At a distance, Gabriel stands transfixed. His eyes, laden with intense concentration, are unyielding in their gaze upon Orla's satchel. The world around him seems to blur as his focus narrows on the vial resting along her other potions.
Unexpectedly, his concentration shatters, disrupted by the sudden intrusion of a voice. "What are you staring at?" The impatience-infused question yanks Gabriel's awareness back to his surroundings. Astrid has moved to stand beside him, an expectant look on her face as he turns toward her.
Confusion and concern wash over her features as she spots the wounds and scars on Gabriel. "What... happened to you? Those scars weren't there yesterday," Astrid remarks, her finger pointing at Gabriel's forearm.
"I tumbled into a thorny ditch hunting a shadecrow," Gabriel responds, attempting to pass it off with humor.
"Those cuts wouldn't heal in a week, absolutely not in a few hours."
"I had something for small cuts."
Silence falls between them as they engage in a quiet duel of stares, Astrid probing for the truth, and Gabriel gauging the success of his lie.
Releasing a resigned sigh, Astrid breaks the stillness. "Cover them up if you don't want more questions," she advises, signaling with her hand for him to follow her.
After a brief stroll, they step into a tent as spacious as Katherine's, divided into sections by flowing drapes. Entering one of these sections after Astrid, Gabriel spots paintings neatly aligned against the edge, and another displayed on an easel.
The piece on the easel is in its early stages, portraying a city with towering spires extending beyond the clouds, brushing against streams of ethereal light. The city is nestled amongst tall pines, its entrance guarded by an imposing one-eyed wolf in the forefront, emanating a powerful aura.
"That's how I pictured the Boreal Sanctuary as well," Gabriel comments, visualizing the completed artwork. "You've created so many places we've never been," he continues, his eyes drifting across the other paintings.
Astrid pulls out a series of small boxes, explaining, "These are all the places I plan to explore someday."
Gabriel's attention returns to the sketch of the Boreal Sanctum. Noticing him, Astrid quickly adds, "While I'm still alive. Or, at the very least, I intend to visit everywhere else before ending up there when I'm much older."
Settling on her bed, she arranges an assortment of brushes and powders before her. "Sit here and extend your arm," she instructs, blending various colored powders.
As he complies, Gabriel peers into the boxes. Inside, he finds eyelashes, luminescent pastes ranging from black to vivid pink, matte skin colored pastes, petite knives, picks, needles, and threads. Glancing back at the chest she had opened, he notices hairs in diverse shades and lengths and replica heads adorned with an array of noses, ears, and chins, each distinct in appearance.
With a hint of worry Gabriel asks, "Whose hair is that?"
Without looking away from her work she answers, "Ho that, I took them from the skulls of the enemies I killed." After a long silent pause Astrid laughs. "They are mine, each time I cut my hair I make a wig with them," she explains.
"What do you use them for?"
"Infiltrating, eavesdropping, escaping. It's quite the adventure, especially since it drives my mother crazy," she confesses with a rebellious smirk. "But she's the one who taught me, so really, she's to blame."
The playfulness in her voice doesn't mask the strain underneath. Gabriel catches it, his expression softening. "How are things with your mother?"
Astrid's smile falters. "She still hates me. And, we haven't talked since yesterday's battle, even when I tried to help her heal the wounded."
"She will accept that you are a warrior like us, … someday."
Astrid shakes her head, her voice a mix of bitterness and longing. "I doubt it. She despises us, says we're barbarians. That everyone's no better than wild animals." She pauses, her next words quieter, heavier. "She even said she wished she'd killed Uther when they first met."
Gabriel's demeanor shifts subtly, his mind racing with unspoken questions. "How did they come to be married then?" he probes, a careful curiosity underpinning his words.
Finishing her work on his arm, Astrid stands, beginning to repack her supplies. Gabriel examines his skin, the scars cleverly concealed. Her craftsmanship is impeccable.
She closes her chest with a soft click, her tone distant. "My mother is Reynold Graymark's second daughter. They're a noble family of Alderveil, to the northwest," she gestures towards a detailed painting of a stately manor amid snow-laden pine trees. "Uther, back in the day, was a loner. He traveled with only a few, including your mother, Seren, and Siv."
