He lay in the warmth of the great bed, his arm draped over her sleeping form. The pale strands of her hair, loose and tangled, spilled over the pillow, catching the faint glow of dawn that crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters. She was still, her breathing soft and deep, untouchable in her peace, as if nothing in the world could disturb the calm that held her. Polter leaned in, kissing her forehead gently. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his lips. She murmured something unintelligible, curling instinctively closer to where his warmth had been as he rose to sit at the edge of the bed.
His eyes drifted toward the sword. There, leaning against the far wall, it stood—a thing of deadly beauty, crafted for nobility and soaked in blood half a dozen times since Polter took it in hand. The jeweled hilt glimmered faintly in the dim morning light, its gems catching the first rays of the sun, the largest ruby stared like cold, unfeeling eyes. The blade seemed to hum with an almost audible accusation, its presence oppressive, a reminder, Polter’s heart quickened, a sickening rhythm pounding in his chest. His fingers twitched involuntarily, he felt the hilt like a phantom digging into the worn lines and scars of his palm. Polter’s breath hitched as he remembered the look on Thornheart’s face—the way life had drained from his eyes, the way his body had crumpled, heavy and lifeless, to the ground. His sword, that same sword, the one now leaning so innocently against the wall, had pricked Polters finger when he raised it. And now, it sat there, accusing, judging, waiting, thirsting, it had a hunger that Polter knew called to him.
Polter exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched. Polter looked at the blade, the weight of old sins pressing as heavily as the scars it had left, and yet, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. It was beautiful, The sword leaned against the wall, its long, elegant blade gleaming with a cold, deadly beauty. its thorn-carved hilt a constant reminder of its cost. It had pricked Polter the first time he grasped it, drawing blood from his palm, and in battle, the thorns would dig deep, biting into his flesh and leaving his hand stained with crimson. He had since learned to wear a mailed glove when wielding it. The blade itself was sharper and stronger than any steel Polter had ever known, its lithe, curved form almost like a scimitar, and when he swung it through the air, it hummed an almost melodic tune. He turned away from the sword, Eirde stirred behind him, her arm reaching across the bed where he had been. “I’ll be back,” Polter muttered, knowing she wouldn’t hear. He needed air. Something to break the suffocating hold the sword had on him. He moved slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness of the room. The air was cool, and it sent goose prickles down his scarred arms as he reached for his clothes—a simple linen shirt and worn breeches, which he had left draped over a wooden chair the night before. He slipped into them with practiced ease, each movement precise, unhurried. He strapped his boots with care, the leather creaking as he fastened the last buckle. Polter paused, catching his reflection in the mayor’s cracked mirror, a relic of better times. The fracture in the glass split his face into uneven halves, one side almost unrecognizable to the other.
Polter’s eyes, shadowed and weary, stared back from his reflection. Dark and sunken, they seemed to hold a history of all he’d lost, each line etched around them a testament to another regret. His jaw, once strong and plain, now bore the rough peppered stubble that hinted at his years—and the weight of them. Salt and pepper strands threaded through his hair, each one a quiet witness to what he’d endured. His hand drifted to his shoulder, where the bandaged wound throbbed, a lingering reminder of Ronnet’s halberd, a scar among countless others that marked his skin like a map of hard-won survival. The scars were faded but unmistakable, a constellation of battles past, of sins and debts unpaid. He rubbed a hand across his lantern jaw, his thumb brushing over his prominent brow, feeling the rough skin and the unfamiliar, hollow contours. His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze cold and assessing. He looked older than his years; there was an emotional weight there, a haunting hollow that seemed to pull his features down, carving him into something almost wraithlike. Eirde would still call me handsome, he thought bitterly, but it felt like mockery, as if she saw some man who no longer existed. His broad shoulders sagged under the invisible load, the strength of his frame intact but dulled, burdened with more than muscle could bear.
Boso, dead in the bog... Dante, hung for what he did. Their names tasted bitter on his tongue. Memories surfaced like old wounds ripped open—faces of Redfurrow men, friends he had once shared bread with, laughed with around flickering campfires. They were the men he’d hunted beside, hawking with Mance, drinking in long draughts with William, training in the yard with Dante. One by one, they’d vanished, claimed by war or by their own sins, by oaths broken and loyalties divided. Perhaps Mance made it out of the city, he mused, a hollow comfort.
But even so, Mance was as much a ghost as the rest, another name on the long list of deserters and traitors—marked by Caedveni and Agatharian alike. The weight of those names and faces hung like chains around his neck. And then there was Crodwas. Crodwas Thornheart was no common man, no soldier who faded into the blur of war. He had been a Caedveni noble, a man of a long and storied lineage, hardened and battle-worn, a lord and a mentor to men who needed him. Polter had respected him once. Admired him, even. They had sat side by side at suppers, trading stories with a familiarity that was nearly friendship. And yet respect had not stayed his hand that night; it had been buried beneath fear, survival, and a thirst for something Crodwas’ honor could not grant him. A shudder ran through him, and he realized he was gripping his sword’s hilt again, the thorns pressing into his palm. They stung, small but sharp, as if mocking him with the honor he had forsaken.
Polter remembered it too well—the command given by Vilifrid, the desperation in his voice as he ordered Lord Thornheart to scout the Horned Wood, hoping to escape the endless bogs of Metetti. Thornheart had passed the order down to Polter and Temet, instructing them to gather a scouting party. I should’ve tried to bring Temet into it, Polter thought, regret gnawing at him. He was a good man, loyal… maybe he would’ve listened. But the chance had slipped past, swallowed up in the plan that had brewed like a storm among the deserters. He’d lagged behind that night, his spear gripped tightly, every step feeling like it could snap the tension in the air. The damp earth clung to his boots, the scent of pine thickened by the metallic tang of blood. When the moment came, he didn’t hesitate. He drove the spear forward, the tip plunging beneath Crodwas’s ribs, tearing through chainmail and flesh alike. Crodwas had grunted, more in disbelief than pain, his eyes widening as blood spilled from the wound. The light faded quickly from those eyes—eyes Polter had once admired. Thornheart crumpled to the ground, a sack of flesh and mail dropped into the mud, soon the other swords and axe of his fellow conspirators fell on him as well.
