Polter rode with no sense of time, the world around him reduced to the rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves and the raw sting of his thighs against the saddle. The wind whipped at his face, drying the cold sweat that clung to his skin. He couldn't tell how long he'd been riding—minutes, hours—it all bled together in a haze of urgency and dread. By the time the familiar outline of the village emerged on the horizon, his face was flushed red, a stark contrast to the pallor that clung to him like a second skin.

He dismounted clumsily at the village edge, his legs numb and unsteady. Theocharis was there, towering and solid, his broad shoulders blocking the path. His eyes widened at the sight of Polter's disheveled state.

"Polter? What happened?" Theo's voice was low, tinged with concern.

Polter avoided his gaze, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. "I need to talk to you," he said tersely. Then, raising his voice slightly, "Get Bacchus. Now."

Theo hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright. I'll get him."

Polter pushed past him, heading toward an empty house at the village's center. The door creaked as he entered, the air inside stale and thick with dust. He paced the length of the single room, his heart hammering against his ribs like a death knell. Minutes dragged by, each one stretching longer than the last, until finally the door opened.

Bacchus entered alone, his golden nose glinting as his single eye surveyed Polter with sharp, calculating suspicion. The usual warmth in his expression was replaced by a cold scrutiny.

"Where's Gero?" Polter asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Bacchus closed the door behind him, the sound echoing ominously. "Out," he replied curtly. "It's just you and me." folding his arms. "What's this about?"

Polter took a deep breath. "We were seen in the city. Hudd... he was caught flirting with some woman, and Erik—Crodwas’s squire—recognized him. They're coming for us. It’s only a matter of time before they reach the village."

Bacchus's gaze remained steady. "And Leon?"

Polter hesitated, the lie heavy on his tongue. "He... he was caught too. I barely escaped."

Silence hung in the air. Bacchus's eye narrowed subtly. "You barely escaped," he repeated.

"Yes," Polter affirmed, avoiding his gaze. "We need to leave, Bacchus. Now."

Bacchus leaned back slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “And you? How exactly did you get out of that mess?”

Polter’s mouth went dry. “I... I escaped before they could get to me.”

“Escaped?” Bacchus repeated, his tone flat. “Just like that?”

Polter felt the weight of Bacchus’s stare, the silence between them stretching unbearably. Finally, Bacchus stood, his broad frame casting a shadow over Polter. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice quiet but unyielding.

Polter flinched. “I’m not—”

“Don’t insult me,” Bacchus interrupted, stepping closer. “You left them behind, didn’t you? Abandoned them to the guards.”

Polter felt his pulse quicken. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bacchus raised an eyebrow. "Don't play dumb with me. Where are Leon and Hudd?"

Polter's mouth went dry. He looked away, unable to meet Bacchus's piercing gaze. "They... didn't make it."

A heavy silence hung between them. Bacchus took another step closer. "Didn't make it? Or did you abandon them?"

Polter's eyes snapped back to Bacchus, anger and guilt flashing across his face. "I did what I had to do, alright what matters is that they-"

"I see. Just like with Godefroy."

Polter's heart lurched. "What are you talking about?"

"You think I didn't know?"

Polter’s heart pounded in his chest, the shadows of the fire, Godefroy's fearful eyes, the final, unforgiving act. the weight of Bacchus’s words pressing down on him like a stone. “He betrayed us,” he said weakly.

“I’m not blind,” Bacchus said, his single-eyed gaze cutting through him. “I saw the blood on your hands that night, just like I see it now. You think I didn’t notice the way you, Gero, and Leon looked when you came back? You killed him. And not for justice—for vengeance.

“And what did you do to Leon and Hudd?” Bacchus demanded, his voice rising. “Betrayal for betrayal, right?”

Polter’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Bacchus stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “You need to leave, Polter.”

Polter blinked, his stomach twisting. “What?”

“You heard me,” Bacchus said firmly. “You’re a danger to everyone here. If you stay, you’ll drag us all down with you.”

“I can make it right,” Polter insisted, desperation creeping into his voice.

“You had your chance,” Bacchus replied. “And you threw it away. Take Gero with you. He’s no better. But you? You’re worse because you think you can lie your way out of everything. If you care at all about these people—about Eirde—you'll go.”

The mention of Eirde struck a nerve. Polter's shoulders sagged slightly, the fight draining out of him. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“That’s not my problem,” Bacchus said coldly. “But you’re leaving, or I’ll make sure everyone here knows exactly what you’ve done.”

Polter stared at him, his vision blurring. “You’d really turn me out like this?”

Bacchus stepped closer, his voice dropped to a curse. “I’d do worse to protect these people.”

Polter looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant for things to turn out this way."

Bacchus's expression softened just a fraction. "Intentions don't erase actions. You need to take responsibility."

The words cut deeper than any blade. Polter nodded slowly, his throat tight. “Fine,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll leave.”

“Good,” Bacchus said, stepping back. “Gather your goods and get yourself far from here.”