"Siv?" Gabriel interjects.
"Yorick's mom. I barely recall her, you know, I'm only a bit older than you." She settles back down beside Gabriel, resuming her story. "During that period, a horrifying creature was menacing the Graymark territory. A Skaldbeast, so twisted and wrong, with the bulk of a bear, the face of a wolf, gnarled horns, and eyes that glowed like fire in the darkness. They say its howl was like the wails of lost spirits and it reeked of death and pestilence. It laid waste to nearby villages and cities, leaving destruction as rampant as a sweeping epidemic. It even shredded homes as though they were made of straw. The swords of brave warriors were found beside their fallen bodies, clean and bloodless, as if the monster's flesh wouldn’t be cut... So, relying on Uther's ancestral customs, they sought his help to slay the monster, and tradition meant he could demand whatever he wished as a reward. That’s how he ended up betrothed to my mom. The very night of their agreement, he set off alone, tracking the beast's recent path of havoc through the pitch-black wilderness. By morning, he emerged, hauling the slain creature to Reynold’s doorstep. Its body was slashed all over, but mom is certain that the creature’s heart was literally squashed through its ribcage by nothing but brute strength."
The tale hangs heavy between them, a tangible presence in the quiet of the tent. Astrid rises, the movement breaking the silence.
"I should go back, I need to bring this to my mom," Gabriel states showing the content of his bag. Standing up he adds, "thank you a lot for masking my scars."
She accompanies him to the tent's exit, before he leaves her, disappearing in the camp.
Concealed near Orla's tent, Gabriel bides his time in quiet anticipation. The minutes stretch on until, finally, he sees Astrid make her exit. Suppressing any rush of eagerness, he casually retraces his steps to the tent, approaching from the rear. He pauses, ears straining for any sound from within. Certain it's empty, he cautiously lifts the fabric of the tent to slip inside, finding himself in a space adorned with lavish furnishings.
His eyes swiftly scan the interior as he begins his search in earnest, investigating every potential hiding spot. False bottoms, secret compartments in books, or any concealed nooks.
As he checks beneath the bed, he notices the ground yield slightly beneath the gentle pressure of his hand. Brushing away the dirt, he uncovers a box snugly tucked into a recess. Gabriel carefully extracts it, and pops open the lid. To his surprise, he discovers a collection resembling Astrid's set, complete with several full-face disguises secured underneath the top cover. There are masks for both genders, three females and two males, with an empty space where it seems another mask should be.
Gabriel shuts the box and meticulously rearranges the dirt to conceal its hiding place once more. Snagging a branch from a bush just beyond the tent's perimeter, he skillfully obscures his own footprints, ensuring only Orla's remain visible. It's then he notices another set of prints mingling with Orla's, a set of broader, more masculine shoe impressions, distinctly smaller than Uther's would be.
Owen taught him about tracking beasts and men using their prints, how each of them can tell you about their weight, height, skill and even state of mind. Gabriel scrutinizes them, these are light, regular, and sparse. In opposition to Orla's numerous, almost stamping marks, his are direct, and minimalist, walking in straight lines at a constant pace. He should be around eighty kilograms and one meter seventy centimeters in height.
With one last sweeping gaze over the scene, Gabriel pauses, his senses sharpening to catch any hint of footsteps or murmured conversations from outside. Assured by the silence, he makes his exit, retracing his steps through the same unassuming entryway he used earlier.
Gabriel steps away from Orla's tent, his mind racing. He pauses, allowing himself a moment to collect his thoughts. The atmosphere around him feels heavier. He looks around, his gaze eventually drifting toward the central structures of the camp. Deciding his next course of action, he begins to walk, each step measured, allowing him the time to think.
Reaching the tent that had been Isabel's location earlier in the day, Gabriel approaches one of Uther's guards stationed outside. He summons an innocent tone, the kind that's never failed to conceal his true intentions. "Thorald, have you seen Isabel?" he inquires, making sure his voice doesn't betray the urgency he feels.
