Polter shifted in his saddle, feeling the ache deep in his legs from the long ride. The leather of the saddle had worn rough spots into his thighs, but he kept his face stoic. The road had been hard, and the day wasn’t done. Ahead, Leon sat in the wagon next to Hudd, their conversation punctuated by laughter that Polter ignored. Hudd’s carefree manner had become an itch Polter needed to scratch. Answers would come soon enough.
The city of Sarnat rose before them, its grey walls high and unyielding. The towers cut into the sky, banners of blue and silver rippling in the wind. Sarnat had remained untouched during the wars that ravaged the realm, its wealth and power preserved while other cities burned. Lord Myskir Sarneth knew how to play his hand, keeping Sarnat neutral until the time was right to open its gates and welcome Vilifrid with the cheers of the people.
Polter pushed those thoughts aside as they approached the gates. Guards in chainmail stood watch, their faces impassive beneath crested helms. The silver stallion of Sarnat was carved into the wood of the great gates, polished and proud. Polter drew the trade permit from his pouch, the wax seal still unbroken, and raised it for the guard captain to see. The man’s eyes flicked over it before he waved them through. The noise of the city closed around them—the clatter of hooves on stone, the cries of merchants, the steady hum of voices. Polter kept his eyes forward, alert. The streets of Sarnat were alive with movement, the kind that hid secrets. He would find out soon enough if Hudd had any to share.
Leon jumped from the cart at the start of the long market street, his movements quick and confident. Leon was tall and lean, with a gaunt, angular face. His dark hair was thick and straight, falling just past his shoulders, often swept back to reveal the high, narrow forehead and deep-set eyes. Those eyes, a muddy green flecked with darker hues, had a calculating look that rarely softened. His nose was long and slightly hooked, Thin lips and a prominent jawline. A small scar ran along as a pale line across his left cheekbone. He carried himself with an easy grace. “I’ll handle the market first,” he said, his tone casual but focused. “Fresh fruit, vegetables, maybe some medical supplies if I can find anything decent. Been a while since we had anything fresh.” Hudd stepped down with a blushing smile and a grunt as his boots hit the road.
"I’ve got a deal to finalize with someone in town. Nothing too complicated." His words came a light lie, Polter caught it immediately, his sense of something else in his eyes—Polter’s jaw tightened.
"I’ll go with you," he said, voice steady but unyielding. I am not about to let him wander off without supervision, not after his late return the night before. Whatever the truth had been to Hudd’s words, Polter had been forced to kill men. I can’t let him jeopardize everything they had built—or worse, let Hudd’s impulsive actions or his flacid loyalty let me lose her and the people I protect. Hudd looked like he wanted to protest, but something in Polter’s stare cut off any argument before it could form. He’s careless. Always has been.
Hudd laughed lightly, though it lacked any real humor. "You sure? This deal might go smoother if I handle it alone. Some folks get nervous when there’s more than one of us around, especially in a city like Sarnat."
Polter didn’t waver. "I’m coming," he repeated, adjusting the reins in his hand. “There are some questions I need to ask the ironsmith myself.” He lied, Polter grazed the hilt of the sword at his side. At least I’m holding onto something that matters, and not the fleeting pleasures of some whore in Sarnat. Polter dismounted and gathered his Sturdy Bay’s reins and joined in tandem with Hudd.
They walked through the streets in silence at first, the noise of the market and the distant clamor of blacksmiths’ hammers filling the space between them. Polter led his horse by the reins, his steps heavy with thought. Hudd finally broke the silence, his voice dropping into a lower tone. "I am not exactly going to the deal first." he admitted, glancing sideways at Polter. "I was planning on visiting Helka—she’s a nice lass ye know, you’ll like her, but that buzz kill Leon would just be cunt about things, you get me.” He fixed his same stupid smile Polter had found more and more grating the past week.
Polter stopped in his tracks, fixing Hudd with a sharp glare. "You're endangering all of us with this," he said, his voice low but firm. "Running off to see that whore, what if something happens? What if you're recognized? We can't afford this kind of carelessness, Hudd." His hands clenched the reins tighter, the leather biting into his palms.
