assumes its everlasting name as “the Empire”, claims its dominance with blood and iron. Yet, beneath their hollow cities and crumbling fortresses lie the bones of the Thals—the true architects of this world. Peace-loving, we swept them away, us foul conquerors from the sea, their art and knowledge consumed by flame, their great stoneworks crudely mended by those who could never grasp their construction. The Empire stands, but only on the shadow cast by those who once walked this land.

>

> — From the lost writings of Scribe Kaerith, burned in the year 119

Godfrey woke the next morning, feeling unexpectedly restored. The aches and fatigue from the direwolf fight, which had plagued him for days, had vanished as though they had never been. He sat up, swinging his legs over the bed, and paused. His body, which should have been stiff and sore, felt unnervingly refreshed. As his feet touched the cool floor, a sense of disquiet crept in. He flexed his hands, testing them—there was no lingering pain, no sign of the strain he had expected. He stood slowly, unsettled by the rapid recovery. This wasn’t normal.

Godfrey glanced down at his body, running his hands over his arms and chest. The muscles felt firm, unstrained, as if the past few days of battle and exhaustion had been erased. His skin showed no bruising or tenderness from the direwolf fight, and the cuts he remembered had all but vanished. He stepped away from the bed, turning his arms slightly, examining himself more closely. A creeping realization settled in—he was almost as hale as he had been when he first left Oakvale. The recovery was too complete, too fast. His heart quickened as the unease deepened.

Godfrey's eyes drifted to the small chest at the foot of the bed, where his clothes had been neatly washed and folded. Beside them, his weapons lay carefully oiled and cleaned, glinting faintly in the morning light filtering through the closed shutters. He couldn’t help but smile at the quiet act of kindness.

He reached for the loose white linen shirt, the fabric soft and fresh against his fingers, then slipped it on. His black breeches followed, fitting comfortably as he fastened them. As he dressed, the unease from his swift recovery lingered at the edges of his mind. He picked up his swordbelt, the newly-oiled leather feeling comfortable and warm in his grasp.

As Godfrey finished dressing, the smell of food cooking reached him—warm and inviting. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten much in days. He made his way out of the room where he had spent the past few days recovering, pushing open the door quietly.

In the front room, Griffon, Mary, and Emily sat around a small table, sharing breakfast. The moment Godfrey stepped into the room, they all paused and looked up at him. He shifted slightly, suddenly awkward, and managed a simple, "Good morning."

Emily was the first to react, her face lighting up with a sunny smile, though she fidgeted slightly in her seat. Griffon gave a nod of approval, his smile steady but quiet. Mary, without a word, rose from her chair and pulled out a seat for him, the kindness in her gesture as warm as the meal they were eating.

They spoke of simple things at first—the storm that had passed through, the way the wind had battered the house but left it standing strong. The conversation flowed easily, the warmth of the room dispelling any remaining awkwardness.

At one point, Godfrey chuckled and said, "I heard Griffon’s huffs, puffs, and curses while he dragged the wolves away. Sounded like quite the struggle."

Griffon threw his head back and laughed boisterously. "A struggle? I had no help! You were lazing around, letting an old man do all the work!"

The table erupted in laughter, even Emily joining in with a bright giggle, and for the first time in days, Godfrey felt truly at ease.

XXX

After breakfast, Griffon stood, gathering his gear for another hunting trip. Godfrey, feeling more than capable after his recovery, offered to go with him.

Griffon shook his head with a sly grin. “You’d be better off using one of my old fishing poles. There’s a pond about a quarter mile east—Emily knows the way.”

He said it in a slightly conspiratorial tone, giving Emily a quick glance before nodding gruffly at Godfrey. Without waiting for a reply, Griffon slung his gear over his shoulder and walked out the door, leaving Godfrey standing there, dumbfounded. He blinked, unsure of why Griffon had acted so strangely, and glanced over at Emily, who suddenly seemed very interested in her plate.

Mary, noticing the silence that followed Griffon’s departure, smoothly picked up the thread. "Emily," she said in a casual tone, "why don’t you show Godfrey where the fishing poles are and take him down to the pond? I’ll be in the garden, pulling garlic for a nice fish stew tonight." She smiled knowingly, her eyes twinkling. "I’m expecting some success from the two of you."