Thorald shifts, his armor clinking softly. "Yorick had some words with her. They headed off toward the storage area. Something you need, Gabriel?" The guard's demeanor is casual, yet his gaze quickly goes back to the area he watches.
Disguising his haste with a grateful smile, Gabriel responds, "No, that's alright. You've been a big help, thank you," and departs in the direction Thorald indicated. However, instead of the brisk walk he's inclined toward, moving with haste without running.
As he approaches the storage area, the glare of the sun reflects off something in the distance, momentarily blinding him. He raises a hand to shield his eyes and spots the unmistakable gleam of Isabel's white armor. He's about to head her way when a movement catches his peripheral vision. It's the man, the mysterious figure, shadowing Astrid from a distance.
Panic, sharp and unyielding, replaces his previous resolve to remain undetected. Gabriel's heart races as he watches the man seize Astrid, dragging her into a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Without a second thought, he snatches a short sword from a nearby weapon rack, his grip firm around the handle.
He bursts into the tent, his entrance void of the stealth he had maintained earlier. The sight that greets him halts his steps. Astrid is sprawled on the ground, motionless. Moving towards her his eyes dart around the enclosed space, and he notices the man's footprints abruptly end behind Astrid's prone form.
Before he can process the scene, a heavy, unexpected force slams into him from behind. A cloth clamps down over his mouth and nose, the sickly sweet scent of ether filling his nostrils, making his head spin. Gabriel's world tilts, his thoughts scatter, and darkness slowly engulfs his senses, pulling him into unconsciousness.
In his last seconds of consciousness Gabriel sees a mercenary entering the tent, his voice distorted, "Gabriel, … Astrid! what's going o—" His concerns are cut short as the stranger slashes his throat.
The jarring sensation of being bound and carried on a galloping horse's back gradually rouses Gabriel from unconsciousness. He remains quiet, his ears picking up the heated exchange between two distinct voices, one of which he instantly identifies as Orla's. In the distance he also hears the sound of the camp's alarm bells.
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Cracking one eye open, Gabriel's gaze falls on Astrid. She's unconscious, her form secured on Orla's horse. With a subtle turn of his head, he confirms his own position on the back of the stranger's steed.
"What's your plan for the boy? He wasn't supposed to be involved," the man inquires, his tone hinting at frustration.
Without hesitation, Orla retorts, "We'll hand him over to Barnes. Turn him into a hollow. Or we could barter his soul with a demon. Anything to make Uther suffer."
The man releases a weary sigh. "We've already gone off course, Orla. Why further complicate things? We could've been patient, waited for a better opportunity, ensured our own safety. With Uther still in the picture, we can't even go home."
She retorts sharply, "And just stand by while he sends Astrid to her doom? I won't allow it! ... Besides, we're not the only ones hunting him. His days are numbered."
Hearing the conversation, a seething fury simmers withing Gabriel. The ropes digging into his wrists echo the growing hammering sound of his heart. He pulls on his binds, trying to loosen them but only tightens them. In a desperate attempt he pulls his hands apart, awakening an agonizing pain in his right shoulder. Suddenly the pain vanishes, and his binds come apart.
The man whips around, looking at Gabriel, yelling, "What the fuck?!"
His horse, sensing the tension, glances back, its right eye locking with Gabriel's stare. With a sudden, frenzied energy, the horse halts, rearing up and unseating its rider with a powerful motion. Gabriel feels a jolt as the animal bucks, the force eventually snapping the ropes that bind him, and he tumbles to the ground. Freed, the horse ignores its fallen rider's shouts, galloping off into the wilderness.
Scrambling to his feet, the man draws two short swords from behind his belt, assuming a combative stance as he approaches Gabriel.
"What are you doing?" Orla shouts, exasperation evident in her voice. "Just restrain him again while I retrieve your horse!"
"He shattered the ropes," the man retorts, a note of fear in his voice as he adds, "and I saw his eyes... they were ablaze like fire."
Orla's gaze darts nervously back toward the camp, anxiety furrowing her brow. "Forget it! We don't have time! Just end him now!" she snaps impatiently.