Hudd shrugged nonchalantly. "Well that is some colorful language coming from you mr ‘sir.’ Come on, Polter. You have Eirde back in the village, don't you? She gives you warmth every night, and besides, the chances of anyone recognizing old Hudd are near none."
Polter shook his head, frustration evident in his eyes. "It's not about that. We have responsibilities, and we can't risk exposure.”
“Exposure?” Hudd laughed “Come on, Polter. You’re the one who holds onto that damned sword like it’s a lifeline. If anything would ‘expose’ us, it would be that." He flashed a grin, Polter felt a pain in his chest that burned him, Did he know! How could he know, does he know I killed those men, who told him, how could someone have told him. Anger boiled and grew and festered and all within moments flew to the surface,
“That’s not the same, and you know it. My sword isn’t going to get us all killed! It is the thing that I use to protect us from that!” he was shouting now, “I saved the village with this sword! I saved Eirde with this sword!” I killed the Cathambe raiders with this sword.” I killed the crossroads men because of this sword, I killed Crodwas, I killed my friend for this sword. Polter gave Hudd a hard shove with his right hand, “It’s survival!”
Hudd stumbled back, surprise flashing across his face. "You're losing it," he muttered.
He doesn’t get it. He never will. “I'm not going with you to see Helka. While you spend time with her, I'll be at the chapel. You can meet me there when you're done."
Hudd raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his expression. "The chapel? Since when did you become so pious?"
"It's not about that," Polter replied, his tone steady. "I need some time to think, away from distractions. Just be careful, for the sake of your own skin."
"Suit yourself," Hudd said with a dismissive wave. "Don't get too lost in your thoughts." He turned and headed down a narrow street toward his destination. Polter watched him go for a moment before leading his horse toward the chapel. Maybe in the silence of that place, he would find some clarity, some answer to the turmoil brewing inside him. The sword at his side seemed heavier than ever, its jeweled hilt catching the fading sunlight but offering no warmth.
The Chapel of the Eternal Promise rose ahead of him, its spires cutting into the sky like the horns of a great beast. The building was grand, though weathered by years of both peace and conflict. Carvings of unicorns adorned the stone walls, each one depicted in a pose of vigilance or purity, their heads raised high as if to pierce the heavens themselves. The doors were massive, oak reinforced with bands of iron, etched with the sacred scenes of the Promised Scripture—the blessings of the Eternal One and the trials of those who sought redemption. Above the entrance, a stained glass window depicted a unicorn, its hoofs raised up in a standing beside the Eternal One, the light streaming through the glass casting a soft, ethereal glow on the steps below. The Eternal One held a scroll in one hand and a sword in the other, the symbols of law and judgment. Polter paused at the base of the steps, staring up at the chapel. I need to pray. I need to find some direction.
He ascended the steps and entered the chapel. Inside, the air was cool and carried a faint scent of incense. The nave stretched out before him, empty save for a few scattered worshippers lost in silent prayer. Candles flickered along the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows that played tricks on the eyes. The polished marble floor echoed softly under his boots as he made his way toward the altar. At the far end, the altar stood beneath an arched ceiling, the image of the Unicorn and the Eternal One dominating the space above it, painted in vivid, holy detail. A holy man moved among a small gathering of peasants, offering blessings with a gentle touch and quiet words. Another cleric, dressed in flowing robes with hands folded within his sleeves, approached Polter with a serene expression.
"Peace be upon you," the Deacon said, his voice smooth and calming.
"And with you," Polter replied automatically, though his throat felt dry.
"Do you seek solace or guidance this evening?" the Deacon inquired.
Polter shifted uncomfortably. "Just... some time at the altar, if that's permitted."
"Of course," the Deacon nodded. "All are welcome here. Though I must ask that you leave your weapon at the entrance." His eyes flickered to the hilt protruding from beneath Polter's cloak.
Polter hesitated, his hand instinctively moving to cover the sword. "It's... a family heirloom. I'd prefer to keep it close," he said
The Deacon regarded him thoughtfully. "The Eternal One watches over us within these walls. There is no need for steel here."
Polter met his gaze, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "Old habits die hard."
A moment of tension hung between them before the Deacon inclined his head. "Very well. May your time here bring you the peace you seek." He gestured toward the altar before moving away to attend to other matters.