Godfrey blinked, still piecing together what was happening, while Emily quickly stood, her cheeks slightly flushed as she nodded. Without much choice, Godfrey found himself following her out of the room, feeling a little like he’d been caught in some larger plan. They gathered warm clothing, bundled up, and headed outside in relative silence after Mary went to the garden.

Emily quickly forgot her earlier awkwardness, a bright energy returning to her as she skipped behind the house. Godfrey followed her to where a tarped-over chest lay tucked beneath the eaves. With a practiced hand, she pulled back the tarp and rummaged through the chest, pulling out a couple of simple wooden fishing poles along with some line and hooks.

"Come on," she said with a cheerful grin, glancing back at him. "It’s not far, and if Mother expects a fish or two, we’ll have to get going."

Godfrey nodded, still slightly off balance. “Of course. Do you feel comfortable if I’m armed? With everything—"

Emily nodded quickly, almost too quickly. "Yes, absolutely," she said, her voice light but hurried. She turned back to the fishing poles, her hands moving with purpose, though Godfrey noticed the slight tension in her movements.

Godfrey nodded slowly and began strapping on his swordbelt, the leather creaking softly as he fastened it around his waist. Emily glanced at the sword, her eyes lingering just a moment longer than usual before she quickly looked away, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

As she gathered the gear, she straightened, slinging the poles over her shoulder. Her eyes darted to him again, this time with a small, almost nervous smile. Then, without another word, she whisked them both off, calling over her shoulder, "Let’s go," her pace quickening. Godfrey followed, still baffled by the odd undercurrent of behavior, unsure why everyone seemed to be acting so strangely around him.

XXX

They walked through the forest in comfortable silence, the trees swaying gently overhead, when Emily began to sing. Her voice today was lower, with a gravity that defied her small stature, and it pulled at Godfrey’s attention. He found himself entranced, much like before, his eyes drawn to her as her song drifted around him. She caught his gaze and laughed, her tone teasing.

"Come on, join in," she said with a grin. "Like you did last night."

Godfrey blinked, confusion settling in. "What do you mean?"

"You sang to me through the window last night," she replied, her smile fading slightly at the perplexed look on his face.

A cold, black panic gripped Godfrey’s heart. His breath hitched, and a deep sense of dread crawled up his spine. "I didn’t..." The words died on his lips as his chest tightened, fear flooding his veins. His pulse pounded in his ears, and suddenly his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, his hands scrabbling at his chest as if trying to claw away the feeling.

Emily gasped, dropping the fishing poles as she rushed to his side. "Godfrey! What’s wrong?" Her voice was frantic, her hands hovering over him, unsure of what to do.

Godfrey’s breath quickened, his panic overwhelming his attempts to regain control. His hands shot out, grabbing Emily’s arms, his grip tight and desperate. "Emily... are you okay?" he gasped, his voice trembling. "Did I hurt you? Have you—have you seen him?"

Emily’s eyes widened in shock, her voice barely a whisper. "What? Godfrey, what are you talking about?"

He tightened his hold, his eyes wild with fear. "The man... a man in black armor. Emily, have you seen a tall man in black armor?" His voice cracked, frantic, as if the answer was a matter of life and death.

Emily shook her head, panic rising in her own voice. "No, Godfrey, I haven’t seen anyone! What’s going on?"

Godfrey’s breathing became ragged, his heart hammering in his chest as the world tilted around him, consumed by the terror of a threat only he seemed to sense.

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Godfrey squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus. His body trembled, but he dug deep, summoning the Control he had learned to still his racing heart. Slowly, deliberately, he took one breath, then another, forcing his body to relax, though the terror still gripped his mind.

Godfrey’s eyes snapped open, the sight of Emily’s tear-streaked face hitting him like a blow. Concern and fear mingled in her expression, and Godfrey realized he was still holding her too tightly. He released her, and she stumbled back, rubbing her arm where his grip had been.

The guilt hit him hard, and he felt his chest constrict. His breath came in shallow gasps, the panic still clinging to him.

"Emily... I’m... I’m sorry," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I didn’t mean to hurt you. I—" He paused, struggling to gather his words. "...at Oakvale, something…broke. Inside me. I’m not who I was then," His voice cracked, tears streaming down his face. "I don’t know how to fix it. Please... forgive me."