After that, chaos erupted. Steel flashed in torchlight, and the woods filled with screams, with the clash of weapons and the wet thud of bodies meeting the earth. Polter fought his way through it, the forest floor turning slick underfoot as blood mixed with mud, splattering his boots. He remembered Alec clawing at his throat, opened by Ratface’s blade, the man’s hands desperate, as if he could somehow stop the life pouring out of him. Otho had charged Polter wildly, only to take a spear through his gut and fall, gurgling and clawing at the wound. Feeble Bronn had been felled by Hesko’s axe, his skull splitting like brittle wood, the sickening crack echoing through the trees. Steel Cod—massive and defiant—had swung wildly, nearly cleaving Ratface in two before Rhett brought him down. Polter himself had taken a glancing cut from Rhett, and he retaliated, driving his spear into the man’s chest, watching the life drain from his eyes as he crumpled. Arnelt had screamed as he fell, clutching at his wound, but no one answered the pleas for mercy that night. The squire was different. Polter remembered the boy’s scream—rage, pain, desperation—as he charged, trying to avenge his fallen lord. But Polter couldn’t bring himself to finish him. Instead, he marked him. His blade cut upward, catching the boy’s ear and sending him stumbling. When Oxcis moved to gut the lad, Polter intervened, his blade cleaving through Oxcis’s neck with a sickening crunch. Muscle and sinew gave way as he split the bone, the blood spraying hot across his face. He felt it soak his hair, drip down his neck, warm and sticky against the cool air, the iron tang filling his nose as he wiped the blood from his eyes, smearing it across his brow. Eirde stirred in the bed as Polter turned from the window, her pale, blonde hair fanning out across the pillow. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes, soft and drowsy, found him standing in the cool shadows of the room. Without a word, she stretched out her arm, her bare skin catching the faint light that slipped through the cracks in the shutters. Her fingers curled, beckoning him back.
Polter’s chest tightened. He shouldn’t, not again so early. He knew that much. His body, marked by the scars of his past, didn’t deserve to lie beside someone like her. But Eirde—her form soft and inviting, unburdened by the weight he carried—had already pulled herself up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, revealing her naked body beneath. Her skin was pale, smooth, and unmarred except for the crook of her nose, bent from the Cathambe man who had once struck her. Her breasts rose with each breath, her waist slender, and the curve of her hips inviting. Her eyes, still half-lidded with sleep, glimmered with a warmth Polter could not ignore.
Polter felt the warmth of her hand as it curled gently around his wrist, her touch a delicate contrast to the roughness of his own skin, weathered by years of violence and hardship. She pulled him toward her, and a soft smile danced on her lips—an expression that promised comfort, acceptance, and a tenderness that left him feeling whole, For a brief moment.
His mind screamed No. I should resist, turn away, leave her in peace. The man who had struck down the Cathambe raiders, who had restored a measure of safety to their burnt and broken homes. The same man who had turned on his own companions when they became more beast than men, killing them to protect what little innocence remained in this village. The same man who butchered true knights for little more than gold. But that wasn’t him. Not truly. That wasn’t the man who had betrayed his commander, who had plunged a spear into a man who had trusted him. She didn’t know that, couldn’t know that. Yet as her hand traveled up his arm, her touch light and coaxing, his defenses faltered. Her warmth reached him first, enveloping him before her lips brushed his—a fleeting contact that sent a shock through him, breaking down the walls he’d built to contain his guilt. Her lips were soft, inviting, and when she sighed against him, it erased his worries.
"My shining knight," she murmured when it was over, her voice barely a whisper. "My hero... daring, charming knight." She laughed lightly, resting her head against his shoulder. Polter swallowed, the words burning more than they should have. She meant them—he could hear the sincerity in her voice, feel it in her touch. But they cut him deep, each one a reminder of the lie he lived.A hollow ache settled in his chest, a feeling that her gentle words had stripped away all the armor he’d ever worn, leaving him exposed, vulnerable. He couldn’t tell her the truth, couldn’t reveal the monster he knew himself to be. So instead, he lay there in silence, his fingers brushing over her hair, drawing comfort from a moment he knew he didn’t deserve, a stolen peace that he would never truly be able to claim as his own. His mind wondered
It had been by chance, After a month of scraping by as highway robbers, Polter’s band stumbled upon a Cathambe raid engulfing a village, smoke billowing from burning rooftops, villagers' screams drowned by steel clashing. Without hesitation, they charged. Red Horn led the charge, his blood-red horned helmet gleaming as he breached the battered gates. Elfwyne fell to an arrow before even entering; Rort, Emmon, and Dour Dan were claimed in the brutal fray. Red Horn fought fiercely until a Cathambe warrior, Shakaz, pierced him from behind. Polter and Shakaz dueled fiercely, Shakaz’s dark eyes burning with battle-lust until Polter ended him with a blade through the chest. They rallied the villagers to fight back, clearing the town house by house until only their own band remained. Now, lying beside Eirde, Polter felt the ghosts of that battle haunt him. When she fell back asleep, he slipped from her side, mind heavy. He made his way to the mayor’s bathhouse, his movements mechanical, driven by habit rather than thought. Stripping down, he stepped into the cold tub, the icy water shocking him to life, its chill biting deep, numbing the lingering warmth of the night. tensing against the shock that coursed through him. The chill gnawed at his legs, crawling up his skin, numbing him as it climbed higher. The water rose, lapping against his scarred flesh, dragging the heat from his body until only his head remained above the surface. His jaw clenched as the cold settled in, sharp and unforgiving. But he welcomed it. Let it take the warmth. Let it take the guilt. His heartbeat slowed, the constant thrum of tension in his chest easing for the first time since dawn. He closed his eyes, letting the water claim him in full, if only for a few minutes.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to Eirde. The warmth of her body against his in the early hours of the morning, the soft hum of her breath on his chest. You don’t deserve her. His fingers twitched beneath the surface of the water, gripping the wooden edges of the tub as if to anchor himself to the present, to keep him inside the cold. Eirde’s peace, her innocence—He shoved the thought away. After several minutes, Polter rose from the water, droplets streaming down his body in rivulets, the shock of cold leaving him feeling raw, exposed. He reached for a coarse cloth and dried himself briskly. The cool air bit at him, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of the bath. He welcomed the clarity the cold had given him. His armor waited for him—like an old companion, silent and ever-present. He dressed with practiced precision, each movement fluid, as if the years of war had turned him into a machine of ritual. The mail, a gift from the lord of Redfurrow, slid over his broad shoulders with a soft clink, the finely woven rings shifting against each other. It fit him perfectly—too perfectly, as though it had been made to contain the man he had become. He fastened the buckles on the plate, the familiar weight settling across his chest and shoulders, a comforting burden.