Polter exhaled slowly, making his way forward. He knelt upon the cold stone steps before the altar, the chill seeping through his worn breeches. His eyes lifted to the mural, the Unicorn's serene expression stirring a flicker of irritation within him. Who is this creature to judge me? he wondered. The imagery was so different from the fox of his home chapel in Redfurrow—the symbol he had grown up venerating. The familiarity of the fox had always brought him comfort, but this Unicorn felt alien, its gaze almost accusatory. He closed his eyes, attempting to quiet his mind. The sword's thorns pressed into his palm, grounding him in the present yet reminding him of the past. Is redemption even possible? he pondered. Or am I fooling myself? I ask that you guide me in this, its been far too long since I could speak to you oh eternal one. The emotions came flooding in, a soft rustling broke his concentration. Opening his eyes, he found the Deacon standing beside him once more, his expression gentle yet probing.
"You seem troubled," the Deacon observed quietly.
Polter sighed, his gaze returning to the mural. "Just seeking answers."
The Deacon followed his gaze. "The Eternal One offers guidance to those who listen with an open heart."
Polter's frustration bubbled to the surface. "And what of the Unicorn?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Why does this beast hold such prominence here?"
A voice answered softly from beside him. "The Unicorn symbolizes purity and grace—a conduit to understanding the Eternal One's will. It was once the emblem of a former god, whose name has been lost to time but was cultivated within the light of Agan. He reigned over the lands of Caedven."
Polter turned to see the Deacon standing nearby, hands clasped before him. The man's eyes were kind but held a depth of knowledge.
Polter frowned deeply. "Sounds like idolatry to me," he said, rising to his feet. "Elevating a creature to such heights. It's heresy."
A flicker of surprise crossed the Deacon's face, but he maintained his composure. "You misunderstand. We do not worship the Unicorn but honor what it represents—a tradition that guides us closer to the Eternal One."
"Honor? Representation?" Polter scoffed. "The Eternal One needs no such symbols. This is blasphemy. The royalty of Agathir are the only symbols he requires—they are his blood!"
Several worshippers glanced over, their murmurs growing. The Deacon's eyes hardened subtly. "Please, lower your voice. This is a place of peace."
"Peace built on false idols," Polter retorted, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You lead these people astray with pagan rituals!"
"Enough," the Deacon said firmly, a stern edge to his voice. "If you cannot respect our practices, I must ask you to leave."
Before Polter could respond, a calm voice emanated from the shadows of a nearby alcove. "Truth often wears many faces, does it not?"
Polter turned sharply toward the source. A tall figure stepped into the soft candlelight, a hooded cloak draped over his broad shoulders. The man moved with a quiet grace, his hands folded casually. As he drew closer, the flickering light revealed a square brown beard and eyes that seemed to hold both wisdom and weariness.
"Pagan's are all the same in their heresies," Polter declared, his voice tinged with righteous indignation. "My home's bishop would see you all taken before a clerical trial."
The hooded man offered a slight bow, an oddly warm smile touching his lips. "Pagan?" he mused. "I'm merely a traveler seeking respite, much like yourself."
The Deacon regarded the newcomer with cautious eyes. "Sir, this is a private matter between myself and this gentleman."
"Forgive my intrusion," the man replied smoothly. "I couldn't help but overhear."
Polter's gaze hardened. "If you have something to say, speak plainly."
The man met his stare evenly. "I find it intriguing when one denounces the beliefs of others with such fervor. Especially when one's own faith seems... conflicted."
"You know nothing of my faith," Polter snapped.
"Perhaps not," the man conceded. "But such vehement opposition often mirrors inner turmoil."
The Deacon stepped forward, his tone diplomatic. "This discourse is unnecessary. Let us all strive to maintain the sanctity of this place."
"Of course, Deacon," the hooded man said, inclining his head. "Yet sometimes, open dialogue leads us to greater understanding."
Polter felt a surge of irritation mixed with something deeper—unease. "I don't need understanding from strangers," he said coldly.
"Sometimes an outside perspective sheds light on shadows we cannot see ourselves," the man offered gently.
Polter took a step closer, his voice low and edged with warning. "What exactly are you implying?"
The man's eyes held his. "Simply that unwavering conviction without introspection can lead one astray. Just as symbols can be misinterpreted, so too can our own motives."
