It felt strange to wake atop clean sheets, the frigid winter wind keening outside, beyond closed windows, rather than freezing him to the bone. The sounds of early morning bustle were muted and dulled. It gladdened Roland to be away from it for a moment, in a toasty bed beneath a down-stuffed blanket. For everything to be quiet and peaceful.

Of course, it helped to have a warm body alongside. Clara was still snoozing quietly, slender hand laid lightly across his chest in a tender embrace.

Roland sighed to himself, reluctant to wake her without need. Soon enough, there was work to be done. Ruyter to tend to. Supplies to be gathered. He exhaled loudly at the thought, the mental list of tedium seeming all the more daunting.

The naked woman laying next to him murmured something in response, hand tightening ever so slightly against his flesh.

He glanced down at her with brow raised, stroking Clara's shoulder as he laid back on the impossibly soft pillows. He had drunk too much wine, certainly, the slight ringing in his head bore testament to that. His throat was parched, he'd need to grab some water soon. Pity the pitcher was just out of reach on the bedside table. His eyes wandered absentmindedly, settling on the lines in the woodgrain above.

The wisps of her brown hair tickling his nose made him shift slightly, inadvertently disturbing his companion with the motion.

"Awake, huh?" she muttered groggily, eyes fluttering for a brief moment before she buried her face against his shoulder.

"I'm gonna have to go down- make sure Ella has the kitchen going," she groaned reluctantly, "I just don't want to."

That was a feeling Roland could easily sympathize with, "A few minutes won't kill us."

"Mhm, no, it won't," the woman smiled ever so slightly, holding him just a little tighter as she sidled close.

"What happened to your leg?" she asked simply.

"Had a bad run in. That's all."

"Seems that's the case every time I see you."

Roland sighed and ran his thumb across her shoulder, suddenly aware of the ache still bothering his thigh. Thinking back his luck hadn't been the best. Or maybe it was. He was still alive to complain after all.

"Maybe, maybe it is," he agreed weakly, closing his eyes and allowing the pillows to swallow him.

"You ever think it would be better to stop?" she asked him warily, "Sooner or later-"

Her voice tapered off as she considered her words, "You could do anything else."

"I just don't want to worry about it right now. I really don't," he groaned and shook his head.

"Neither do I," Clara said wistfully, "I just wish you made it easier."

"Getting a little sentimental eh," Roland snorted slightly.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she chuckled, "I'd just hate to lose that clever tongue of yours."

"Clever? I thought I was an idiot?" he opened a single eye at the remark.

"A clever, witty idiot," the woman grimaced in faux exasperation, glancing out at the gray dawn, "I have to go. There's work to be done."

She pulled away reluctantly, making her way to the small vanity set opposite the bed.

Roland let out a small breath, enjoying his view as the woman went about her morning, the beams of cold morning light gently accenting every curve of her hourglass figure.

“You could find work here you know,” she said absentmindedly, tousling her long tresses as she sat down before the mirror, “Business has been getting better since the war. Even the trade from Ruthenia has begun to flow once more. And once this- occupation stabilizes, we'll be prosperous once more. There will be plenty of opportunity.”

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“Don't let Argus hear you say that.”

“If Argus doesn't know. He's an idiot,” she sighed warily, “We do not wish it. You know more than most I do not wish it. But it will be so. We all know how the vote of annexation will go. Astana owns the council. By right of the gun.”

Roland felt his lips draw taut as he considered that reality, nodding his head in quiet acceptance of the fact. Times truly were changing. Groaning slightly, he swung his feet clear of the bed, moving to pour himself some water. The Malthorian Cross sitting by the bedside reminded him of his nakedness. And somehow, the absence of its comforting weight only seemed to emphasize it.

“Then why fight it?” he asked quietly, draining the cup in a single draft before donning the amulet, “Why do you all continue?”

The woman shrugged, slowly combing her hair as the noise of the street slowly got louder and louder.

“Hope, I guess. Denial. Hoping somehow this all goes differently,” she said flatly, “Truth be told, I do not know why. Maybe so we can say we tried.”

“That's what your father said,” Roland chuckled humorlessly.

“Yes. And he died.”

It was a simple statement of fact, all traces of emotion moderated out with painful precision.