Polter’s gaze drifted to the sword lying nearby. The cursed blade, its jeweled hilt catching the dim light of the room. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the thorns carved into the handle, their edges sharp and cruel. His fingers hovered over the hilt, feeling the memory of its bite—a constant reminder of the blood it had spilled. It always wants more. The first time he had grasped it, it had pricked his palm, drawing blood. Even now, it felt as though the weapon demanded a price. He tightened his grip, feeling the thorns press lightly against his fingers as he fastened the sword to his belt.
The village was beginning to stir with the first light of dawn, a fragile peace settling over the scarred landscape. The soft hum of life slowly returned as villagers emerged from their patched-up homes, each one etched with the determination to carry on. They moved with purpose, ready to face another day of rebuilding. Polter watched them as he worked, his hands roughened from labor, his thoughts heavy despite the quiet. At the center of it all stood Bacchus, his gray chainmail dull in the morning light, his black cloak catching the faint breeze as he directed the day's work. His single eye gleamed with sharp focus, the golden nose he wore glinting as he barked orders.
"Markus, take two men and reinforce the eastern palisade!" he commanded, gesturing toward the weak point where splintered stakes leaned dangerously. "I want every gap filled and the stakes buried deep; if you skimp on the digging, it won’t hold against anything stronger than a breeze." His authority was absolute in this place, as if he had always been the one to lead. Bacchus didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. "Rhea, spread that pitch along the western barricade," Bacchus instructed. "Thick coats, both sides. It’ll buy us time if they try to set it alight. And make sure you’re wearing gloves—pitch’ll burn more than the wood if you get it on yourself." He pointed at a cluster of able-bodied men shifting rubble near the gate. "Dale, clear the debris from the north entrance and lay down the stones. I don’t want anyone tripping if we’re ever forced to leave this place. Stack what’s left by the palisade so we can reinforce from the inside if we’re breached." Bacchus stepped back, his eye sweeping over the assembled villagers. "Move with purpose!” His single eye went up and down a scrawny youth who failed to step with the rest, Saul, stop gawking and help Harlen with the crossbows. Check each one, tighten the strings, and oil the mechanisms. We’ll need them in working order if we’re to have any chance of holding ground."
Polter hefted a beam onto his shoulder, the weight of it pressing into his old scars as he walked toward the palisade. The gaps in the wall were reminders of the assault, yawning open like missing teeth in a half-healed wound. He joined the men hammering in new beams, the rhythmic sound of metal on wood a welcome distraction. It kept him from thinking too much about what he had become—about what they had all become. Nearby, Theocharis worked with the same slow, steady movements that had always defined him. His hulking frame was bent over a pile of timber, driving stakes into the ground for a new watchtower. The greathelm he usually wore sat atop a post, gleaming dark grey steel catching the sun. His sky-blue cloak, tied back to keep from snagging, fluttered as he worked. Theocharis was a simple man, dim-witted by most accounts, but his loyalty and nature was good and unshakeable. Since they had taken the village, Theocharis had taken in three young boys orphaned during the raid, raising them like they were his own. The sight of the massive man, shoulders stooped from both weariness and affection, leading those boys through their daily routines softened something in Polter. Theo had even sold his armor for grain and fruit to feed them all. It made Polter wonder, in his rare moments of clarity, if Theo was the better man among them.
Then there was Gero. Polter’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, watching as the man moved among the villagers, offering quiet assistance with the cook-women. His face, unhandsome and marked with broken teeth, wore a rare smile today—a sharp contrast to the memories Polter carried of him. Gero was not like Theocharis, nor like Bacchus, for that matter. He had been there from the beginning, part of the ragged band of outlaws that Polter led, but his involvement had been deeper, darker. Gero had been one of the few men who had actually taken part in the planning and murder of Lord Crodwas. It wasn’t Red Horn, their wild, bloodthirsty companion, who had swung first in that plot. No, Gero had been quiet about it—had lurked in the shadows, whispering about rebellion and the possibilities that came with betraying their lord. When the moment came, Polter hadn’t hesitated, but neither had Gero. They had both driven their blades into the back of a man who had trusted them. They had both felt the rush of power and terror that came with it, and neither of them could ever wash that stain away.h.
We should’ve been caught long ago, Polter thought grimly, his eyes narrowing as he watched Gero laugh with one of the cook-women. Our mistakes should’ve found us by now.
Bacchus, on the other hand, seemed to have settled into his role without the same weight of guilt. He was the first to raise his sword when they had stormed the village, cutting down those who tried to seize the mayor’s daughter. He hadn’t hesitated. Polter had seen that cold determination in Bacchus before, the kind that made it clear he was here to survive, no matter the cost. Bacchus had all but abandoned any pretense of leaving this place. He was setting down roots, reinforcing the village’s defenses, sketching plans for fortifications. If Bacchus was haunted by the same ghosts, he didn’t show it.
Theocharis, dim-witted though he was, had also become part of this village, ingrained in its daily life. Polter doubted Theo even thought about their old life anymore. The simple giant had found his place here among the children he cared for, as if he belonged.
Polter stood in the shadow of the old two-story manse, the grand double doors looming behind him like the entrance to some forgotten fortress. The place had once been the pride of the village, but now it was a patchwork of repairs and decay, just like the people who lived within its walls. The first floor had been repurposed entirely; what was once a storage room had become his and Eirde’s bedroom. It was the largest room in the house, though still cramped with the makeshift bed they had fashioned from old timbers and furs, the scent of dried herbs hanging in the air from where Eirde had strung them above the windows.