A tense silence settled over them. The Deacon glanced between the two men, concern etched on his features. "Perhaps it's best if we all take a moment to reflect separately."
Polter's eyes flashed with anger and a hint of uncertainty. "I've heard enough." He turned sharply, striding toward the exit, his cloak billowing behind him.
"As you wish," the hooded man called after him. "Safe travels, Polter."
Polter froze mid-step, a chill running down his spine. He hadn't given his name. Slowly, he turned his head but did not fully look back. "How do you know my name?" he demanded.
The man remained where he stood, a serene expression on his face. "Names have a way of finding their way to those who listen."
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Polter's grip tightened on his sword. "Mind your own affairs."
The Deacon interjected gently. "Sir, please. There is no need for hostility."
"Indeed," the hooded man agreed. "No conflict here—only a man seeking his path."
Polter hesitated for a heartbeat longer before pushing open the grand doors with more force than necessary. The cool night air rushed to meet him, the distant sounds of the city a stark contrast to the quiet tension of the chapel.
As he descended the steps, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes upon him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the hooded man standing in the doorway, his gaze inscrutable. For a fleeting moment, Polter thought he saw a glimmer of sadness—or perhaps disappointment—in those eyes.
Who was that? he wondered, a knot forming in his stomach. How did he know me?
Shaking off the unsettling thoughts, Polter marched into the bustling street, his mind a whirlwind. I need to find Hudd and Leon. We need to leave this city.
Polter stormed through the crowded streets, his thoughts a chaotic storm of anger and confusion. The city's clamor faded into a distant hum as he reached the stables, his movements hurried and tense. He seized the reins of his horse, the animal sensing his agitation and tossing its head nervously. The sword at his side felt heavier than ever, the thorns biting into his palm—a relentless reminder of burdens he couldn't escape.
He swung into the saddle, spurring the horse forward. Hooves struck the cobblestones in a rapid cadence as they surged into a gallop. Faces blurred past him—a mosaic of oblivious townsfolk—as he weaved through the labyrinth of streets.
Lost in his turmoil, Polter barely registered the group of armed men until his horse reared back with a startled whinny. Cloaked in blue, the soldiers turned sharply, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons.
"Watch where you're going!" one of them barked, eyes narrowing.
Polter tightened his grip on the reins, forcing his horse to calm. "Apologies," he muttered, his voice strained. "Wasn't paying attention."
He was about to guide his horse around them when his gaze locked onto a young man among the soldiers. The youth had a freckled face framed by short hair tied neatly at the back. Deep-set green eyes met his with a mix of surprise and recognition. But it was the jagged scar where his left ear had been—a wound too distinctive to forget—that sent a chill racing down Polter's spine.
The squire. The one he had spared.
"Polter?" the young man's voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief coloring his tone.
Polter's heart pounded. He forced a casual smile, though his mind screamed for escape. "Think you've got the wrong man," he said lightly. "Name's Berno—a simple farmer."
The squire's eyes flicked to the sword at Polter's side, the ornate hilt peeking from beneath his cloak. "A farmer with a warrior's blade?" he questioned, skepticism evident.
Polter shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "Family heirloom. Keeps the wolves at bay."
One of the soldiers stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "In these parts, only nobles and soldiers carry such weapons."
Polter felt the thorns digging deeper into his palm. "Times are dangerous. Can't be too careful," he replied, affecting a rustic accent.
The squire's gaze intensified. "Funny. You remind me of someone—a man I met on a night I'd rather forget."
"Lots of faces in the world," Polter said, his throat dry. "Easy to get them mixed up."
Before he could react, the squire nodded subtly to the soldier beside him. A gauntleted hand shot out, gripping Polter's reins with iron strength. "I think you'd best come with us," the soldier growled.
Polter's pulse quickened. "There's no need for that," he began, but the squire cut him off.
"Your eyes," the squire said, his voice cold. "I'd recognize them anywhere. Haunting amber—just like that night."
Time seemed to slow. Polter's hand inched toward his sword, but he knew he was outnumbered and cornered. Desperation clawed at him.