The man hesitates, his attention momentarily shifting back to Orla. "But—" His protest is interrupted as something slams into his abdomen, followed by a sharp, clawing pain across his face. Recoiling, he releases one of his swords, instinctively covering his wounded visage.
In front of him stands Gabriel, clutching the short sword. The man's face, now marred and torn as though it were made of nothing sturdier than clay, begins to shift. With his free hand, he peels away a mask, revealing features that bear an unsettling resemblance to Orla's. As the false face falls to the ground, the man reassumes his defensive posture, preparing for the boy's next move.
Gabriel lunges, deftly sidestepping to evade a swift strike. He targets the man's leg, but a sharp knee to his jaw sends him reeling backward. The man doesn't miss a beat, closing the distance even as Gabriel is still in retreat. He halts his onslaught, narrowly dodging another blade aimed at his torso. Astrid, now free from her bonds, positions herself between the assailant and Gabriel, who is quickly regaining his footing.
Gabriel's arm jerks forward, initiating a slash toward Astrid's back, but then he suddenly pulls back, a hand flying to his forehead as though seized by an intense migraine. His eyes flicker back to their usual gray, just before Astrid's gaze meets his.
The man exhales a weary sigh, "You two are quite a handful." As he speaks, his short swords begin to shimmer, enveloped in a haze that warps the light around its blade. He surges forward, his weapon raised for a transparently telegraphed overhead attack.
Gabriel manages to block the strike, but as steel meets steel, his own sword melts under the man's blade. Unhindered, the sword continues its fatal arc, tearing open Gabriel's chest from shoulder to waist. The force of the blow drives him to the ground.
In a frantic defense, Astrid counterattacks, her own blade dancing in desperate arcs to protect Gabriel. However, her panic shows in an ill-timed swing, and the man easily captures her wrists, immobilizing her. The desperation in her eyes is palpable as she struggles against his iron grip.
"Don't kill him! I'll do what you want!" Astrid's voice breaks in a desperate plea directed at Orla.
"Your memories of him will fade, along with those of their primitive ways. I have no need to fulfill your wishes," Orla responds, her tone icy.
The man pulls out a cloth, smothering it against Astrid's face. Her eyes flutter shut as she succumbs to unconsciousness once more.
Lying there, heat throbbing in his face and agony splitting his chest, Gabriel hears the distinctive rumble of hooves pounding the earth, rapidly drawing closer.
"Hurry, behind me!" Orla commands urgently.
The urgency in her voice is justified as an arrow whistles through the air, embedding itself in the thigh of Orla's horse. With a distressed neigh, the steed rears up before darting away in panic, its rider struggling to maintain control, leaving the man with Gabriel and the unconscious Astrid.
Isabel dismounts her robust white steed, striding toward the scene. She passes Gabriel, sparing him only a fleeting glance to assess his injuries. The man, seizing the opportunity, charges at her with his blade thrust forward. Isabel's gauntlet, gleaming with the same distortion as his weapon, intercepts the attack. Straining, he yanks his blade free and stumbles back several paces.
Extracting a delicately crafted vial, Isabel administers a vibrant red elixir into Gabriel's mouth. Her keen, hawk-like eyes then fix on the man, her adversary. She draws her sword, and a frigid mist exhales from the steel, the blade's aura amplifying as the mystical shimmer from her gauntlet engulfs it.
In response, the man downs the contents of a small, yellow vial. His physique visibly bulks, and his eyes sharpen, pupils dilating in readiness. With explosive agility, he closes the distance to Isabel, kicks up a smokescreen of dirt towards her face. Unperturbed, Isabel clears the debris with a swift slash of her sword. Her strike, ostensibly too far to reach, should have missed, but the man's arm falls to the ground, severed. A creeping frost extends from the wound, enveloping his torso. He collapses, ice crystallizing around his neck, choking the life from him as his breath comes out in frozen gasps.
