Bertie spat blood onto the ground, glaring at me with a mix of fury and fear. “You don’t scare me, boy,” he growled, though his voice wavered ever so slightly.

“That, I don’t mind, Chief. But what I do mind is you wasting my time with this defiance,” I said, sitting across from him. Between us sat a rotting table, its edges splintered and stained. “We can end this quickly. You tell me everything: who those black knights are, who they work for, who you work for, what they’re doing in the Forest of Shadows, how you got involved with them, their goals—everything you know.”

I leaned back slightly, letting my words settle. “In return, I’ll grant you a painless death and spare the rest of your friends from any repercussions.”

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, filling the makeshift tent. Erected far from both civilization and the forest, it was starkly utilitarian—just the table, two chairs, and the two of us. Other two prisoners were being held in separate tents, identical to this one, while a fourth tent remained empty—until Vyk brought in the escapee.

As the quiet dragged on, my mind churned. A concoction of emotions brewed within me. There was a flicker of satisfaction—we were finally close to a solid lead. But beneath it lay the gnawing fear of failure, a shadow that loomed over every step of this mission. The escalating activity of this cultists troubled me deeply, their unchecked chaos threatening the kingdom, and their ultimate goals an ominous mystery. Adding to the frustration was the Royal Inquisition, withholding crucial information from us.

“You’re a real charmer, aren’t ya, lad?”

Bertie finally broke the stillness, his voice dripping with derision. “For a moment, I almost considered your offer. But nah… hit me with your worst, kid. You’ve got no idea what they’re capable of!”

Hard way it is, then.

I rose from my chair slowly, the legs scraping against the uneven floor. I had hoped to avoid this, but Bertie had left me no choice. Before I could take another step, a faint ripple of mana brushed against my senses.

An approaching presence.

Selene sat by the crackling fire, her fingers gently plucking the strings of her lute, each note floating into the night air, adding a melancholic hum to the eerie quiet that surrounded them. The fire’s glow cast long shadows across the hastily assembled tents. Despite the music’s soothing tone, her mind was elsewhere, fixed on the task ahead, the weight of failure pressing down on her like a boulder.

She had been instructed to play a hypnotic tune, a melody designed to lull the prisoners into submission, to soften their resolve and make the interrogation easier. The thought of manipulating the prisoners’ minds, of bending their will with nothing more than music, left a bitter taste in her mouth. But it was the price of being a part of this mission. And though her hands moved with the grace of long practice, her heart wasn’t in it.

“He’s desperate,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper lost in the crackling of the flames.

Time was slipping through their fingers, and she could feel it, like sand in the wind. The day she had been dreading was fast approaching—the dreaded audience with the king, the inevitable report on their progress. Or the lack thereof. Months had passed in this cursed mission, and the results had been scant at best.

At the start, none of them had taken the task seriously. She had been as naive as the others, thinking it would be a simple matter of finding a few criminal bandits, rooting them out, and returning to the court with stories of their heroics.

But that had been months ago, and now, they were only more deeply entangled in their failures.

Time had become their enemy. Leads turned out to be false, more often than not. Their enemies always seemed to be one step ahead—slipping through their fingers like smoke. Every time they thought they had a breakthrough; it dissolved into nothing. They had captured soldiers, only to see them commit suicide or mutilate themselves to avoid capture. Their informants had been murdered before they could speak, their bodies turned up days later in places they’d never expected. One entire village had been wiped out—slaughtered—to prevent any word from leaking. It was as if their enemies were always lurking in the shadows, anticipating their every move.

And then came Twisted Trunk. The whole situation had been a gamble, a desperate measure they had taken when all other options had failed. Kaelan, her prince, had thrown himself into the heart of danger, something he had never done before. The results were still unclear, but the tension in the air was palpable. Selene found herself torn between doubt and hope, the delicate balance between despair and belief. She wanted to believe in Kaelan, in his quiet brilliance, but the stakes were too high.

Her thoughts drifted involuntarily to her past; memories long buried in the recesses of her mind. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of them in a long time, but now, as the fire crackled before her, the floodgates had opened.

She was an orphan. Always had been. She couldn’t remember her parents—couldn’t even remember the faces of the people she should have called family. No siblings to comfort her.

She had learned early that the world was a cold and indifferent place. From the time she could walk, she had learned to survive on her own.

