Sleep eluded Polter, as it often did. The stars stretched above him in their silent vigil, cold and uncaring, as if to mock the turmoil within him. The solitude that once seemed a reprieve had turned suffocating, every breath a reminder of how the silence pressed down on him. Gero’s absence was a bitter pill—his gruff remarks, his cynical jabs, the quiet understanding they’d shared. Even the man’s exasperating pragmatism had anchored Polter in ways he hadn’t realized. Alone, the silence was no friend; it was a mirror, reflecting every failure, every regret.

By the time Polter woke, the decision had been made. His dreams had been plagued by memories of blood and betrayal, but they left him with clarity. There was no escape from who I am, no clean break from the past. If I am to live, it must be as I am—a weapon searching for its wielder. Gero had hinted at a path northward, and Polter decided to follow. Not for glory, not for salvation—simply to find a purpose.

He rode eastward, his mare’s hooves sloshing through mud and rain-soaked earth. The world around him blurred, a monotonous expanse of gray skies and deadened woods. The remains of ruined villages passed in his periphery, ghosts of lives lost in wars that had claimed everything and given nothing in return. The ruins were his reflection—broken remnants of something once proud, reclaimed now by time and the inevitable march of decay.

When the outline of the ruined castle rose on the horizon, jagged and blackened like the shadow of some forgotten beast, Polter felt a pull he couldn’t explain. His mare nickered, sensing his shift in mood, and he patted her neck absently. It’s just another ruin. Just another piece of the world that could not endure.

But he guided her toward it all the same.

The castle’s gates were shattered, the walls overrun with vines and brambles. Polter dismounted, leaving his mare to graze on what sparse grass the courtyard offered. He moved through the ruin, past toppled statues and a dry fountain coated in moss. Shadows stretched long in the dim light, the crumbling stones whispering secrets of a life long past.

The great hall was cavernous, its pillars cracked, its banners faded beyond recognition. Polter’s boots crunched on broken glass—once stained with images of valor, now shards scattered like the ideals they had once celebrated. His eyes drifted to a mural on the wall: a grand battle immortalized in paint. Even in its damaged state, it was beautiful—knights clad in shining armor, standards held high, their faces a blend of resolve and fear. How many of them died believing their cause was just? And how many lived long enough to see their ideals rot?

He straightened, the echoes of his footsteps leading him deeper into the ruin. A spiral staircase descended into the earth, its stone steps worn smooth by countless feet. Polter hesitated only a moment before making his way down, the air growing cooler with every step. It smelled of damp stone and rust, the scent of forgotten things.

At the bottom, a heavy wooden door stood ajar, its iron hinges crusted with age. He pushed it open, the groan of metal against wood breaking the silence. The armory lay beyond, an unbroken time capsule of war. Weapons lined the walls, their blades dulled but still holding the ghosts of battles fought. Suits of armor stood like hollow sentinels, their visors empty yet watchful.

Polter moved through the armory, his fingers brushing over the haft of a spear, the leather grip of a worn axe. He stopped before a longsword resting on a central stand. Its simplicity drew him—no ornate engravings, no jewel-encrusted pommel. Just clean, straight steel. The blade gleamed faintly in the low light, untouched by rust. His hand hesitated over it.

I buried my sword. Left it behind in the sand and earth. What would this be, if not a replacement? Another weight to carry? Another curse to hold?

But his hand moved of its own accord, wrapping around the hilt. It felt lighter than the sword he had cast aside, its balance almost unnervingly perfect. He tested its weight, the blade cutting through the air with an ease that sent a chill down his spine. It was not the sword of thorns, not the accursed weapon that bit into his palm and demanded blood. Yet it was a sword, all the same. A tool of death.

He strapped it to his saddle and turned his attention to the shields mounted along the far wall. One caught his eye—a kite shield, its painted surface remarkably preserved. A golden eagle faced a gray wolf, the two creatures poised in eternal opposition. The artistry was bold, the colors vivid even after years of neglect.

He took the shield down, its weight reassuring in his hand, and secured it alongside the sword. Fully armed now, Polter made his way back through the ruin, his boots treading paths long abandoned. He noticed details he had missed before: the remnants of a garden visible through a broken window, a faded tapestry still clinging stubbornly to the wall, the intricate carvings on a balustrade. Echoes of what once was, speaking of a life that had been swept away.

Eagle and wolf. Ambition and survival. Honor and cunning. The noble dream and the brutal reality. Two sides of the same coin.

By the time he returned to the courtyard, dusk was descending, casting the ruins in shadow. His mare lifted her head at his approach, ears flicking forward. He secured the shield to the saddle and sheathed the sword at his side. The weight of these items was not oppressive like the sword of thorns, but it was a fresh burden but without the poison.

He mounted up, casting one last glance at the ruined castle. What tale will these relics tell now? Another story of failure? Or something else?