As the edges of Gabriel's vision begin to blur, slipping into the encroaching darkness of unconsciousness, his gaze catches a moment of reprieve. Through the haze of his pain, he sees Isabel, her figure exuding an aura of steadfast command, moving with purposeful calm. She gently lays Astrid onto her horse, securing her unconscious form with a care that belies the gravity of their situation. There's a serene kind of assurance in Isabel's actions, a silent promise that the nightmare is over.
Gabriel's heart hammers in his chest, the frantic beats a stark echo of his critical condition. His vision swims, eyelids heavy, almost succumbing to the weight of his suffering, yet they latch onto Isabel. There’s a captivating sureness in her movements, a silent storm of resolve, as she pivots from attending to Astrid and strides toward him. The earth beneath him loses its solidity, becoming an indistinct memory against the symphony of the forest and the fading groans of their foe.
Positioned in front of Isabel on her steed, a sense of surreal detachment envelops Gabriel. The world around him dulls, every jolt of pain and clamor of battle drifting away like smoke in the wind. Cradled in the comparative safety of his impromptu seat, the sharp edges of his agony begin to blur. As the rhythmic cadence of the horse's gait melds with the serene ambiance of the surrounding wilderness, it lulls him toward oblivion.
Thunder roars with a fury that shakes the earth. Rain pours relentlessly, masking the distant landscape. Withing a cavern, shielded from the storm's assault, Orla found a precarious refuge. Her sanctuary is a hollow of shadows and damp, the air heavy with the scent of wet stone.
Her horse stands further within, tethered to a stalagmite that rises from the ground. The animal's sides heave with each breath, mirroring the ragged rhythm of Orla's own respiration.
Exhaustion clings to her, a cloak soaked with despair and cold. Every sound is a specter, every shadow a threat, and in this heightened state of dread, she drifts into a fitful slumber, her head bowed, and her body curled into itself.
It's the sound of approaching doom that tears her from the claws of slumber. Heavy steps, a rhythm out of sync with the storm's cadence, splashing through the puddles that the rain created.
The dying light of the outside world, a gloomy twilight that barely manages to penetrate the storm's fury, is suddenly eclipsed. A figure looms in the cave's entrance, large, imposing, a darkness that breathes like a wild beast. Uther, lighting scaring the sky behind him, steps into the cave.
Water drips from his fur cloak, a mantle that has shrugged off the rain's assault. Without a word, he takes a seat along the wall opposite Orla, his back straight, and his bearing that of a lord. Uther's eyes, grey pools reflecting the storm's erratic fury, finally meet hers.
"Your final attempt at me failed," Uther begins, his voice not just a sound but something tactile, brushing against her skin with the roughness of unpolished stone. It's not loud, but it carries, each word weighted with the authority that commands attention. "No one ate of the meals you poisoned while fleeing with your brother." There's no triumph in his tone, no gloating, it's a statement of fact.
The weight of Uther's stare is oppressive, pushing her into the rock beneath her, grounding her in the reality of her situation. She can't look away from the storm in his eyes, the storm she has invoked with her deeds. In his gaze, she sees the reflection of her treachery, the poison that she had meant for him now a venom inside her own veins.
The words, when they come, seep out of Orla like the blood of a thousand old wounds. They are quiet, almost lost in the sound of the storm outside, but they resonate in the confined space of the cave, every syllable tinged with years of suppressed rage and sorrow.
"You," she starts, her voice a mere whisper, brittle like dry leaves underfoot, "you have fashioned my hell and called it protection, uprooted me from everything familiar and dared name it salvation." Her eyes, alight with the flames of festering memories, meet his stormy gaze unflinchingly. Her fear has been burned out of her, leaving behind the charred remnants of desperation.
"You didn't just take me from my home, Uther. You tore me away from a life, a future that was my own to weave," Orla continues, her voice gaining strength, fueled by the inferno of her anger. "You cast me amongst barbarians, left me to fend for myself in that cold, forsaken castle, a crumbling monument to desolation. I lived with ghosts, Uther, the phantoms of hope and peace, watching them fade and wither."
Her hands clench, the nails digging into her palms, each word she speaks a litany of the injustices she's endured. "And as if that exile wasn't punishment enough, you dragged me through the bowels of war, from one blood-soaked field to another. A tent, Uther," she hisses with scorn, "a scrap of cloth was my sanctuary while you drowned the world in blood."