Bacchus and Leon had taken rooms on the second floor—Bacchus in what had once been a guest chamber, Leon in the mayor’s private study, its walls lined with dusty shelves filled with useless ledgers and forgotten records. Hudd had claimed the former maid's quarters, a small space near the back of the house, while Gero, always grim-faced and quiet, slept in the room that had belonged to the mayor’s deceased son. That fact had always unsettled Polter, though he couldn't say exactly why.
Theo had chosen not to live in the mayor’s house at all, preferring the simplicity of the small hut he had rebuilt at the edge of the village. It was there that he watched over the three boys he had taken under his wing, orphans from the raid. In his own way, Theo had built a new life—one of purpose, even if it was simple and quiet.
Polter admired that about him. The rest of them, though—they still clung to the manse, to the dark memories and unspoken guilt that haunted its halls. Gero, especially. Polter’s thoughts turned to him more often than not. Gero hadn’t been the first to raise his sword against the bandits. That had been Red Horn’s doing, and Gero had only joined in later, but Gero was one of the few who had been part of the plot to murder Lord Crodwas. He had blood on his hands, just like Polter. In Gero I find kindredship. But here they were, living in a dead man’s house, sharing in the lie that they were something other than murderers and thieves. The villagers didn’t know the truth, and Polter wasn’t sure if they ever would. For now, they saw him as something more—a hero, the man who had saved them from the Cathambe raiders. It wasn’t a title he deserved, but it was a title he carried.
He looked out across the village, where the last of the day’s work was being wrapped up. Some eighty people remained, the remnants of a once-thriving place, and only fifteen men were of fighting age. Most had hidden during the raid, too afraid or too weak to stand against the attackers. But Lisor, Berno, and Danult—those three were different. Polter trusted them to hold their ground if danger ever came again. They were the strongest, the ones who were still fighting within the manse when they arrive against the Cathambe.
And it was them, along with the villagers' misplaced faith in him, that kept Polter from leaving. He had considered it a dozen times, packing up and riding away into the night, but each time, he found himself tethered to this place by a sense of duty he didn’t fully understand.
I don’t deserve this, he thought, his fingers brushing the worn hilt of his sword. But leaving would make me worse.
He sighed, knowing he was bound here by more than just the walls of the manse or the admiration of the people. It was guilt that held him fast, the same guilt that gnawed at him every time he laid eyes on Gero or remembered what they had done. But Hudd... Hudd was different. There was something about the man that always made Polter uneasy. He hadn’t seen him all morning, and as the hours stretched on, suspicion gnawed at Polter’s gut. Hudd was quick with a joke and quicker with his hands, but there was always that glint in his eye—the one that said he was waiting for his chance to slip away.
Polter had seen that look before, in Godefroy’s eyes. Godefroy had bolted in the night, taking a leg of lamb, two sacks of grain, and a palfrey before disappearing without a trace. The thought of Hudd doing the same lingered in Polter’s mind like a bad smell. But Godefroy didn’t just disappear, that night Polter snuck off with Leon and Gero and together they found Godefroy eating his leg of lamb at the fire, Polter remembered stepping forward, the shadows from the fire dancing across his face as he’d caught Godefroy’s startled gaze. In that moment, a flicker of fear had passed through the man’s eyes, quickly replaced by defiance. He’d tried to defend himself, muttering excuses through a mouthful of lamb, something about needing to survive, about everyone looking out for themselves. But Polter hadn’t wanted to hear it. what they did to him in vengeance was no justice, They’d left him there by the fire, broken, his face barely recognizable. The palfrey had wandered off, the sacks of grain scattered on the ground. Leon was finished here along with Gero but Polter turned back and ended his whimpering, with a single finite thrust.
As the day wore on and Hudd still hadn’t shown himself, Polter couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slipped away too, just like Godefroy. He’s gone, Polter thought, his grip tightening on the beam he was carrying. And it’s only a matter of time before the rest of us are caught. Only a matter of time until Hudd is caught and gives us up. It had been their reasoning to seek out Godefroy all though Bacchus and Hudd condemned the mission, and no doubt would again. Polter found Bacchus sitting at the makeshift table outside the manse, his single eye scanning over the papers strewn before him. The other was hidden beneath a strip of dark linen, a constant reminder of what they had all lost. Bacchus didn’t look up as Polter approached, his three-fingered hand still tracing the worn map of their village’s defenses.
Polter waited, his hands hovering over the thorned hilt of his sword, his fingers tapping absently as he watched Bacchus pore over the map. They had been silent a long time. But then, Bacchus had never been one for small talk, and neither had Polter.
“What is it, Polter?”
“It’s Hudd,” Polter said, voice tight. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
Bacchus’s gaze stayed on the map. “Hudd’s slippery. If he runs, it’s no surprise.”
“And you’re not worried? He could sell us out.”
Bacchus’s eye met his, shadowed and unflinching. “Would it matter? We’re bound for the same end. This”—he tapped the map—“won’t change that.”
Polter stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And you don’t care? If he bolts, he could sell us out—all of us. Everything we’ve tried to build here.”
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Bacchus looked up, his single eye catching the light. "And if he does, what difference does it make? We’re all bound for the same end, Polter. This—" he gestured at the map, "this doesn’t change that.”
“You can’t mean that. We’ve done wrong—God knows I have. But every day we’re here, we’re paying for it. By helping these people, by keeping them safe. Doesn’t that count for something?"
“You think it’s that simple?” Bacchus leaned back. “A few good deeds to wipe the slate clean? No. We pay when the time comes, Polter. That’s how it works.”
Polter’s voice tightened. “So, we just wait for the gallows? After all we’ve done, don’t these people deserve a chance? Isn’t what we’re doing here worth something?”
Bacchus exhaled. “And you think that’s enough? A few good deeds won’t wash the blood away.”