Suddenly, a sharp twang sliced through the air. The soldier gripping Polter's reins stiffened, a feathered arrow protruding from the gap in his visor accompanied by a spurt of warm crimson. He jolted upright, a guttural grunt escaping his lips before he crumpled to the ground. Seizing the moment, Polter swiftly slashed the reins free with his knife.
"After them!" the squire shouted, his voice cutting through the startled murmurs of the crowd. "Don't let them escape!"
Polter didn't hesitate. He spurred his horse hard, bursting through the momentarily stunned circle of men. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Leon perched on a low rooftop, bow in hand. With a fluid motion, Leon leaped, landing deftly behind Polter in the saddle.
"Didn't think you'd need a rescue," Leon muttered close to his ear.
"Neither did I," Polter replied, urging the horse into a full gallop.
"Sound the alarm!" the squire yelled, his men scattering to rouse the city guard. Bells began to toll, and the distant clamor of armored soldiers mobilizing filled the air.
They tore through the winding streets, the echoes of pursuit growing louder behind them. Leon glanced back to see a pair of mounted guardsmen emerging from a side street, their armor gleaming, lances poised.
"We've got company," Leon warned.
Polter urged the horse faster, weaving through the throngs of traders and refugees that clogged the thoroughfares. Shouts of alarm and confusion rose around them as they dodged carts and pedestrians. A burly man in a battered hauberk—a mercenary by the look of him—stepped into their path, brandishing a broadsword.
"Hold there!" the mercenary barked, eyes narrowing.
Without breaking stride, Polter leaned low in the saddle and delivered a swift kick to the man's chest. The mercenary staggered back, crashing into a vendor's stall in an explosion of splintered wood and wares.
"Nice," Leon remarked with a fleeting grin.
"No time," Polter shot back, focusing on the road ahead.
Behind them, the guardsmen pressed on, their horses gaining despite the chaos of the crowded streets. The squire, now mounted, led the charge, his face a mask of determination.
"There they are!" a townsman shouted, pointing wildly. "Stop them!"
Leon notched an arrow and let it fly. The shaft found its mark, thudding into the man's ribcage. He collapsed amid the panicked crowd, screams erupting around him.
"Was that necessary?" Polter hissed through clenched teeth.
"Would you rather he rallied the whole city against us?" Leon retorted.
Alarms blared as more guards poured into the streets ahead, the glint of their spears forming a moving barricade.
"Left!" Leon shouted.
Polter yanked the reins, veering down a narrow alleyway. They thundered past startled onlookers, ducking under hanging laundry and leaping over obstacles. The walls closed in, the passage barely wide enough for their horse.
"They'll have the main gates covered," Leon warned, his breath hot against Polter's neck. "We need another way out."
Polter's mind raced. "Suggestions?"
"Follow me," Leon said, grabbing the remaining left rein and swinging off the horse as they passed a narrow alley. "This way!"
Polter reined in, dismounting swiftly. Together, they led the horse into the shadows, the sound of their pursuers growing distant. the alleys a maze of secrets.
Leon glanced at him, a sly grin playing on his lips despite the danger. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"
Polter managed a wry smile. "Seemed you were the one in hiding."
"Observing," Leon corrected. "Good thing, too."
They moved quickly, sticking to the back alleys where the city's watch seldom tread. The rain from earlier had left the cobblestones slick, their footsteps muffled by the dampness.
As they slipped through a gap between two crumbling buildings, Polter couldn't shake the squire's piercing gaze from his mind. "He recognized me," he said quietly.
Leon glanced at him. "Who?"
"The squire. From before."
Leon frowned. "Unlucky."
"That's one word for it."
They emerged into a small courtyard, the sounds of the city muted here. Polter took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart.
Leon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get out of this. Always do."
Polter looked at him, the weight of the sword pressing against his side. "And then what? How many more times can we run?"
Leon met his gaze evenly. "As many as it takes."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Leon gestured toward a narrow passageway. "Come on. I know a way through the old sewers. Not pleasant, but it'll get us outside the walls."
Polter nodded slowly. "Lead the way."
They halted in a secluded courtyard, lungs burning from the frantic sprint. The surrounding buildings loomed overhead, their darkened windows like empty eyes watching from the shadows. An oppressive silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Leon gripped Polter's arm tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh.