Her life had always been a fight—scrapping for every meal, hiding in alleys, avoiding the cruel eyes of those who had more than she could ever dream of. But one fateful day, when she was no older than four, maybe five, everything had changed.

She had been digging through a pile of discarded food scraps near the Maple Brew pub, her small fingers sifting through the rubbish, when a boy had appeared.

He wasn’t like the others she’d met. He was older, maybe by three years, dressed in rags like she was, but there was something about him—something… different. His eyes weren’t filled with contempt or indifference, like everyone else’s. No, this boy’s eyes… they were curious. Warm. Unafraid.

“Do you know the way to the slums?” he had asked her, his voice lilting with an odd accent.

It wasn’t just his words—it was the way he looked at her. Most people, adults or children, looked through her or past her, never truly seeing her. But this boy? He looked at her like she was important. He spoke to her as if she mattered. And for the first time in her life, Selene felt seen.

“Are you… Hmm. Maybe she’s deaf,” he had said, when the silence stretched, scratching his chubby cheek with confusion.

She couldn’t help but notice that. Though he wore the same rags she did, his posture was different. He stood upright, proud, not hunched like the rest of them. His hair was clean, shiny even, and his face was free of the grime that clung to every other orphan.

It was strange.

“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I will find my own way!” he had declared, as if the world itself could not stop him. He had passed by her without a second thought, heading further into the alley.

“E-excuse… m-me,” she had stammered, summoning all her courage. “I-it’s dangerous. Y-you shouldn’t go there. There are b-bad people…”

She had warned him, because she had seen what lurked in those alleys. She had narrowly escaped death too many times to count, slipping past the worst of humanity’s cruelty. There were others, who weren’t so lucky.

“Really!?” he had whirled around, his voice almost a shout, and there was something in his eyes—something… wild. His gaze was fierce, yet full of something she couldn’t quite grasp.

Thinking back, Selene could see it now. His eyes had been… alive, like something brighter than the dim, broken world she knew.

“Yes,” she had nodded, her voice barely a whisper, “really.”

And then, he was gone—running, faster than a child should be able to move. Her heart had raced, unsure whether to be afraid for him or in awe.

That night, he had returned—drenched in sweat, his face flushed with the kind of exhilaration she had never known. He had taken her by the hand and led her away from the alley, away from the trash heaps, away from the life she had known.

To his home.

Or more accurately, to his palace.

The chaos of those first days had been a blur, but it had been a blur of warmth, of something Selene hadn’t realized she’d been longing for—belonging. The boy, whose name was Kaelan, had taken her in without question, without hesitation. And though she hadn’t known it then, that moment had shaped the rest of her life.

The memory made her smile, a rare and fragile thing.

But the smile soon faded as she felt the familiar presence on the edge of her senses.

Vyk.

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I glanced at Bertie before stepping out of the tent. His eyes were closed, and he swayed lightly to Selene’s haunting tune, the melody wrapping around him like an invisible chain.

Her music worked—same as always. The thought brought a fleeting smile to my lips, but it was quickly stolen by the sight that greeted me outside.

Vyk emerged from the shadows, dragging a barely recognizable bundle of flesh that might once have been a man. Blood dripped from the assassin’s gloves, leaving a faint trail in the dirt.

“Reporting, sir!” Vyk snapped to attention, giving me the sharp military salute customary of Aelorian soldiers, before unceremoniously dropping the mangled body in front of me.

I took one look at the pitiful figure and turned my gaze to Vyk. “At ease, Vyk,” I said evenly. “Explain why he has no arms and is barely breathing.”

“Yes, sir,” Vyk replied, his voice steady, professional, and entirely unapologetic. “Initially, we couldn’t identify him because he was wearing a ring of concealment. When he noticed I was pursuing him after his escape, he decided to face me rather than continue running. From our initial clash, I determined he was at least a High Mage in rank and posed an immediate threat, requiring neutralization as per protocol. So—”

“So,” I interrupted, my tone sharpening, “you cut off his arms, drained him of mana, and beat him until he had one foot in the grave. Am I correct, soldier?”

Vyk didn’t flinch under the reprimand. His face remained impassive, as if carved from stone. “Yes, sir,” he confirmed.

“Assuming you’ve already searched him,” I continued, letting my voice drop to a dangerous calm, “did you find anything of value?”

Without a word, Vyk produced a small cloth and handed it to me. His gauntleted hand was steady, even as flecks of blood smeared across the fabric.