His words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, as he struggled to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Godfrey sat there, trembling, waiting for the inevitable rejection, the fear in Emily’s eyes turning into something colder, something more calculating. He prepared to shield himself, to pull back into himself, expecting her to see his weakness and use it against him.

But instead, she knelt beside him, her movements slow and careful, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

"It’s okay, Godfrey," she said softly, her voice steady, though a slight tremor revealed her uncertainty. "You don’t have to explain right now."

Her touch wasn’t what he expected—there was no judgment, no manipulation. Just warmth, a quiet presence that sought to understand rather than exploit. He blinked, caught off guard.

Godfrey swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "Did I hurt you?"

Emily hesitated, rubbing her arm lightly. "A little," she admitted, her tone gentle, "but nothing I can’t handle."

She paused, then looked at him, confusion and concern in her eyes. "Was it something I said? Did it... affect you that much?"

Godfrey felt his throat tighten, the panic threatening to choke him again. His mind scrambled, but he forced it into blankness, pushing the emotions down as far as he could. When he spoke, his voice came out flat, mechanical, the words jumbled and disjointed.

"It all started with a song," he said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. "I... I killed them. Everyone. By singing that fucking song."

XXX

Emily left Godfrey by the pond, sensing he needed time—time and space to deal with whatever war was raging inside him. As she walked back, she rubbed her arm where his grip had lingered, a reminder of the intensity she hadn’t expected. They’d managed to catch a couple of small fish, which she carried in a bundle, but her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled up in worry and confusion.

When she reached the house, the familiar creak of the door snapped her out of her thoughts just as her father returned from his hunt. Griffon looked at here and began to speak, “How’d it go, lo—”

One look at her face, and Griffon’s expression softened. He set his gear down and pulled her into a hug, the unspoken understanding hanging between them.

"I don’t think Godfrey is okay," she murmured into his chest, her voice barely holding back the concern she felt.

Griffon pulled back slightly, his brow furrowed with concern. "What happened, love?"

Emily sighed and began to explain, recounting the walk through the forest, the song, and how something in Godfrey had shifted so suddenly. Griffon listened intently, his face darkening as she spoke. When she mentioned Godfrey grabbing her arms, his jaw tightened, and his fists clenched.

"He grabbed you?" Griffon said, his voice low and edged with anger.

Emily’s own frustration flared. "Calm down," she snapped, her eyes flashing as she met his gaze. "I’m fine, Dad. It wasn’t like that. He didn’t mean to—he’s just... he’s not okay. But he didn’t hurt me."

Griffon’s shoulders tensed, but at her insistence, he took a breath, clearly trying to rein in the protective anger rising in him. He could see the conviction in her eyes, and though it didn’t ease his worry, he nodded slowly, letting her words sink in.

Then he frowned, his gaze shifting slightly as if looking into the past. "I’ve seen it before," he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with an old weariness. "During the Purge. Young men came back from battle like raw edges. Brittle, sharp. You didn’t know what would set them off, or what they’d do when it happened."

He glanced at Emily, the worry still etched deep into his features. "Godfrey’s walking that same line, love."

Emily bit her lip, concern still heavy in her voice. "Can we help him? What helped those men you knew back then?"

Griffon looked at her, his eyes soft. "It took time, and it took peace," he said quietly. "But I don’t think Godfrey’s going to know peace... not for a long while."

XXX

It was a somber affair, his departure from the homestead.

The previous night, after Godfrey had scared Emily, she had acted as if nothing was wrong, as if she were unbothered. But Godfrey knew better. He had seen the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her body tensed under his touch. Even if she truly forgave him for grabbing her, for frightening her, he knew deep down that she could not—should not—feel safe around him. Not right now, at least.

He had said as much to Griffon when he returned in the small hours of the night. The house had been quiet, but Griffon had been waiting outside, sitting on the porch, whittling a piece of wood into something unrecognizable. The quiet scrape of the knife against the wood filled the silence between them as Godfrey approached.

Godfrey hesitated, his voice thick with remorse. "I’m sorry."

Griffon didn’t look up at first, continuing his work, but the edge of his lip tightened. "I know," he said, his tone low, steady. "Emily told me what happened."

Godfrey swallowed, the words tumbling out. "I... I need to leave. I’m not safe to be around right now. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I could never forgive myself if I hurt any of you. If something happened because of me..."