“Why do you still continue?” she asked quietly, “You killed that man. That wizard. You've done it before. And that little pilgrimage of yours. Every year you go up to the mountains. Why?”

“Because I have to. As long as business remains unfinished,” he said, a small, mirthless smile forming on his lips, “So I can at least say I tried”

If she recognized the cynicism in his voice, she did not remark upon it, her eyes briefly flitting upward to meet his in the mirror.

“It is difficult to accept. Defeat.”

“Yeah, it is,” Roland laughed, the sound hollow and empty.

“The others talk of fighting this thing to the end. They'd rather see this whole city burn than see it submit,” Clara said, testing the tightness of her braids.

“I can understand that,” the witch-hunter admitted with a small shrug, thinking to his own search.

“But at some point. The writing is on the wall, and if there is to be a future, any future. We will have to live with reality.”

The witch-hunter felt his nose twitch and screw up at that thought. It was a notion he did not fancy at all.

“You speak of my father,” the woman said slowly, standing up and turning to face him, “Of his stubborn resolve. But this, this was also his. The families,” she said, raising her arms to the room around them, “This whole place. Great-grandfather built the foundations himself. This is his legacy. And if we take the path of fire, there will be no legacy left.”

“Mhm,” the witch-hunter nodded his sympathy, albeit his eyes strayed lower on the naked woman than they should have.

“Don't you ever think of that?” she asked her voice taking a note of exasperation, “The future? Does it mean nothing?”

Roland held her gaze, feeling strangely calm as he considered her words, “I have considered it.”

“And you're also willing to burn?”

“I made my choices,” he said, “I burned my future long ago. I am not the hero of Trevigen anymore. The man I was when we first met. And it was a path I took willingly.”

“You don't have to be a hero,” she sighed and pulled on her bloomers, “But this fight. For pride, for spite. It will gain you nothing. It will garner your legacy nothing.”

“It's about principle,” Roland said, feeling the edge of bitterness enter his tone, “It was always about principle.”

“I know,” the woman said, and for a brief moment, she stopped, her mouth forming a sad, tight-lipped smile, “I know. You're a good man Roland. You're a good man. You've always been a good man.”

The witch-hunter could feel his own lips drawn taut, unable to make any real retort.

“But I've watched too many good men die for principle,” she said the words slowly, carefully, “Too many who spill every last drop of sweat and blood, only for it all to be meaningless. And I just don't want to see any more friends die that way. Especially not you.”

He had no real response to that. No hollow laugh. No joke nor jest. All he could do was hold her gaze, feeling a tightness in his chest, at once feeling guilty, yet unrepentant. And it showed through. Clara stood fully dressed now, calm and collected, that slight hint of sadness in her eyes.

“Do what you must, Roland,” she said ruefully, leaning in close to kiss him lightly on the cheek, “Do what you must.”

He wanted to apologize, to offer some paltry consolation. Yet for once, the words escaped him. He had nothing of value to say, and no cleverness with which to mask the fact.

“I have to go, we'll speak again later,” she said finally, offering one final parting smile as she slipped free of the bedroom, leaving him in silence.

Roland sighed as the door closed behind Clara, leaning forward on her chair as he caught sight of the man in the mirror.

A haggard mask gazed back, those blue eyes heavy with the weight of years. Streaks of gray shone amid the short trimmed blonde hair, the lines of age carving their way across once handsome features.

To think this was the face that had charmed a myriad women and inspired hundreds of men to death and glory. It all seemed so odd now, so implausible.

The hero of Trevigen was truly no more. All he could do was wonder. When and where had that charming cavalry officer breathed his last? When had he died to be supplanted by this world-weary cynic? When had it all transpired?

A man without a future. No cause and no legacy.

What Clara still saw in there, he could not fathom.

Perhaps it was indeed time to step away.

The man in the mirror frowned, jaw clenching as he considered such a notion.

Principle.

In his nearly four decades of life, it was always about principle.

His fingers clenched around the back of the chair, brows furrowed as he rejected the notion.

Principle.

Perhaps it would lead him to annihilation. Perhaps it would lead him to ruin. But he did not have a legacy to look out for, and he would see his duty done before his fall.