He dozed on horseback until Little Black turned and nudged him awake. "Hmm... made it?" Lannord blinked away his drowsiness to find a large pond before him. A circular clearing separated the water from the surrounding trees. The pond was murky, turning even the pure moonlight to an iron-gray sheen. The smell of blood is strong... This should be a good watering hole. But something's scared everything off. Little Black sensed something and started forward. "Found you at last, you fool."

A massive black bear lay by the water, its throat torn open in a savage gash. Blood still trickled steadily into the pond, staining the water crimson as the beast's life ebbed away. Stellan reclined against the bear's bulk, staring listlessly at the night sky's reflection. Blood stained his mouth.

"Bear blood, then," Lannord said, letting Little Black drink before settling beside his friend. "My nose should have known better." He smiled, his mood lifting slightly. "Though you'll choose different prey next time, I'm sure." After all, Stellan had only slaughtered a bear taking its rest by the water, not some hapless farmer lost in the woods.

"Wolves," Stellan replied without turning. "Next time I'll fill a whole bath with wolf pack blood."

"Stellan, you know butchering animals won't calm your rage or ease your pain." Lannord tried to soothe him, but Stellan cut him off sharply.

"Don't lecture me! You're the damned 'friend of animals,' not me!" His breath came in harsh pants. "I'll do whatever I please!"

Lannord sighed, hurt. "If you're still brooding over that defeat, I understand." He lay back by the water, hands behind his head. "That warrior - the one who knocked you... no, knocked me from my horse - he was formidable." Lannord shifted uncomfortably, wanting to talk but not worsen things, his words coming out almost like a monologue. "He marked me up worse than you." He almost showed his scars before remembering they'd all healed. Damn, I should have controlled my appetite, he thought, striking the ground in frustration.

His clumsy attempt at comfort yielded unexpected results. "His swordplay... was exceptional." Lannord noticed Stellan leaning against the bear's head, his fury replaced by exhaustion. "I used to be so confident... in everything." He slowly withdrew his hand from behind the bear, patting its bulk. "Sorry, bear." Then his gaze returned to the water, and silence fell.

Only Little Black's lapping disturbed the water's surface, the ripples breaking apart the reflected stars. From different vantage points, they gazed at the same sky.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

But was it the same sky?

Perhaps he had his answer.

----------------------------------------

They walked the riverbank together. Devalosfang had gone, though the quartermaster's expression upon seeing him lingered in their minds. They still had ground to cover before reaching Simon's recovery chamber. Both unconsciously slowed their pace, savoring this moment alone.

"Carl." Tyler broke the silence. "You need to explain what you told Lord Eoch in your report."

Footsteps ceased. Though Carl had sensed this coming, he hadn't expected Tyler to actually broach it. Taking advantage of having his back turned, his mouth worked silently as he searched for words. "You swore an oath to me, Carl Clawyn. Before the Triad of Destiny, you swore to never touch black magic again."

"That wasn't black magic, Tyler Wynlers." He kept his back turned but made his voice sound innocent yet firm. "Whether tree spirits, sleep spells, or portals - these things touch upon magic, yes, but they're fundamentally different from black arts. My knowledge barely scratches the surface. You needn't overreact..."

"Barely scratches the surface?" Tyler's laugh was bitter. "Then why don't I just conjure a sleep spell for those Black Riders? Why not open twenty portals and send them all home?" His voice dripped contempt. "Carl - or should I say 'Earl Clawyn'? Your oath ten years ago should have kept you from all such powers, whether magic or its dark kin." He remembered that black leather tome, its pages dense with ancient script and cryptic runes. Remembering how he'd torn it from Carl's grasp, how his friend had wept, his tone softened. "If my words won't reach you, remember the mage's warning. 'Magic can take life, but never create it.' That's what Vivret, that renowned mage in Godma, told you. You burned that book of black magic before him." Watching the black tome consumed by blue flames, Carl had sobbed uncontrollably. Tyler had only watched, like a spectator at an execution, as his friend screamed himself hoarse before wiping away tears to swear his trembling oath to the Triad. "I suffered too, back then," he finally admitted, after ten years of silence meant to keep them both strong. "I wished they could return - Father, Mother, Sister, Sir Stuart, even Captain Red. But they can't. They're driftwood in the river, unable to fight the current. They're dust in time's wind, buried with 'Earl Clawyn,' 'Marquess Wynlers,' and that boy who burst out 'I'll marry you!' the first time he saw my sister."

Carl flinched from these words, especially from his dearest friend. "Then what should I do?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Can't I find some comfort in these possibilities?" And those stories Vivret told me in secret. "Besides, while magic can't create life, perhaps it can rekindle what once was. Those-"

"Those are necromancers!" Tyler roared. "Users of black magic! They torture dead souls to drag them from hell! And those spirits never find peace! They become wraiths or wraith-food!" His spittle sent crabs scuttling for their holes. "I've had those thoughts too! Dreamed of becoming one, of stealing our loved ones back from Oris! But-"