"Well, hello there." Hunter tried to sound nonchalance, but a slight jerk of his body betrayed his surprise. His leg swung to sweep two chains and manacles, making a clearing on the floor. “Have a seat. It’s a little austere, but it’s homey.”

Oliver lowered his swordstaff. "What are you doing in the dungeon?"

“Good to see you too.” He started at the ghost and shook his head. “You caused my awakening. And I saw what we face. Why did you want to journey on without me?”

“It’s,” Oliver began but hesitated. He thought of what he did to Zaisy and Staharad and the destruction he’d caused to stop the assassin. “I’m a threat to everyone around me.”

"Elstina Proded me to follow you," Hunter said, rising to his feet and dusting off his trousers. "Said you’d need me to guide you to her."

"You want to bring me back to Credola?"

Hunter leaned against the wall and lit a pipe. “No. She snuck back into the Hall of Mirrors. She’s at Halshan Castle, chatting with the king about you.”

“Has everybody followed me?”

"No. I don’t think so. You’re worried about harming your friends, but from what I’ve seen, you keep making new friends. Elstina, the guild, the barbarians, and even the monastery monks. People are pulled to you."

Oliver watched the ghost girl move further away. "I’m an error in the System. I think it confuses the Narrative." Talking about the subject made him think of Eldrin’s unread messages. He liked the scientist and didn’t want to ignore him, and maybe there was good information in those walls of text.

Hunter waved for him to follow. "That doesn’t account for those of us who are outside of it.” He pointed. “You’re losing your ghost."

The ghost girl wondered aimlessly, walking up through the four higher levels. At first, Oliver thought she had guided him somewhere, but she soon faded from a high window of a tower, which left the two to walk down the spiral staircase. What do I do now?

Sir Edmund bumped into them outside the great hall and insisted now was the time to spar in the yard. Then, he looked Hunter up and down. “Who’s this?”

“My party has a thief,” Oliver said. “In case we run into a dragon lair or whatever, he’s silence itself. I think you’re the first to notice him.”

Sir Edmund puffed his chest. “Yes, well, I’m very observant. Shall we go to the armory?”

Oliver chose a quarterstaff from the racks of practice weapons. Hunter picked a long and short wooden sword to use in each hand. Armed, they walked out into the yard under a hot sun and watched a few duels from the shade of the trees that encircled the castle. The breeze felt cold in the shadows.

Edmund called Gillian and Oliver’s names, and the two combatants faced each other.

Gillian stepped forward, polished armor gleaming. He set his jaw and neared with a wide stance.

“Loosen up,” Oliver said.

“I’m not a loose person. But I’m very good at what I do.”

A ring of interested onlookers formed from the nearby farms. Their faces showed excitement in contrast to the stoic knights. The maids lined the wall. Halfdan and Sigrid joined, and then Saj and Charity in a spot by a cart. Hunter leaned against a pig pen post.

Gillian lunged, blade whooshing.

Oliver parried with the shaft of his quarterstaff, meeting practice blade with a thack. The knight’s strikes were precise and fast as a snake. Oliver countered each thrust and slash with subtle movements.

Soon, Oliver disarmed Sir Gillian with a whirl of the butt of the staff, sending the knight’s sword flying.

A hush fell, and then a polite clap.

Sir Gillian retrieved his sword. "Either that was the worst performance of my life, or you’re a master. How that’s possible at your age, I don’t know. But you do have a staff, which gives reach advantage."

“Yes,” Edmund said. “A large advantage. I want two more to join.” He beckoned to two other knights. “Three of you should do more than tilt the scales in Gillian’s favor."

Oliver should have protested, but the staff felt exceptionally animated in his grip as if it wanted the fight and not him. It hummed as he flurrished it.

The two knights and a paladin stepped forward, forming a triangle around Oliver. The crowd murmured. Evidently, three on one wasn’t common.

Attacks came from multiple angles. Oliver flowed between them, turning aside blades or missing them entirely. There was always a new threat. Each step to avoid one put him in the sights of another.

His opponents must have felt frustration as well. With the staff whirring in broad loops, distance remained his ally.

“How long can you keep this up,” Gillian gasped. “You must be getting tired.

Oliver felt his muscles burn, but he wasn't the one in danger of gasing.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

One knight moved flat-footed and put half his effort into a swing.

And that’s all it took to break the triangle. The knight glanced up in time to see solid wood wisting toward his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. The staff ricocheted from his cheek, and he went sprawling.

Now Oliver felt free. He attacked one side to the other, back and forth.

The paladin and knight sucked air and took a more defensive stance until the staff crushed into the knight’s gauntlet.

Oliver wheeled on Gillian. “You guys are in better shape than me, out here exercising all day. But you have to stay loose.” It seemed like common sense.

While his teammate nursed a hand, Gillian nodded. “I yield. That was an amazing display of talent.”

The clapping from the onlookers rose above politeness.

Well, at least Oliver wouldn’t have to do that again. At least, he hoped not. Perhaps some relished in the violence, but he could feel the hits to his opponents as if it were done to him and as if he’d taken every kind of injury and remembered the agony.

He spotted Beatrice and made eye contact but looked away. Why’d he look away? She filled her dress to bursting in all the right places.