Polter’s jaw tightened. "I don’t know. But it’s all I’ve got. I’m not looking to erase anything—just… find some balance. Redemption through action. You talk about facing what we deserve, well, maybe this is our way of doing that."
Bacchus stood, casting a shadow across the table. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "If you think about your life here—this comfort you’ve found with Eirde, the comfort that someone like Theo—that it’ll keep us safe from what we’ve done… then you’re a fool, Polter. If anything we are just gorging on stolen goodwill."
Polter swallowed, "What do you want from me, Bacchus? What... what are you after?"
Bacchus looked away, his voice softening. "The truth. For once, I just want the truth, Polter. Do you really believe there’s a way out of this? Or are you just… hiding behind this, this village, these people, pretending you can forget what we’ve done?"
Polter felt his throat tighten. The guilt was a stone lodged in his chest, a weight he carried every day. "I don’t know if there’s a way out. But I have to believe there’s a way through. Otherwise… otherwise, what’s the point? If there’s no way out of the hole we dug, then we were damned the moment we drew blood."
A bitter smile played at the corner of Bacchus’s mouth. "And you think a few good deeds will build you a ladder out of that hole? You think their gratitude will make the blood on your hands… disappear?"
Polter’s voice rose, frustration clear. “It’s not erasing anything—it’s living with it, making things right. I can’t just wait for death when there’s a chance for good. These scars don’t just mark us; they shape us.”
Bacchus turned slowly, his shoulders rigid, the creak of worn leather breaking the silence. His gaze, heavy and unblinking, met Polter’s with a tired intensity. "And you think I can? That I choose this? Sitting here, feeling time grind me down, waiting for an end that comes without absolution?"
Polter’s mouth opened, but the words stuck, hollow. He watched as Bacchus reached up, fingers rough and deliberate, peeling away the linen from his lost eye. The scarred socket was raw. Bacchus’s voice softened, the anger ebbing into something colder, almost resigned. “This doesn’t make me a better man, Polter. It’s just a scar. A constant reminder that never fades. That’s what we have—marks that show the world who we are and what we’ve done.”
Polter’s chest tightened, “No, they don’t make us better. But they can push us to be.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Bacchus’s face before he looked away, the linen falling from his fingers like a discarded burden. "Hope is a cruel teacher," he muttered, "It shows you the light just long enough to make the darkness hurt more."
Polter felt something twist in his chest. "So that’s it, then? Just… live with it? Your hopelessness will lead to a despaired end."
Bacchus’s gaze softened, perhaps with regret. “That’s on you. Are you building something new, or burying the past under good intentions?”
Polter’s voice was barely a whisper. "And you don’t think I deserve a chance? A chance at… something better?"
Bacchus closed his eye, rewrapping the linen. ""Redemption isn’t cheap, Polter. Pray, if that helps. But if you find an answer, be ready to live with it. It won’t come easy.” Polter took a step forward, reaching for Bacchus instinctively, as if trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. But by the time he stretched out his hand, Bacchus was already gone, his steps disappearing into the morning fog, leaving Polter alone with a palpable anger that hummed around him. Blasphemy, that’s all it was—twisted, hollow blasphemy from a man too mired in his own cynicism. Bacchus lived in a cage of despair, convinced true penance was out of reach. Yes, I am a sinner. But surrendering to hopelessness? That is not my path. There had to be more.
His eyes drifted across the village and found Theocharis, standing beside a boy who splashed water at him from the well. The child, head freshly buzzed, squealed with laughter as Theo gave chase, lifting him high into the air and catching him easily. Polter watched them, something warm stirring in his chest. For a fleeting moment, the boy’s face reminded him of someone, No, he told himself, forcing the thought away, swallowing hard as he looked back to Theo. He saw that bloody morning as if it were happening now: the merchant’s wagon, ten men guarding it, and Bacchus urging them forward, eyes wild with greed. They charged in, and chaos took over. Pearse went down first, an ax to his neck that dropped him where he stood. The merchant’s sons fought like trapped animals. One of them tackled Bacchus, knife in hand, until Theo yanked the boy off and choked the life out of him, his grip steady and unrelenting. The other son came at Theo with a broken spear, but Theo swung his ax and felled him with a single blow. His horrendous screams of the merchant as he clutched his sons’ bodies, wailing, until Leon put an arrow through his throat and ended it. Theo now held the mantle of a father. He protected the village, mended homes, split wood where he once split skulls. That axe was dulled now—its blade worn by honest work.
Polter felt a deep ache in his chest, a hollow longing he couldn’t shake. Back in Redfurrow, he’d been raised in the Light of the Eternal Promise’s church, where he could kneel, confess, and feel the weight of his sins lift in the presence of a priest. But here, in this foreign land of Caedven, there was no familiar altar, no place to lay his burdens bare. Without it, he felt cut off from the Eternal One, as though the connection he’d once known had slipped beyond his reach. He glanced at Theocharis, who had found a way to live upright, to cast off the blood and shame of the past. If Theo could do it, Polter thought, then surely there was still hope. He made the decision then and there to bury it all, at least for now, he put on a smile and finished the days work, there was no sense in letting it stew any longer. As evening fell, he sat down for dinner with Eirde and her mother, the scent of roasted meat and herbs filling the modest room. Eirde's mother, a comely elder with a soft voice and kind smile, reminded Polter too much of his grandmother. It was a comfort, though it made the hidden turmoil inside him feel even more distant, even less real.
They ate in quiet contentment, though Polter could feel Eirde’s eyes on him, watching with that soft furrow in her brow. She was always quick to sense when something was wrong, even if he tried to keep his face calm, his shoulders easy. Finally, she spoke up, her voice gentle but probing. “Somethin’s eatin’ at ye, Pol. I can tell. What is it?”
Polter forced a smile, barely lifting his gaze from his plate. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he said, trying to sound offhand. “Just had a spat with Bacchus over the new watchtower. Can’t agree on where to set it, is all.”
Eirde didn’t look convinced. She tipped her head, watching him with that quiet, steady patience of hers. He felt his chest tighten, an old instinct to dodge, to retreat. Why does she have to look at me like that? he thought. He wanted to tell her, to let his guard down—but the words stayed locked inside.