Once they reached a small courtyard surrounded by looming, crumbling walls, Leon gestured for them to stop, his breathing heavy. "This should be safe, at least for the moment," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "But we have to lose the horse. It’s too conspicuous, if those bastards have let out the word of what to look out for they would take us."
Polter hesitated, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. The sword’s thorns pressed into his palm, as though daring him to let it go. Finally, he led the horse to a post and tied the reins, feeling a pang of reluctance as he left the animal behind. I’ll come back for it, he promised.
"Fine," he muttered, tension edging his voice. "Let's keep moving."
They slipped deeper into the maze of alleyways, the shadows swallowing them with each step. Polter's legs felt like lead, fatigue gnawing at his muscles, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins pushed him onward. As they reached a narrow alcove between crumbling walls, Leon pulled him aside, pressing a finger to his lips.
"This should be safe for a moment," Leon said quietly, wiping sweat from his brow. "We shouldn’t need the sewers now that I think about it. There is a postern gate, Fewer guards, less attention."
Polter nodded, though his thoughts were a jumble of doubts. Every choice feels wrong. He glanced back the way they had come, half-expecting to see shadows morph into pursuers.
Leon followed his gaze, then his eyes settled on the sword at Polter's side. His expression hardened. "That blade..."
Polter tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt. "What about it?"
"It's a liability," Leon stated flatly. "We leave it behind."
"No," Polter replied firmly. "It stays with me."
Leon took a step closer, his voice low but intense. "It's the reason they spotted you. That damned sword stands out like a beacon."
Polter's grip tightened, the thorns biting deeper. "I won't abandon it."
Exasperation flashed across Leon's face. "You're putting us both at risk! This isn't the time for stubbornness."
"Stubbornness?" Polter shot back, his eyes narrowing. "This sword has saved us more times than I can count."
Leon scoffed. "And now it's going to get us killed. Think about someone other than yourself for once.”
A tense silence stretched between them, the distant sounds of the city fading into the background. Polter's jaw clenched. "I'm not leaving it."
Leon searched Polter’s face, his frustration giving way to resignation, but only just. He exhaled sharply, a forced calmness in his voice. "Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when that sword’s the weight that drags us both down." He paused, shaking his head. "We should’ve run for somewhere else—anywhere but back there."
"We have people depending on us," Polter replied firmly, his voice edged with defiance. "Eirde, Theo, the entire village. We owe them our loyalty."
Leon met his gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Loyalty?" he sneered. "To what? A memory of some folk who wouldn’t hesitate to turn you over if the price was right? You're blind, Polter. After tonight, there's no going back to that village or anyplace we've ever known. The guards will be everywhere by morning, in the city and beyond. They’ll hunt down any fool within shouting distance. And where’ll that leave us?"
"We find a way back and keep them safe, like we promised," Polter snapped. "But your answer? You’d run north, straight into the arms of the highest bidder. And to fight for that monster of Gwenforth? After everything we’ve seen?" He paused, disgust curling in his voice. "I thought you had at least some honor."
"Honor," Leon repeated, mockingly. "That honor of yours is going to get us killed. I’m thinking of survival, Polter—yours and mine. Let me tell you, honor's no shield against a sword. We could be halfway to Gwenforth by now, already filling our pockets and making something of ourselves. But you’d risk everything for what? A handful of peasants who barely remember your name?"
Polter’s jaw tightened. "We’ve fought for them, bled for them. You think I’d turn my back on them now, when the patrols are closing in? If I die for anything, it’ll be for my word—not some lord’s coin."
Leon scoffed, his tone biting. "They don’t deserve your word, Polter. You’re a fool to be bound to people who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, you really think if men rode to the village with warrants they wouldn’t bring you bound and gagged to the hangman."
Polter’s fists clenched at his sides, his voice low and steady. "I don’t expect you to understand. You never cared for anything." A highwayman, nothing more.
Leon didn’t flinch. His voice took on a hard edge, a cruel twist. "And maybe it’s time you stopped pretending you’re better than the rest of us. Listen to me, Polter, Bacchus, Gero, Theo—they’re names, nothing more. Should we be caught, we just cough em up, in a week, the guard’ll forget they ever met us. Or would you rather die clinging to your precious ideals while the world moves on?"