Polter urged his mare forward, the clink of the sword at his side a muted whisper. The northern road unfolded before him,

The wind was a knife that cut through layers of wool and leather, a relentless thing that found every gap in his cloak and armor. Polter hunched forward in the saddle, his mare's breath steaming in the chill air as they pushed northward along the muddy road. The world around him was a smear of gray and brown—the bare trees clawing at the overcast sky, the ground frozen and unforgiving beneath the horse's hooves. Each mile felt heavier than the last, but he pressed on, chasing whispers carried by the same wind that sought to freeze him to his bones.

At the last village—a miserable cluster of hovels clinging to the edge of a half-frozen marsh—the innkeeper had spoken of a lone rider heading north. "A grim sort," the man had said, scrubbing at a tankard with a rag that only moved the dirt about. "Didn't say much. Paid in silver, though."

Gero. It had to be.

Polter clung to these scraps like a drowning man to driftwood. The pursuit had become his purpose, a fire that burned away the cold and the doubt. Gero was out there somewhere, trudging through this desolation alone. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Polter’s pride and anger had driven them apart, but pride was a poor companion on the road, and anger offered no warmth against the night's chill.

The mare stumbled on a patch of ice hidden beneath a thin layer of snow, and Polter cursed under his breath, steadying her with a firm hand. "Easy, girl," he murmured. The horse's ears flicked back at the sound of his voice. She was as weary as he was, but there could be no rest yet.

He reached a crossroads marked by a weathered signpost, the wood splintered and the lettering faded. One arm pointed east toward some place whose name he could no longer read; the other pointed north, the direction he knew he must follow. A crow sat atop the sign, its black eyes watching him with a cold intelligence. Polter met its gaze. "Have you seen him?" he asked the bird, half-mocking himself. The crow only cawed once before flapping away into the gray sky.

North it is, then.

The road narrowed as the day waned, the trees closing in around him like the bars of a cage. Dusk painted the world in shades of twilight, and the first stars began to prick through the veil of clouds. He needed shelter for the night—a fire, at least, to keep the worst of the cold at bay. As if in answer, the flicker of lantern light appeared ahead, warm and beckoning.

The inn was larger than he expected, a sturdy two-story building with a thatched roof and smoke curling lazily from its chimneys. A carved wooden sign swung above the door, emblazoned with the faded image of a boar rampant. Polter dismounted, his muscles protesting after a day in the saddle. He led the mare to the stable around back, paying a stableboy a dirtied silver to see her fed and brushed down. The boy—a scrawny lad with straw-colored hair—looked at him with wide eyes but asked no questions.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Inside, the common room was a haze of pipe smoke and the smell of stew bubbling over the hearth. Rough-hewn tables filled the space, occupied by travelers and locals alike. A minstrel plucked at a lute in the corner, singing a bawdy tune that earned occasional laughs and the clink of coins in his cup.

Polter shrugged off his cloak, shaking off the dusting of snow that clung to it, and made his way to the bar. The innkeeper was a stout woman with ruddy cheeks and sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She eyed him with a mix of curiosity and caution.

"A room for the night," he said, sliding a silver Caedveni coin across the scarred wooden counter. "And ale, if it's decent."

She bit the coin, nodded. "Our ale's as good as any you'll find on this road," she replied. "Room comes with supper. Stew's hot."

"Thank you."

He took his tankard to a vacant table near the fire, easing himself onto the bench. The heat seeped into his bones, a welcome relief. As he sipped the ale—strong and a bit sour, but not unpleasant—he let his gaze wander over the room.

Faces blurred together—a mix of weary travelers, merchants counting their coins, a pair of hunters boasting of the day's catch. But no Gero. Of course not. If he were here, the man would be glowering in a corner, scaring off anyone foolish enough to approach.

The serving girl brought him a bowl of stew and a hunk of dark bread. She was young, no more than sixteen, with a shy smile and freckles dusting her cheeks. "Thank you," he said, offering a rare smile. She blushed and hurried away.

The stew was hearty, chunks of venison and root vegetables swimming in a rich broth. Polter ate methodically, his mind turning over the scant information he had gathered. Some had seen a man matching Gero's description—a mercenary, they said, heading north with grim purpose. Others knew nothing, their eyes sliding away when he pressed them. Fear, perhaps, or indifference.

"Looking for someone?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Polter glanced up to see a man standing beside his table—a wiry fellow with sharp features and eyes that missed nothing. His clothes were plain but well-made, a dagger at his belt.

"Perhaps," Polter replied cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"Heard you inquiring after a friend. Might be I can help."

Polter studied him. "At what cost?"

The man grinned, showing a glint of gold among his teeth. "Information's a commodity like any other. A few unicorns, and I'll tell you what I know."

Polter considered, then reached into his pouch and laid three silver pieces on the table. "Talk."

The man pocketed the coins with swift efficiency. "There's been word of a sellsword passing through these parts—a hard man, from what I hear. Took on a band of brigands single-handedly two days south of here. Left their bodies for the crows."

"Which way did he go?"

"North, always north. They say he's bound for Gwenforth's army. War's brewing, and men like that find their place soon enough." He spat, Gwenforth. The name was a curse and a promise all at once.

"Thank you," Polter said, though the words tasted bitter.

"Safe travels, its best to stop him from taking up with a cock sucker like Gwenforth, he killed a brother of mine." the man frowned, swaying in his stance before slipping back into the crowd.