Unfolding the cloth, I read the words scrawled across it: ‘We will celebrate when the moon is full.’

The cryptic message sent a flicker of unease through me, but I kept my expression unreadable.

“Rylas,” I called, glancing toward my ever-silent guardian. The towering warrior appeared from the edge of the campfire’s light, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. “Bring me the note Bertie had on him.”

Rylas handed me the parchment without a word, his expression as stoic as ever. The note bore a chillingly simple message: ‘Price is one prince.’

I held the two pieces of evidence side by side, comparing the handwriting and the material of the cloths.

“They’re identical,” Selene murmured from beside me. She had abandoned her lute for a moment, leaning in to examine the notes with a critical eye. Her voice was soft, but there was a tension to it—a subtle tremor that betrayed her unease.

It was undeniable. The same hand had written both messages.

I folded the cloth and parchment with deliberate care. “Put him in his tent and tell Aleric to stabilize him,” I instructed Vyk, my voice cool and composed. “He needs to live long enough to answer questions.”

Vyk hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his military discipline won out. “Understood, sir.” He hauled the limp body over his shoulder with ease and disappeared into the shadows without another word, as Selene again played her tune.

I turned back toward Bertie’s tent, pushing aside the flap and stepping inside. The stench of sweat and fear clung to the air. Bertie was still swaying, utterly unaware of the storm brewing outside.

But as I closed the tent flap behind me, I couldn’t shake the lingering weight of those two notes, their words burning in my mind like embers waiting to ignite.

Selene’s melody started to dance through the air, light and capturing, a thread weaving through the fabric of the night. I returned to my seat across from Bertie, his head lolling to one side. He cracked one eye open, glared at me with defiance, then shut it again, retreating to his stubborn silence.

“Let me tell you a story, Bertie,” I began, settling into my chair. “I think you’ll like it.”

He didn’t react, but I pressed on, my voice calm, almost conversational.

“Once, there was a boy who had everything. Loving parents, a roof over his head, food on the table for every meal, friends who laughed with him, and even a girl he fancied. A charmed life, don’t you think?”

Bertie shifted slightly, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

“But fate is cruel, as fate often is. Disaster struck, and the boy lost everything. A plague swept through, stealing his parents, his friends, even the girl he fancied. He would’ve become an orphan if not for a distant aunt, an old woman who barely had the strength to care for herself, let alone him. She took him to her village—some forgotten, backwater place he’d never heard of.”

I saw it then; the slight twitch in his hand, the grinding of his teeth.

“The town he left behind had running water, markets bustling with life, places to play, places to dream. But the village? It was a prison, barren and suffocating. The adults ignored the boy, but the children—oh, they weren’t so kind. They bullied him relentlessly, tore at him until even his name, the beautiful name his parents gave him, was stripped away. ‘Lugh,’ they mocked. It was no longer his. It became something ugly, twisted by their cruelty.”

“…Stop,” Bertie muttered, his voice low and trembling.

I ignored him, leaning forward. “As time passed, the village forgot about him, but he didn’t forget. When he saw others laughing, bantering, living, he remembered what he’d lost. The pain festered like an unhealed wound, eating away at him—”

“I said STOP!” Bertie’s scream tore through the air. He was shaking now, teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Stop, please… stop…” His sobs racked his body, each one a jagged edge cutting through him.

But I didn’t stop, he had his chance.

“Time didn’t heal him. It only deepened the scars. He sought solace, purpose, anything to dull the ache. And when he found it, it wasn’t in kindness or hope—it was in power. He thought power would fill the void, that it would shield him from the pain. But it only dragged him further into the abyss.”

“I SAID STOP!” Bertie thrashed violently against his bindings, the coarse rope digging into his skin. His cries were raw and broken, each word trembling with desperation. “You bastards… always the same... humiliating me, hurting me… mocking me at every turn!”

His struggles waned for a moment, his head hanging low as harsh, uneven breaths rattled from his chest. When he spoke again, his voice cracked under the weight of his anguish.

“I tried to move on,” he muttered, barely audible. “I really did. I thought I could forget it all—leave it behind. But then he showed up.” His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a mix of hatred and despair. “That smug bastard had to come back. Now of all times!”

His voice broke completely, and for a moment, the fire’s flickering light danced across the wet streaks on his face.