Polter slithered from the house, his heart pounding with fear and rage. He entered the manse and quickly made way to his room, still fuming. His hands shook as he reached for his armor, tugging it on with quick, jerking movements. The familiar weight of the mail shirt settled across his broad shoulders, but it offered no comfort, it was almost alien. The Steel chestplate fit well, a backpiece fastened together with straps and buckles and a gorget, a collar protecting the throat. He grabbed a sack and began stuffing it with food and provisions, his breath quick and shallow. Eirde entered the room quietly, her presence like a ghost haunting the edges of his vision. Her pale face was drained of color, her eyes wide with worry. She took in the sight of him, armored, frantic, and her lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came. Finally, she found her voice, though it was small, trembling. “Polter? What’s happening?” Polter didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as he fought to hold back the torrent of emotions that threatened to spill over. He moved to another room where he grabbed a well made chunk of bread into the sack, his movements hurried, frantic.

“I’m leaving,” he said, his voice hollow, as if the words weren’t truly his.

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Eirde made to follow, her hands trembling as they reached out toward him. “Leaving? Why? Where are you going?” Her voice was pleading now, a soft desperation that tugged at something deep inside him, something he had long tried to smother. She was close enough now that he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the faint lavender scent she always carried with her. It was comforting, familiar, but it only made the pain worse.

Eirde stepped closer, her hands trembling as they reached out toward him. "Leaving? Why? Where are you going?" Her voice was pleading now, a soft desperation that tugged at something deep inside him, something he had long tried to smother.

He avoided her gaze, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I can't stay here anymore."

She moved to stand in front of him, forcing him to stop. "Look at me," she whispered.

Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. The concern and love he saw there nearly undid him. "Please, tell me what's wrong," she implored. "We can face it together."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, harsh and hollow. "You don't understand. I'm not the man you think I am."

Her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

He took a shaky breath, the words catching in his throat like splinters. "I'm a murderer, Eirde. A killer." His voice broke, each syllable dragged up from the pit where he'd buried every shameful memory. "I've done terrible things—things you could never forgive."

The confession left a bitter taste in his mouth, sharper than any blade. He could feel the thorns biting into his palm even now, the sword at his side a relentless reminder of every life he'd taken, every betrayal he'd wrought. He wanted to stop, to spare her from the poison inside him, but the words spilled out like blood from an open wound. What was the point of silence now?

Eirde searched his face, her own crumbling under the weight of his admission. Tears shimmered in her eyes, spilling over like rain against a fragile windowpane. "Everyone has a past," she said softly, her voice trembling but steady in its belief. "But that doesn't define who you are now."

Her words hit him harder than he expected. Doesn't define me? If only she could see the ghosts clawing at his back, hear the screams that echoed in his mind on restless nights, hear her calls of monster. He shook his head, his jaw clenching as breathed out forced words. "You don't know what I've done," he whispered, his voice raw and strained.

Images flooded his mind, sharp and vivid as freshly spilled blood. Godefroy’s panicked eyes, the way the firelight flickered over his face as Polter had stepped forward. The way Leon’s laughter had cut through the air, cruel and biting, and Gero’s silence—always silent, but always complicit. The thud of the final blow, the life draining out of Godefroy as Polter’s hands trembled on the hilt of his blade. Not justice. Never justice. Just vengeance. And I had told myself it was enough.

"I’ve killed innocent men," he said, the words heavier than he imagined. His hands twitched at his sides, as though trying to wipe away the blood he could still feel there, sticky and warm. "Betrayed those who trusted me." Crodwas. Erik. Hudd, Leon. Even Dante, foolish Dante. They all looked to me, and I— His throat tightened, his breath catching as the guilt coiled around his ribs. He wanted to scream, to tear at his chest and rip out the thing that kept him breathing, the thing that kept him alive. How could she look at him like that—with love, with hope? Didn’t she understand what he was? Didn’t she see the rot beneath the armor, the cowardice hiding behind the sword?

Eirde’s tears broke him, but not enough. Nothing ever would. He could see it in her eyes, the way she reached for him with trembling hands. She thought she could save him. She thought he was worth saving. And he hated her for it. He hated her kindness, her warmth, her belief in the man he pretended to be. But more than that, he hated himself.

"I’m not this man you think I am," he muttered, the words choking in his throat. "And I never will be." His voice cracked, as if daring her to see through the brittle shell and into the monster that lived beneath. "The man you love, the man you think you see—it’s a lie, Eirde. It always was."

The words cut through the room like a knife, and he saw her flinch, saw the pain flash across her face as if he had struck her. Her expression crumbled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t care about your past,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I love you for who you are now, Polter. For the man standing in front of me, I know it can’t be a lie!”

Polter let out a bitter laugh, a harsh, guttural sound that seemed to tear from his throat. “The man I am now? You don’t know who I am. You’ve fallen for a story, a folk tale.”