“Just a spat, eh?” Her mother chimed in, her voice a mix of amusement and disbelief. She had a sharp way about her, her words like small, pointed knives meant to dig under the surface. “With Bacchus, ‘spats’ don’t come so mild, as I recall.”
Polter managed a dry chuckle, leaning back slightly. “Not this time,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “I know how to keep my temper around him. It’s simply a matter of practicality—he has his ideas, and I have mine.”
Eirde’s mother smirked, one brow raised. “Idea’s, is it? And yet ye look about as comfortable as a wolf in a henhouse.” Eirde’s mouth twitched with a hint of a smile, though her eyes remained searching. She reached over, laying a hand on his arm. Her touch was warm, grounding.
“Ye don’t have to brush me off, Pol. If it’s worryin’ ye, I want to know.” Some things are best kept quiet, he told himself, letting the thought settle like a stone. Instead, he gave her a reassuring pat, masking his own hesitation with a rough chuckle
“Thank you, Eirde,” he said quietly, allowing a small, practiced smile. “But it’s nothing that needs to come between us.” He glanced down, his fingers gently brushing hers before he pulled his hand back. “It’ll pass. You’ll see.”
Eirde’s mother scoffed, leaning back with a sly smile. “Aye, but I know ye, Polter. And ye’re no man to let things roll off so easy. Not with that furrow you’ve got between yer brows. Looks to me like ye’re carryin’ more than just a little spat.”
Eirde nodded, squeezing his arm. “Ma’s right, ye know. I just want ye to be straight with me.”
“Trust me,” he said, maintaining his tight smile. “It’s nothin’ to lose sleep over.”
"Oh, is that all? I suppose you’re keeping the real reason tucked behind that tight lil smile," she teased lightly, her tone knowing. "But I’ll leave it be for now, dear. I know you men like to keep your disagreements your own." Polter gave a noncommittal chuckle and resumed eating, grateful she didn’t push the matter further.
Later that evening, as Eirde cleaned up the dinner dishes, Polter stood by the door, fastening his cloak. "I’ve got to head out," he muttered, his voice steady but firm. Eirde looked up from her work, pausing with the rag in hand. "What for?" she asked, her tone casual but carrying the undercurrent of concern she always had when he left the house at night.
"I won’t be long," Polter replied, avoiding her eyes. He could see the question forming in her gaze, the unspoken worry, but he wouldn’t confess the real reason. Not to her, not to her mother. His thoughts, though, screamed at him like a man in the madhouses: I have to find Hudd. I know the man had betrayed us or was bound, there would be no mercy that I can offer. Polter's hand lingered on the door, knowing full well what might come of this night. If Hudd had sold them out, there would be only one solution—one final act he would need to carry out. I’ll kill him, Polter thought grimly, his jaw tightening. He could not afford any risks, not with Eirde and the others counting on him.
Polter strode into the stables, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space until they landed on Ertilt, Ertilt was a stout man marked by hard labor and indulgence, his patched tunic stretched taut over a belly shaped by hearty stews. His broad, ruddy face, framed by an uneven, crumb-speckled beard, bore the perpetual flush of outdoor work. Pale blue eyes, small and weary, blinked beneath heavy lids, while his straw-colored hair lay in wild, matted tangles. Callused, dirt-streaked hands rested on his belly, and his cracked leather belt struggled to hold up trousers patched at the knees. Mud and straw clung to the frayed hems, he wiped his face with his thick hand.
Polter stepped into the stables, keeping his movements purposeful yet calm. “Ertilt,” he said, meeting the stablehand's wary eyes, “Bacchus wanted this kept quiet. He doesn’t want to stir up panic over a potential false alarm. I’m heading north to check on a report of movement, but we don’t need the whole village roused until we’re sure.”
Ertilt’s brow furrowed, his fingers fidgeting at the edge of his tunic. “Quiet, you say? Bacchus never mentioned—”
“He didn’t need to,” Polter interjected, his tone measured but firm. “No sense in worrying folk unless it’s warranted. Just keep your post here and hold close to your spear hammer. If anything changes, be ready, but don’t sound the alarm unless you see trouble yourself.”
The stablehand nodded hesitantly, his gaze darting nervously to the weapon leaning by his chair. Polter could see the fear already setting in, the way Ertilt’s eyes flickered with doubt and readiness to bolt if things turned sour.
“Understood, Sir,” Ertilt said, shifting on his seat.
Polter’s expression softened just enough to appear reassuring. “Good man. Stay vigilant.” He turned on his heel, Polter wasted no time or words. He saddled his second favorite horse after the palfrey Hudd had taken, a sturdy bay gelding, and led it out into the cool night air. The village behind him was quiet, the only sound the soft clop of hooves as he guided the horse onto the path leading to Sarnat. His heart raced, the uncertainty of his mission weighing on him, yet he knew he had no choice but to find Hudd—or end whatever betrayal he might be plotting. If he was making to tell them about them or caught Polter would have to cut down the men they sent or cut down Hudd if he must and find him in his damned betrayal. If he gives us up there is only one path from the city that leads to the village of a main road, bastards no doubt would take a main road. I will sit there, and wait, if Hudd goes by I will see him, alone or otherwise I will sort him out. The path was dark, barely illuminated by the sliver of moonlight filtering through the trees, but Polter knew the way well enough. He rode hard, the wind biting at his face, his thoughts a whirl of doubt and determination. For two hours, the rhythmic thud of hooves and his steady breathing filled his mind until he spotted something up ahead that made his stomach lurch.