“And when I asked him why…” Bertie’s lips curled into a manic grin, his tone turning almost sing-song. “He... he took me to them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air like a curse. He chuckled darkly, the sound bubbling into a giggle that chilled the night. His eyes gleamed with a haunting mix of terror and reverence.

“It was a full moon, red as blood,” he whispered. “That’s when they came. Gods… such power… such beauty. I couldn’t even breathe. But the bastard, he had one too.” Bertie’s gaze snapped back, wild and accusing. “Not me, though. Not me!”

His laughter spiraled into madness, a cruel echo that cut through the stillness. His whole body shook as he threw his head back, cackling as though the truth itself was some cosmic joke.

“It’s unfair! UNFAIR!” he screamed, his voice raw and guttural, every syllable dripping venom. “He’s a scum! A worthless, sniveling wretch! So why? Why does he get to have everything—everything—while I lose it all?!”

His voice cracked into a whimper, and his trembling form slumped in defeat, the firelight casting shadows that flickered like ghosts around him.

I watched him unravel, his walls crumbling brick by brick, his defiance reduced to quiet, broken sobs. The man who once carried himself with pride and cruelty now sat hollow, stripped of his armor, stripped of his facade. And for a moment, something stirred in me—an old wound, long scabbed over but never truly healed.

I saw myself in him, once upon a time. Lost. Robbed. Betrayed. A man clawing for power, not because he wanted it, but because it was the only path he could see through the storm.

That storm had consumed me once. It had taken everything—my dreams, my identity, my sense of purpose—and left me a hollow shell, scrabbling to fill the void. Watching him now, I felt that same emptiness yawning beneath my feet, a reminder of how easy it would be to fall back into its grasp.

Was he truly any different from me? Or was I simply better at hiding the cracks?

A gentle hand rested on my shoulder, grounding me. Pulling me back to the present. “It’s over, Kaelan,” Selene whispered, her voice soft as a lullaby.

When did she stop stringing her lute? When did she step beside me?

Her fingers were light, almost hesitant, as though she feared I might shatter if she held on too tightly. Her smile was sad, her eyes searching mine, but I couldn’t meet them. I didn’t want her to see what lingered there—the doubt, the pain, the questions I couldn’t answer.

“Is it?” I murmured, my voice barely more than a breath. My gaze drifted back to the man before me, broken in more ways than one. “Or is this just the beginning?”

Selene said nothing, her silence heavier than words. But the hand on my shoulder stayed, firm and steady, anchoring me to the moment as if she sensed the turmoil I refused to show.

“YOU!” Bertie’s voice cut through the air like a jagged blade, the final burst of venom from a dying man. His bloodshot eyes locked onto mine, hatred burning even as his strength failed. “If you had just died… just died… If you hadn’t—”

His words disintegrated into choking gasps, his body convulsing violently as blood spilled from his mouth. It wasn’t just rage consuming him now—it was the poison, the inevitable rot of a life lived too fast and too recklessly.

“He’s lost,” I muttered, the words escaping before I realized I’d spoken aloud. It was a quiet confession, more to myself than anyone else, as if naming the truth could somehow make it less bitter.

Mira stepped forward, her presence like the first breath of spring cutting through the stifling air. She had entered the tent without a sound, her movements so fluid and deliberate that they seemed almost unreal. The soft glow of the lamp caught in her teal hair, lending her an ethereal quality.

“Don’t mourn him, my prince,” she said, her voice calm and steady, though tinged with something deeper—empathy, perhaps, or resignation. Her emerald eyes met mine, unwavering. “His body was already fragile when we found him. The drugs… the life he led… this was inevitable.”

Her words wrapped around me like a bittersweet melody, hanging in the dim light of the tent, threading through the stillness. There was no reproach in her tone, only a quiet understanding. She wasn’t trying to comfort me. She wasn’t telling me it would be alright. She was simply stating a truth I already knew.

Bertie—or Lugh—sputtered again, blood now seeping from his eyes as his breath rattled, uneven and shallow. His body twisted in agony, and the flicker of pity I felt was quickly eclipsed by something colder: the need to end it.

I raised my hand, the mana pooling at my fingertips, but Mira stepped in, her touch as light as a whisper on my wrist. “Let me, Kaelan,” she said softly. “You’ve done enough.”

I hesitated, then let my hand fall.

Mira stepped closer to the convulsing man, her wooden staff glowing faintly in the tent’s dim light. Her voice rose, clear and strong, carrying the weight of ancient knowledge and unshakable faith.