The tears in Eirde’s eyes spilled over, carving glistening paths down her cheeks, but she didn’t back away. Instead, she stepped forward, her hands trembling but resolute as they reached for him. Her touch was soft, gentle, an unspoken plea to pull him back from the edge of the abyss. “Please, don’t do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking with quiet desperation. “Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

Polter’s chest tightened, the ache unbearable. Her words, her love—they were heavier than the sword at his side, heavier than all the guilt he carried. How can she still love me? After everything I’ve done? The memories surged up unbidden—faces he had struck down, eyes wide with fear, the bitter tang of betrayal lingering on his tongue. After all the blood I’ve spilled. After all the lies I’ve told. His breath hitched as his hand fell to the sword. The hilt felt colder than usual, the thorns biting deep into his palm, as though mocking him for even considering her forgiveness. He clung to the pain, welcoming it like an old friend. This is who I am. A killer. A coward. A man unworthy of redemption. The sting grounded him, a cruel tether to the reality he could never escape.

“I’ve murdered men, Eirde,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, each word jagged and raw. “Innocent men, strangers, fearful men.” He forced himself to meet her eyes, even as the weight of her disbelief threatened to crush him.

Her breath caught, her lips parting in shock. The love in her eyes flickered, wavering but not extinguished. “What are you saying?” she asked, her voice fragile, trembling. It was as if the very foundation of her world had cracked beneath her feet.

Polter couldn’t bear it. The hope in her voice, the faith she clung to—it felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He turned away sharply, his throat tight, and moved toward the sack he’d been hastily filling. The provisions felt like nothing in his hands, the motions automatic as his mind spiraled. “It’s better if you forget me,” he said, the words as hollow and lifeless as the man he had become. “You’ll be safer without me.”

“Polter, please—” Her voice broke, desperation spilling out as she reached for him again. But he was already moving, already shutting her out. The door groaned in protest as he shoved it open, the cold air rushing in to meet him like a final judgment.

He paused for a heartbeat, his hand still on the frame, but he didn’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I’ll break. He stepped through, leaving the warmth of her presence behind. Each step felt like another nail in his coffin, a self-imposed punishment he knew he deserved. This is what I chose. This is what I’ve earned.

In the stables, Polter worked with frantic precision, his fingers trembling as he tightened the reins on the black sable palfrey. The horse shifted nervously, sensing his turmoil. He avoided the gazes of the villagers, their lives fragile and blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing in his wake. The thought struck him like a hammer: If they knew the truth, they’d cast me out themselves.

By the time Gero arrived, mounted on his sturdy shire horse, Polter’s breathing was shallow, his mind spinning. Gero’s armor was a patchwork of worn leather and chainmail, his black boiled leather emblazoned with the faded crest of a unicorn—an emblem that once symbolized hope but now felt as empty as the man wearing it. His rough, unhandsome face was set in a scowl, his crooked nose and broken teeth a testament to the life they had shared. He pulled the horse to a halt, his dark eyes boring into Polter. “Took you long enough,” Gero muttered, his voice low and laced with irritation. He shifted in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable, his free hand gripping the reins with a tension that mirrored Polter’s own. “Bacchus came to me first. Told me you’d screwed things up in the city. I was making ready to leave anyway.”

Polter stiffened at the jab, his grip tightening on the reins of his own mount. “I didn’t screw anything up,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to him. He didn’t meet Gero’s gaze.

“Sure,” Gero replied, his tone sharp, his words biting in their simplicity. He shook his head, exhaling through his nose like a man barely holding his temper. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Just get on the horse. We’ve wasted enough time.”

Polter hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t ask you to wait.”

“Didn’t wait for you,” Gero snapped, spurring his horse forward a step as though to emphasize the point. “If you’d been a minute later, you’d have found the stable empty.”

The tension between them hung thick in the air, but neither man addressed it further. Polter climbed into the saddle, the familiar weight of the sword at his side biting into his palm as he gripped the reins.

“Ready?” Gero asked, his voice still carrying an edge, though his eyes were now focused on the path ahead.

Polter nodded, his throat tight. “Ready.”

The night swallowed them as they rode hard into the darkness. The village, with its fires and its torches, disappeared behind them. Polter didn’t look back. The cold wind whipped against his face, and the weight of his decisions bore down on him like a lead cloak. The ride was long and hard, the road twisting beneath them as the night deepened. Polter’s thighs ached from the constant pressure of the saddle, the cold seeping into his bones as they galloped through the unforgiving terrain. Gero remained silent, his face as grim as ever, though the tension in his jaw and shoulders spoke volumes.

Eventually, they slowed, their horses panting and sweating. They found a clearing, a small patch of ground beneath a canopy of trees where the moonlight barely touched. Polter dismounted, his legs shaking as he led his horse to a nearby tree, tying the reins loosely around a low branch. Gero followed suit, his movements curt and efficient.

As Polter turned back toward the clearing, Gero spoke again, his voice quieter now but no less pointed. “Didn’t want to stick around there anyway,” he said, his tone almost contemplative. “Too many memories in that place. But this?” He glanced at Polter, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. “This ain’t exactly how I planned on leaving.”

Polter swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. Neither did I. But he said nothing, the weight of Gero’s bitterness joining his own as they settled into the cold, silent night.