Disbelief and fury twisted Polter’s expression as he stared at Leon, selfish bastard. "You’d betray them—people who stood beside us through every battle—just to save your own skin?"
Leon’s expression didn’t soften, his eyes dark and unrepentant. "You don’t get it, do you? I’m not betraying anyone—I’m surviving. You either learn to make hard choices, or you let yourself be buried under someone else’s honor. I’d rather live with blood on my hands than rot under a pile of ideals. You and me both are already abandoning Hudd, not once have I seen you pop up to start running that idealist mouth for Hudd’s ass." How dare you “Where is that ratfucking idealism.” Keep it up Polter’s eyes gave a challenge, “Exactly!” Leon pointed a mocking finger to Polter’s sword, “now get your mummer’s show of chivalry off its damn high horse and come down and be-”
Leon’s expression didn’t soften, his eyes dark and unrepentant, a sneer twisting his lips. "You don’t get it, do you? I’m not betraying anyone—I’m surviving. You either learn to make hard choices, or you let yourself be buried under someone else’s ideals. I’d rather live with blood on my hands than rot under a pile of honor and noble nonsense." He jabbed a finger in Polter’s direction. "Tell me, where was all that ‘honor’ when we abandoned Hudd? You think you’re different from me? Don’t pretend your high morals kept you from leaving him behind."
How dare you, Polter’s fists clenched, knuckles white as the anger surged through him.
Leon smirked, seeing the flicker of shock and anger in Polter’s eyes. "Where’s that bleeding heart now? Ratfucking idealism." He gestured mockingly to Polter’s sword, his tone dripping with disdain. "You wear that sword and your ideals like armor, but you’re just like me underneath it all. You left Hudd, didn’t you? You’d leave anyone to save your precious pride."
You don’t know me, Polter’s eyes narrowed, a slow, burning anger building in his chest. You think you do, but you don’t know anything.
Leon’s voice dropped, softer but sharper, every word cutting deep. "Come down from that high horse, Polter. Face it. You’re just a man, same as the rest of us. All that ‘chivalry’ of yours is a damn mummer’s show."
Polter’s jaw tightened, muscles taut, You think I’m like you? You think I would leave anyone, just as easily as you would? His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, and for a brief, blinding moment, the anger flared hotter, consuming reason.
Leon’s mocking finger pointed right at him, the smirk widening as he pushed his words further. Polter didn’t realize he was moving until his fist met Leon’s face, the impact snapping Leon’s head back and sending a jolt up his arm. The force knocked Leon off balance, and he staggered before crumpling to the ground, eyes wide with shock and betrayal, until his eyes rolled back to unconsciousness on the muddied floor.
Polter stood over him, breathing heavily, his own shock settling in as he looked down at Leon. What have I done? Guilt twisted in his stomach, cold and relentless. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though his voice felt hollow, like an echo of words he didn’t fully believe.
I can’t linger. The walls seemed to close in around him, the weight of his actions pressing down. Turning abruptly, Polter retraced his steps, each footfall echoing like a hammer strike. The horse remained where they'd left it, shifting nervously. Polter mounted swiftly, his hands shaking as he grasped the reins. I have to get out. Now.
Guiding the horse into a cautious trot, he avoided the main thoroughfares, sticking to the shadows cast by towering edifices. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts—guilt gnawing at him, fear propelling him forward. The postern gate emerged from the darkness, unassuming and lightly guarded. A solitary sentry leaned against the archway, lantern light casting flickering shadows across his bored features. Polter approached slowly, forcing an air of calm. He produced the permit, his heart pounding in his chest. Stay steady. The guard glanced at the parchment, barely lifting an eyelid. "This permit is usually for the main gate," he remarked.
"Wanted to get out without waiting a damned hour," Polter replied with a feinted joviality.
The guard grunted, handing back the permit. "Safe journey." Polter nodded, urging his horse through the gate. The weight of the city's walls fell away behind him, but the heaviness in his chest remained.
Once outside the city walls, Polter spurred his horse into a gallop, the open road stretching before him like an endless, unforgiving path. The weight of the sword was a constant presence at his side, the thorns biting deeper into his flesh with every jolt of the ride. What can I do?