Polter finished his meal in silence, the noise of the common room fading to a dull roar in his ears. He retired to his room early, but sleep eluded him. The bed was lumpy, the blankets scratchy, but it was better than the cold ground. He stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster as if they might form a map to Gero's whereabouts.

At dawn, he was on the road again.

The days blurred together—endless stretches of barren fields and leafless forests, the sky a perpetual shade of gray. He passed through villages where the faces grew leaner, eyes harder. War was present, men of fighting age were scarce, either conscripted or fled. In one such village, little more than a handful of huts clustered around a muddy square, he came upon a scene of disarray. Smoke curled from a farmhouse on the outskirts, the thatch roof smoldering. A knot of villagers gathered, their voices raised in anger and fear.

Polter reined in his mare. "What happened here?" he called out.

An older man turned to him, his face etched with lines and soot smudged across his brow. "Bandits," he spat. "Came in the night, took what they wanted, and set fire to old Marta's place when she wouldn't give up her silver."

"How many?"

"Half a dozen, maybe more. Bastards rode off laughing."

Polter felt a familiar anger stir within him. "Which way did they go?"

The man pointed east, toward a dense line of trees. "Not that it'll do any good. We've no one to send after them."

"I'll go," Polter said before he could think better of it.

The villagers looked at him with a mix of hope and skepticism. "You'd do that?" a woman asked, clutching a child to her side.

He nodded. "Point me in the right direction."

An hour later, he found the bandits' trail—a series of hoofprints and discarded rubbish leading into the woods. He followed silently, his mare picking her way through the underbrush with practiced ease. The trees closed in overhead, their bare branches like skeletal fingers.

He came upon their camp near dusk. Six men lounged around a fire, laughing and passing a skin of wine between them. The spoils of their raid were scattered about—bundles of cloth, sacks of grain, a silver candlestick glinting in the firelight.

Polter dismounted quietly, tying his mare to a low-hanging branch. He drew his sword—the new one he had taken from the ruined castle, its weight still unfamiliar in his hand. Better to face them now, while they are unprepared.

He moved like a shadow, the forest floor muffling his steps. As he approached the edge of the clearing, one of the bandits stood, stretching and turning in his direction. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Polter exploded into motion.

He was upon them before they could react, his sword flashing in the firelight. The first man fell with a gurgle, blood spraying from his throat. Shouts erupted as the others scrambled for weapons.

A mace swung toward his head; he ducked beneath it, driving his shoulder into the attacker's chest and thrusting his blade upward. The man screamed, stumbling back as Polter tore the sword free.

Another came at him with a spear, jabbing wildly. Polter sidestepped, grabbing the shaft and yanking the man off balance. He brought his hilt down on the bandit's temple, sending him sprawling.

The remaining three circled warily. “Feck er you!?" one exclaimed.

They attacked in unison, but their movements were clumsy, fueled by fear. Polter parried and struck, his focus narrowing to the point of his blade and the rhythm of combat. In moments, it was over. The bandits lay dead or dying, their blood darkening the earth.

He stood amidst the carnage, his breath coming in sharp bursts, steam rising from his sweat-dampened skin. The rage ebbed, leaving a hollow emptiness behind.

He searched the camp quickly, retrieving what goods he could carry. The silver candlestick, some coins, a bolt of cloth. He piled the bodies and set them alight, the flames consuming flesh and sin alike.

By the time he returned to the village, night had fully fallen. The villagers greeted him with astonishment and gratitude, their eyes wide at the sight of their reclaimed belongings.

"You did this alone?" the old man asked.

Polter shrugged. "They weren't much."

"Please, stay the night. Share our meal."

But he shook his head. "I must keep moving."

They pressed bread and cheese upon him, which he accepted. As he mounted his mare, the woman with the child stepped forward. "Bless you," she said softly.

He nodded, spurred his horse onward.

The road stretched before him, a ribbon of darkness under a moonless sky. He rode without destination, only the pull of the north guiding him. The encounters blurred together—the towns, the faces, the fleeting moments of violence that punctuated his journey.

In a larger town, fortified with high wooden walls, he found himself drawn into another's quarrel. A minor lordling sought a second for a duel, his usual men having deserted him. Polter agreed, the coin offered of little interest but the distraction welcomed.

The duel was brief and bloodless, the opponent cowed by Polter's silent presence and the cold steel at his side. The young noble—pale and trembling—thanked him profusely, pressing a gold coin into his hand. Polter accepted it with a curt nod, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere.

So many tales, so many stories.

He imagined telling them to Gero, the man's scowl softening into a rare smirk. "Playing the hero now, are we?" Gero would say, his voice gruff but edged with amusement. Polter allowed himself a faint smile at the thought.

"I can't wait to share these misadventures with that hardy old bastard," he murmured to the night.

But the smile faded as quickly as it had come. The road ahead was long, and doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve. The world was shifting, shadows lengthening as forces beyond his sight moved like pieces on a game board. War was coming, and he was but one man caught in its tide.

Still, he rode on. Northward, always northward.