“Great spirit, eternal guardian of life and light, I call upon thee. With your boundless grace, cradle this weary soul, guide him gently through the veil, and lead him to a place where pain no longer lingers, where shadows hold no dominion. May he find solace in your embrace, freed from the burdens that chained him in this life. Let his steps tread softly on the path of peace, and may he never wander lost in the darkness again. In your hallowed name, O radiant protector, I beseech your mercy and blessing upon his journey.”

The air shifted, and a soft, golden light enveloped his broken body. It was warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the grim reality of the moment. Shadows that had clung to him like shackles dissolved into nothingness, chased away by the radiance.

When the light faded, so did he. His body stilled, his chest no longer rising, and in his final moment, his eyes cleared. The anger and fear vanished, replaced by something I hadn’t expected—a faint, serene smile.

“Your Highness…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Be careful… The darkness… may dim your light.”

And then he was gone.

I stared at the empty shell of a man, his parting words echoing in my mind.

Light? I thought bitterly. That light died a long time ago.

“Tell Rylas and Aleric to give him a proper burial,” I finally said, my voice steady despite the heaviness in my chest. Turning toward Mira, I met her weary gaze. “How did it go on your end?”

She sighed, the sound laden with fatigue. “Nothing. The knight is a flesh puppet, as we feared. It just follows orders, retaining only fragments of consciousness. As for the the lackey? Just a villager who followed the chief for an easier life. He knows nothing.”

“Then our only lead forward is the mage,” Selene interjected, her tone sharp but measured.

I glanced at the stilled corpse, slumped on the chair, Lugh’s smile frozen in death. “Lugh left us with some clues, at least,” I said, retrieving the two notes from my pocket. “Look closely. The note the mage carried is newer than the one Lugh had—both the ink and the fabric it’s written on. That means the invitation was meant to be given tonight, after Lugh succeeded in killing me.”

After we exited the tent, Mira took the notes from my hand, inspecting them under the firelight. Her fingers traced the delicate markings. “You’re right. It seems that way. So, the mage acted as the bridge between Lugh and the criminals.”

Selene placed a thoughtful hand on her chin, her brow furrowed. “But what about the man Lugh mentioned—the one who took him to them? If we connect it to his childhood, the only ones who fit are Ray and that old man. From what we gathered, Ray used to bully Lugh before disappearing suddenly.”

Her words mirrored my own thoughts. But before I could respond, Aleric emerged from the mage’s tent, his white robes marked with crimson streaks. I stepped forward to meet him.

“How is the mage, Priest Aleric?” I asked.

Aleric bowed respectfully; his expression somber. “You may proceed, Your Highness, though I must warn you—he may not cooperate.”

“Thank you, Aleric,” I replied, inclining my head in gratitude. “Oh, before I forget—could I burden you with overseeing Lugh’s burial?”

“Lugh?” he echoed, his brows knitting in brief confusion. Realization flickered in his eyes, followed by a pained smile. “Ah, I see. Very well.”

With another bow, he departed, leaving me to the grim task ahead.

I entered the tent, alone. The smell of blood and sweat thick in the air. The mage lay sprawled across an old wooden table, the surface creaking beneath his weight. Blood stained both the table and the ground beneath it, dried into dark, crusted pools.

His body was broken, a torso without limbs, a mind filled with nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but his eyes were hollow, staring into emptiness.

As I studied his vacant gaze, Aleric’s earlier warning made sense.

I wouldn’t be asking the mage anything, as no words would escape those lips—only silence.

Mind sweep, then.

The thought filled me with a bitter distaste. I loathed this technique with every fiber of my being. To dive into someone’s consciousness, to tear through their memories and hopes, was a vile act. It wasn’t just the grotesque images I might encounter—it was the invasion itself. Happy moments, buried sorrows, dreams wished upon stars, nightmares twisted by fear... all laid bare for me to sift through, like a scavenger in a graveyard of their soul.

I clenched my fists.

The mage didn’t deserve this. No one did. But he was a piece of the puzzle, and leaving that piece untouched wasn’t an option.

“For both of us,” I muttered under my breath, “there’s no other way.”

I stepped forward, my hands glowing faintly with magic as I prepared to cast the spell. My heart was heavy, but my resolve was firm.

For the answers we need... I’ll bear this sin.