Polter reined in his horse, the beast’s hooves stamping restlessly against the uneven ground. The night was still, save for the creaking of the gallows as it swayed under the weight of the dead. The rough-hewn beams loomed high against the deep indigo of the sky, dark shapes outlined by the thin silver of moonlight. The men dangled like grotesque marionettes, their bodies lifeless, robbed of the dignity that should have been theirs in death. Each one bore a crude wooden placard around his neck, the words crudely carved but readable even in the dim light: Deserter. Murderer. Thief. Polter’s heart thudded in his chest, an erratic drumbeat that resonated in his bones. He felt his breath hitch, the chill of the wind cutting through his cloak and into the marrow of his spine. For a fleeting, terrible moment, the faces of the condemned shifted and twisted. The first, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, morphed until it bore the familiar dark eyes of Bacchus, the golden nose gleaming grotesquely in the moon’s glow, his one eye searing Polter with disappointment. Next, the weary, lined face of Theocharis appeared—stern yet kind, the faintest shadow of a smile that had once reassured Polter in the bleakest hours. The sight turned Polter’s stomach, guilt coiling like a snake in his gut. It could’ve been me, he thought, the realization pounding through his mind. He wanted to shout, to deny the spectral vision, but his voice stuck in his throat. His eyes darted to the next face, and it hit him like a physical blow: Dante. His once-warm eyes were lifeless now, staring past Polter as if accusing him even in death. The memory of their last conversation surfaced, words now ringing like a judge’s verdict: “There’s no turning back, Polter.”
His face changed, replaced by Polter’s own reflection. It was him hanging there, neck stretched unnaturally, eyes dull, and lips parted in an eternal, silent scream. The sign around his neck read: Traitor. His heart leaped into his throat, and the metallic tang of fear filled his mouth. He clenched the reins tighter until his knuckles whitened, the leather cutting into his palms. A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, causing the bodies to twist on their ropes. The night air carried the faint, sour scent of decay, mingling with the bitter scent of pine and smoke from distant hearths. It brought him back, grounding him with a cold realization. Polter exhaled shakily, his breath visible in the chill as he tore his gaze away, forcing himself to look beyond the gallows at the dark woods that edged the clearing. Then a figure emerged from the shifting fog of his mind. The knight, clad in armor that seemed carved from silver feathers, stood apart, a being of both light and judgment. His hair shimmered like the stars, flowing with an ethereal glow that made him seem otherworldly. Handsome and severe, he possessed an elegance that bordered on divine, but it was his eyes—eyes like sharpened daggers—that pierced Polter, pinning him where he stood.
The starkissed knight stood there before a blinding light suddenly flashed in his eyes, and when he blinked instinctively, the faces were gone, replaced by those of strangers, some young and ugly and some older and scarred. The Star-Kissed Knight was gone, as if he had never been, but the echo of his gaze lingered, embedded deep in Polter’s chest like a brand.
“Who's there?” a voice called out.
Polter turned, squinting into the glare of the lantern held by a man in a kettlehelm, his chest covered in plate mail. The man’s presence was commanding, his voice sharp with suspicion, he could make out the frame of a bandaged jaw. Polter cursed himself for not wearing any armor, but the sword on his hip gave him all he needed. He saw the man’s eyes linger on it, narrowing.
“You’re out late,” the man remarked, stepping closer. “Dangerous to be wandering in times of war.”
Polter tensed, his mind racing for an answer. “I didn’t... On my farm we don’t hear much” His voice faltered, and the man’s gaze hardened. “I am actually out here looking for my”
“You slow?” the man echoed, his tone skeptical. His eyes flicked down to the sword, its jeweled hilt gleaming in the lantern light. “What kind of farmers tool is that. Surely you meant to say ye was a mercenary.”
Polter shook his head quickly. “A knight in truth.” Shit Polter realized as he threw out the lie
The man’s lips curled into a sneer, his hand already reaching for the reins of Polter’s horse. “A Knight? Riding like this in the dark with no attendant.” He laughed, a dark, mirthless sound. “You must be a man of Gwenforth’s, to be stalking the night.” As he spoke, two more men emerged from the shadows, dressed in rusted mail and kettlehelms, followed by a fourth in dirtied plate, four men in all and Polter instinctively assessed his odds.
The leader moved with an eerie grace, like an armored ghost cutting through the veil of the night. Each step reverberated, a metallic echo that seemed to resonate with the cool silence around them. His armor, blackened and marred by the strikes of past battles, shimmered in the dim light as if forged from the shadows themselves. The half-helm he wore left his face exposed—a pug nose flaring slightly as he approached, nostrils wide with steady breath. His squinting eyes, sharp and unyielding, were dark as obsidian, holding an unsettling gleam that suggested both calculation and menace. His skin, deep and rich like the earth itself, contrasted starkly against the steel, emphasizing the hard lines of his face. Below the helm, his chin jutted out, pointed and resolute, a sign of a man who had never wavered. Strapped to his waist was a broad ax, the haft worn smooth by use, its head etched with marks from countless encounters. The ax clung to his belt like a man to a cliffside, a weapon well acquainted with its bearer. To his flanks, the kettle-helmed figures moved with energy, their mismatched plates clinking, marked by deep scratches and dents. Their eyes behind metal slits shone with resolve. The lantern bearer stood behind, holding the flame steady, casting light and shadow across the grove. His gaunt face and wide eyes revealed apprehension. He held no weapon, only the light. Polter noted the steel-clad leader, the quick but poorly armored pair, and the vulnerable, unarmed lantern bearer. If Polter struck fast, he could disrupt their formation and create confusion.
The leader reached for the reins, his hand almost on Polter’s horse. But Polter was faster. In one swift motion, he drew his sword and thrust the point into the narrow slit of the man’s visor, feeling the resistance as the blade pierced through the man’s skull. The soldier's eyes bulged, rolling back as blood gushed from the wound, streaming down his faceplate. A strangled, choking noise bubbled up, cut short as Polter withdrew the blade, a dark spray splattering his chest. The armored body shuddered, knees buckling before is slunk away.
Polter wrenched the reins, forcing his horse to rear up. The sudden movement sent the armored leader sprawling, while a hoof struck one kettle-helmed man with a shattering crack, sending him hurtling into the dirt. Without pause, Polter’s blade came down, slashing the lantern bearer across the face and severing half his nose in a crimson spray. The man shrieked, dropping the lantern, which burst into a splash of flame. Polter followed with a fierce strike, severing the forearm of the second kettle-helmed man who lunged with a dirk. His scream was cut short as Polter’s sword cleaved through his skull, splitting from mouth to scalp. The body collapsed, blood pooling around his mount’s hooves. Polter kicked his horse into a gallop,
Polter didn’t look back. His heart hammered in his chest as he rode hard into the night, the sound of hooves striking against the cold, unforgiving ground. The wind lashed at his face, stinging like needles, but the chill within was worse.