Griffon finally set the knife down, looking up at Godfrey with a mix of concern and understanding. He nodded slowly, then stood. "You’re not wrong," Griffon said bluntly. "But leaving... that won’t fix what’s inside you. You’ll carry it wherever you go."

Godfrey looked away, shame tightening his throat. "Maybe. But it’s not fair to you. To Emily. I can’t risk it."

Griffon studied him for a long moment, then placed a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. "I respect that. You need to find your way. But if you don’t find what you’re looking for, you come back. You hear me? You’ve got a place here, no matter what."

Godfrey nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Griffon nodded after their conversation, then stood, motioning for Godfrey to follow him. They walked around the side of the house to the tarped chest where the fishing poles had been stored. Griffon removed the lid with a practiced hand and pulled back another tarp, revealing the contents underneath.

"When I was younger," Griffon said with a chuckle, "I cut quite a dashing figure in this. Helped me win Mary over, you know." He smiled briefly at the memory, then looked at Godfrey with a knowing glint in his eyes. "It should fit you, and I think you ought to take it."

As he spoke, he began lifting out pieces of armor—what resolved into a set of blued half-plate, its deep color reflecting the faint moonlight. Surprisingly, there were only a few spots of rust, considering its age and storage. Godfrey couldn’t help but notice.

"This is... almost spotless," Godfrey remarked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Griffon nodded, still busy assembling the pieces. "The pauldrons and greaves still fit me well enough, so I’ve taken care of it as best I could. Don’t like to keep it in the house, though."

Godfrey shook his head, taking a step back. "I can’t take this. This armor... it’s worth more than your house. Maybe more than your land."

Griffon stopped, his gaze sharp but steady. "Don’t you worry about that," he said, waving away the protest. "If you hadn’t been here, my wife and daughter would be dead. I’d burn this house to the ground and dance on the ashes if it meant keeping them safe."

He stepped forward, resting a hand on Godfrey’s arm. "As far as I’m concerned, this armor doesn’t put a dent in what I owe you. Take it."

Godfrey stood there for a moment, the significance of Griffon’s words weighing heavily on him. Reluctantly, he nodded, realizing there was no point in arguing.

Griffon’s expression shifted, becoming more distant as he gazed away from Godfrey, lost in thought for a moment. "It’s probably best you don’t say goodbye to Emily or Mary," he said quietly. His voice held a note of regret. "I’m being selfish here, but... you need to go now. Take some supplies, enough food for the journey. If you stay much longer, you won’t leave. I can see it."

Godfrey opened his mouth to protest, but Griffon shook his head, continuing. "I know you need to find something out there. Some kind of answer. And I understand that."

He paused, then turned back to face Godfrey directly. "Are you still set on Centria?"

Godfrey nodded. "I am. I’m planning to be inducted into the Hand."

Griffon gave a slow, knowing nod, as if this didn’t surprise him. "I figured as much." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Be careful, then. The Hand and Tongue can do as they please in Centria. Minor nobility’s treated fine enough, but common folk? I’ve never heard of anyone moving there—or even visiting—and ever coming back."

Godfrey frowned, confused. "What do you mean by that?"

Griffon grew quiet for a moment, his expression tightening as he looked into the distance. "Remember when I told you I moved here with my brother and sister-in-law?"

Godfrey nodded.

"Well," Griffon continued, his voice lowering, "when Rebekah passed from sickness, my brother went to Centria to find work. He never came back."

He let the words settle before continuing, "And I’ve heard similar stories for the last twenty-odd years. People head to Centria hoping for work or a fresh start, and they disappear. Now, it could be that the city’s so wonderful no one ever wants to leave." Griffon let out a short, dry chuckle. "But you'd have to be a fool to believe that."

The warning echoed in his mind as Godfrey made his way south, hours later. Griffon’s old soldiering pack rested heavily on his back, weighed down by two stone of steel armor carefully stowed away, along with enough food to see him through the last miles of his journey.

When he reached the small, ice-covered bridge over the Frosmuth, marking the start of the Centrian Road, he paused. His gaze drifted back—back toward Griffon’s home, toward Emily. And further still, back to Oakvale.

A brittle sadness settled over him, cold and unyielding. He could not forget, and peace was something he would never know—not until he had balanced the scales.

With a final glance at the bridge behind him, Godfrey set his jaw and pressed on, toward Centria.