Later, orange light slanted into dusty halls. Oliver climbed back to the highest tower of the keep. The ghost had brought him there for a reason. He rifled through a desk near the window and found a letter.

I am Bridget, wife of the late Leonard and mother to my beloved daughter, Lilly. I write these letters in hope someone will discover what happened to me and Lilly. My life here has been one of pain and sorrow. The cruelty of my late husband’s line is unspeakable.

Leonard was not the man he appeared to be. Behind his charming facade, he was abusive and violent. He blamed me for his failures. The hunt for the griffin became his obsession, ultimately leading to our daughter’s demise. I know she didn’t fall by accident. She told me he forced her higher each day.

It breaks my heart to see Lilly roaming the halls at night. I try to speak with her, but she ignores me.

I thought Leonard’s death would bring peace to Lilly, but she’s still here, trapped between worlds.

Lord Reynold accuses me of poisoning Leonard, but it’s not true. I don’t know why he died, and I don’t care. He was fine one moment and dead the next.

Here comes Reynold to take me to the dungeon again. I won’t tell him what he wants to hear. I won’t confess.

Oliver fisted the letter and marched downstairs.

The knights and most of the staff gathered in the great hall. They tried to feed Lord Reynold, but he pushed the food away. The knights sat at his table, guzzled beer, and talked about their day’s exploits. When they saw Oliver enter, they raised their goblets.

Oliver paused with his swordstaff in hand. He’d stormed down with a purpose, and they looked too happy to see him.

Edmund wiped his mouth and neared. “Oliver, you can’t bring that into the hall.”

Oliver ignored the knight. "My lord," he said loud enough to echo back from the vaulted ceiling.

Reynold's eyes flicked to him. They were so red and bruised he appeared ghoulish, yet his voice rang clear. "Who are you? You don’t belong here.”

"Perhaps not, but I’ve come to rid you of your ghost problem.”

“Oh? Good. She’s everywhere. It won’t let me sleep. I can never sleep. Tell me how, and it’ll be done.”

Oliver ignored the eyes on him and the silence. “Your ghost will not rest until you confess what you’ve done. How did Bridget die?"

Reynold’s face contorted. "She died of sadness. The loss of a husband and daughter was too much."

Oliver shook his head. "I have Lady Bridget’s letters. I know of Leonard’s cruelty, Lilly’s fate, and that you tortured Bridget. I know Gillian is Lilly’s true father."

The paladin jumped and buried his face in his beer. The knight next to him nudged him and whispered.

Reynold lunged forward, hands shaking, spit dribbling. "Take him!"

Before Oliver had to defend himself, a chill wind rushed into the hall. A spectral figure manifested—a woman’s silhouette, face twisted in pain. Another smaller shape hovered behind her, a child’s ghost, silent but accusing.

Reynold stumbled back, crying out as the ghosts lifted him from the armpits. “There bringing me to the Lake of Fire. Help.” His feet dangled. His screams reverberated.

Oliver pointed the swordstaff at him.”Confess.”

"Stop!" Reynold shrieked, tears streaming down his face. "I did it! I killed Bridget. Please, let me go. It was within my rights."

The ghosts lowered Reynold and smeared away.

The lord collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

Oliver wasn’t comfortable with the man crying at his feet. The man had had no problem causing pain and misery but sniveled for his own safety.

Reynold, trembling, reached for him. "Are they happy? Are they gone?"

“No,” Oliver said. “You keep them here.”

Reynold rose shakily and walked out of the hall as if in a trance. The knights and advisors followed, trying to figure out how to respond.

Oliver followed at a distance, drawn by a strange compulsion. Reynold stumbled out of the main gate and into the forest. Oliver and a few knights trailed him, calling his name, but he did not answer.

They came to a giant oak, ancient and gnarled, its branches twisting against the fading light. Without a word, Reynold began to climb, hand over hand, despite splinters and rough bark tearing at his palms.

Oliver watched, "Just as Lilly had done."

Reynold reached a high branch and walked out along it. Even a hundred feet up, the boughs were stout enough not to sag under the weight of a man.

Then, with a quiet sob, he let himself fall. The knights rushed forward a step but couldn’t catch the lord, whose body struck the ground hard.

A hush settled over the forest. The knights stared for a time and called for a cart.

Oliver stood in silence. This was not how he wanted it to end, but perhaps it was inevitable. Reynold got what he deserved. Who could feel bad for someone who tortured others?

When he returned to the keep, he thought maybe he’d be arrested, but the knights sat at the table, talking about who the high lord would pick for a replacement. They barely acknowledge him because they were so engaged in politics.

Beatrice passed him in the hall, and they both turned and faced each other. She talked about the sparring in the yard and the ghosts, but her eyes held their own conversation. They drew closer and never broke eye contact. She touched his partial mask. “It’s so mysterious.,” she said, holding his hand. “Come here.”

Even a handhold sent lightning up his arm. Her hands were small and soft.

They sat in a dark corner on the second floor. He would have to leave soon. Very soon. But he could have sat with her for an eternity.

She stood in front of him, and he drank in her curves. She dropped to her knees and rested her tits on his knees. They were heavy and spilled out of her dress. She bent down and vacuumed his length in with her mouth.