What does it matter? a voice whispered from the darkness of his mind. The lives he’d taken, the blood he’d spilled—just fleeting moments in the vast, indifferent march of time. In the grand scheme, what were a few more corpses? A sick comfort coiled around that thought, cold and numbing. I am the decider. I take life or grant it. What is guilt, what is penance, when in the end, nothing truly matters? He forced himself to breathe, to steady the chaos thrumming in his veins. He needed his actions to have meaning. Without the weight of his crimes pressing down on him, without that burden, there could be no redemption. No hope. Only the void, vast and consuming. I can’t be nothing, he thought, a tremor of desperation slipping into his resolve. There has to be more. There has to be a reason.
The village loomed ahead, darkened palisades framing a scene that felt almost cruel in its normalcy. Torchlight flickered weakly against the black sky, a feeble imitation of stars. Polter’s mount trod softly over the damp earth, the rhythmic thud of hooves swallowed by the oppressive silence that wrapped around him. The gate, ajar and unmanned, yawned open like the mouth of some great, uncaring beast. The stench of roasted meat drifted on the breeze, mingling with the tang of blood that Polter still tasted in the back of his throat. As he approached, the sound of laughter reached him, raw and unfettered, villagers sat around crude tables, faces glowing with firelight. At the center of it all was Hudd, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with drink, tearing into a slab of meat, fat glistening on his fingers. His other hand clutched a half-empty mug, sloshing as he gestured wildly, drawing laughter from those around him. Polter’s chest tightened, the bile searing up his throat as he watched Hudd revel, carefree and untouched, his hands shook with the phantom weight of his sword, And yet here was Hudd, laughing. Bacchus sat, silent and watchful, his lone eye glinting in the flickering glow as it met Polter’s gaze. He offered a single nod, empty of questions or judgment, just a silent acknowledgment.
Polter lingered in the shadows after the feast, the raucous laughter and clatter of dishes fading into the deep hush of night. The village’s revelry had ebbed, the fires that once roared now smoldering, casting long, wavering shadows across the square. Parents ushered sleepy children to their beds, their giggles drifting off into silence. The embers crackled softly, smoke curling into the starlit sky as the chill of evening began to set in.
Polter’s jaw tightened as he watched Hudd drain the last of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin smug and careless. Around them, the last of the cleanup continued, but Polter’s gaze was locked on Hudd, now swaying slightly as he turned to head toward the manor. This would not stand. The reckoning would come—and it would come now. Polter intercepted him just as he reached the corridor leading to his quarters, gripping Hudd’s arm and dragging him into a shadowed alcove. “Why were you so late?” Polter’s voice was a cold, dangerous whisper.
Hudd blinked, the drunken haze lifting from his eyes as he registered Polter’s steely stare. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying for a disarming smile. “Aye, Polter… didn’t mean to cause worry. I found a woman, Helka. Red hair, the biggest bosom you ever saw,” he chuckled, though it faltered under Polter’s hard gaze. “Spent the night with her…” For a moment, something in Polter’s eyes made Hudd’s smile die, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “I swear—swear on my life—I’d never betray the village. Even if men had come for me, I’d have died before selling you out.” Polter’s jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface, but before he could speak, Hudd raised a hand. “Listen,” he said, voice edged with desperation. “If it eases your mind, ride with me tomorrow to the city. Meet Helka yourself. We’ll make a day of it, eh? Besides, I’ve been scheming while you were away—fixing to get us some iron work.” Hudd’s grin returned, weaker but hopeful.
Polter’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, Leon would ride with them, He decided, Leon, who was unmatched with a bow and would put an arrow through Hudd’s back without hesitation if it came to that. How did Hudd slip past the checkpoint if he was guiltless? Perhaps Hudd had to die.
When Polter finally slipped into bed beside Eirde, she did not stir. Her warmth enveloped him as she curled closer, instinctively seeking his presence. He cleaned his sword with methodical precision, undressing in silence. But as sleep claimed him, darkness followed.
He stood beneath the gallows again, the rough rope swaying in the wind. Dante hung in the center, lifeless, his body limp, eyes once vibrant now dull. The village around him was empty, the silence broken only by the creaking noose. Polter’s heart thudded, each beat heavier than the last. The sword in his hand felt cold, the jeweled hilt biting into his skin. As he blinked there were more there, they all mocked him with dead open eyes judging him.
His gaze shifted to the ground where Hudd knelt, head bowed in the dirt, he looked up and began to laugh, a terrible laugh. Without a word, Polter raised his sword and brought it down. The blade cleaved Hudd’s neck, blood spraying across the frozen earth. Hudd’s body crumpled, but then it twitched, shuddered, and his severed head rolled back into place with a sickening snap. He looked up, grinning that same arrogant grin from the feast.
Polter struck again, harder, the sound of steel on flesh deafening. Hudd collapsed, only to reform, blood pooling back into his veins as if summoned by some unseen force. Panic gnawed at Polter’s resolve, and he swung again and again, each blow more desperate. The scene shifted without warning—Eirde was there, watching, her face pale with horror.
“Monster.” The word sliced through the air, cold and sharp. Her eyes, wide with revulsion, met his. “You’re a monster,” she repeated, louder, “Monster! Monster! Monster!” Polter’s hands trembled, the sword slipping from his grasp as his chest heaved. The world around him seemed to close in, suffocating.
He woke with a start, gasping for breath. His heart pounded as if he had just fought for his life. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something to anchor him. But Eirde’s warmth was gone, the bed beside him empty, sheets cold and untouched. He reached instinctively for the sword, the hilt familiar, almost comforting, as he pressed it to his chest. The thorns bit into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. He barely noticed the sting, holding the sword tighter. Polter’s fingers curled around the hilt, the thorns pressing deeper, drawing blood that trickled warm against the cold steel. Alone, he held fast, alone.