Her breath quivers, the dam holding back years of torment cracking, the flood of her anguish spilling forth. "My existence became a tapestry of battles and death. The volume, the incessant demand to snuff out life, one after the other, without pause, without reason... it became a massacre wearing the guise of duty and loyalty. Their faces blended together, an indistinct mass in my memory."
Then, the final blow, the one that cuts the deepest, her voice breaking as she utters the words. "And now, our daughter. Our innocent child! You made me mold her, shape her into a weapon. Your spy. Your assassin. She's not a pawn, Uther! She's flesh and blood, more mine than yours. She's the only light in the darkness you plunged me into, and you corrupted her soul as though she's merely another one of your schemes!"
Tears, hot and bitter, streak through the grime on her cheeks, but Orla’s eyes never leave Uther’s. "I want your death," she confesses, the storm in her heart raging as fiercely as the one outside. "I want retribution. For the life you stole from me, the love you ripped away, and the daughter you now seek to claim. I wanted you to feel my emptiness, my despair. I've been living with the ghost of myself, a shell, the silent sufferer behind your shadow."
Orla’s chest heaves, the air around her electric with her released fury and sorrow, her words the embodiment of years of silent screams. "You didn’t kill me, Uther, but you sentenced me to a life in the Abyss. What I did... I did to claw back a semblance of the existence you obliterated. To protect the last vestige of innocence I have left in this world. So, if that is my sin, let me burn for it. But I am not the monster here."
The cave falls silent as her voice echoes off the walls, her declaration hanging heavy in the air. Outside, the thunder rumbles a somber applause, a slow, rolling drum that beats in tandem with her heart. Orla, breathless, spent, waits with the weight of her truth laid bare between them.
"I already lost Seren, so I came to give you a choice." He answers, pulling out a vial he places before her. "Die here and now or forget everything about me for the years to come. Go home to your peoples and resume that life I stole from you."
His eyes are shadowed, but they hold hers with an intensity that belies the calmness of his offer. "I have no wish to orphan Astrid, to inflict upon her the void that accompanies a parent's death. Even if she wouldn't fell it for years."
Her hand grabs the vial, observing its translucent content. Orla’s fingers tremble around the smooth glass, the vial light as air. Time stretches, each second pulling taut as she contemplates the enormity of the choice encapsulated within this tiny cylinder. It holds the power to erase, to alter the fabric of her reality, severing the threads of memories that bind her to her present self.
The cold dampness of the cave seems to seep deeper into her bones, a chill that has little to do with the air. With a steadying breath, an attempt to quell the storm raging within her, she unscrews the vial. The scent is nondescript, almost disappointingly ordinary, belying the potency of oblivion it offers. "For Astrid," she whispers to herself, to Uther, to the cavern's watchful shadows.
Orla doesn't crumple or fall, her head remains raised, a silent defiance to the oblivion encroaching upon her memories. As the concoction infiltrates her mind, it grafts false narratives over the truth, meticulously erasing Uther and all associated with him from the tapestry of her past.
Her gaze catches Uther, and in the span of a mere breath, he transforms before her eyes into a stranger amidst the cave's murky shadows. Confusion shrouds her features, a fog that pulls her gently into a profound slumber.
Outside, Uther is met by Isabel, who stands quietly, her silhouette a steadfast sentinel against the cliff's edge. His voice, laden with unspoken turmoil, breaks the storm's cadence. "Take her to Alderveil. Give this to whoever stands at the helm of the Graymarks." He hands Isabel a sealed letter.
Isabel, unfazed, tucks the letter into her pouch and prepares to fulfill her duty. She pauses on the threshold of the cave, her words slicing through the rain's din before she vanishes into its depths. "Once he finds out, Oswald won't find peace. He'll hunt for her, driven by a futile hope to heal the gaping wound left by Seren's death."
Uther, a looming presence even against the vast expanse of the storm, doesn't reply. He simply melds with the rain, vanishing like a specter into the heart of the tempest.