Pain seared through me as I woke, my body a battered ruin. My eyes peeled open, hesitant, vision blurred by the flickering torchlight in a dank room. I tried to move my hand—impossible. Every muscle throbbed, ribs screaming like a conquered city gate. I gasped, forcing a deeper effort, but the pain mocked me, each breath a knife. Rina’s face burned in my mind—glowing beside her prince, hands linked, her “join me” a cruel jest from Anthera. I’d lost her, just as I’d lost Keiya, the truth a relentless ache. The wine’s bitter haze, Lyra’s mocking presence, her flight without a word—what was I to her? A fool, broken in Vernise, chasing a lie through a city that cared nothing for my torment.

“Don’t force it,” a voice cut through, steady and low. “Everything at its own pace.” A figure stepped from the shadowed corner, the torch’s glow catching his grey beard and hard eyes. My savior—the archer with the goose feather arrows. The darkness and my haze had hidden him, but now his gaze pinned me, blank yet piercing.

“It’s you,” I breathed, wincing as I tried to shift, pain stabbing my ribs. “Damn Vernise,” I cursed, my voice hoarse. Coming here was a mistake, a fool’s errand born of Rina’s betrayal.
He huffed, leaning against the damp stone wall, its chill seeping into the air. “Of course.” He stepped closer, his boots scraping the grit-strewn floor.

“How long have I been out?” I asked, my breath ragged, Arion’s distant snorts from outside the only tether to sanity. Seven days from Anthera—thorns tearing my cloak, rivers soaking my boots, bandits fleeing Arion’s charge—had left me raw, and Vernise had broken me further.

“Two days,” he said, his voice calm but sharp. “You’ve flickered in and out. Those hoodlums dealt you a beating, but the ale in your blood did worse. You were drowning something.”
“Not drowning,” I muttered, the lie bitter. “Just drinking.”
“I care little what it was,” he said, eyeing my Kris and pistol on a nearby crate. “Those weapons mark you a fighter, yet you barely held your own. Strange.”
“I…” I faltered, pain and shame choking me. He raised a hand, stopping me.
“Rest. Your body needs healing.” His touch was light, but his eyes held no warmth. “Drink this.” He offered a glass bottle, its purple contents glinting. I hesitated, Rina’s wine haunting me—its unnatural weight, her deceit.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be gone,” he urged, his gaze impatient. He’d saved me, hadn’t he? I took the bottle, hands trembling, and uncorked it. Odorless, but the memory of poison lingered. “It’s a concoction,” he added, sensing my doubt. “Heals internal injuries.”

I swallowed hard, then poured the liquid down my throat. It burned, a foul stream searing every inch, my vision blurring as if my blood turned toxic. “Don’t fight it, fighter,” his voice echoed, distant. I let the darkness surge, drowning me once more.

¶¶¶

“Once he wakes, we give him a choice.”
“Choice? I gave him one—to live.”
“He’s still a free man.”
The voices drifted, a thousand miles away, faint but sharp. A squabble, pulling me from the void.
“He has much to answer for,” the first voice said, familiar yet strange.
“Like what?” I rasped, my throat raw, eyes cracking open.
Two men turned, their gazes like fire in the torchlit gloom. Twins—black-and-grey hair trimmed fine, goatees bound by bands, their resemblance unnerving. I couldn’t tell which was my savior, my mind reeling, sanity fraying.
“Who are you?” I demanded, voice tense, pain spiking as I tried to sit.
“You see reality and cower,” one said, his tone cryptic, eyes glinting. “Your savior stands here, yet you hesitate.”
“He’s not strong for your riddles,” the other snapped, his impatience raw.
“Who are you?” I pressed, my chest tight, the dank air heavy with mildew.
“Don’t fear,” the first said, lips twitching. “I’m Kenan Stoneheart, and this is my brother, Crust, your savior.”
“I just picked you up,” Crust growled, tossing my Kris’s sheath onto the crate, its clatter echoing. “The physician saved your sorry soul.”
“I owe you both,” I breathed, gasping as I propped myself against the bedframe, ribs protesting. Arion’s snort drifted through a cracked window, grounding me.
“Crust saw you fight,” Kenan said, his voice measured. “Said you had speed, agility to crush those men, but you were sloppy.”
“Never sloppy,” I snapped, frowning. “Caught off guard.”
“Seemed sloppy to me,” Kenan said, eyeing me. “Why drown yourself in ale?”
“A bad day,” I muttered, Rina’s face flashing—her prince, her betrayal. Keiya’s loss echoed, a twin wound.
“Enough analysis,” Crust cut in, impatient, holding my Kris. “Who are you?”
“No one,” I said, voice flat.
“Unfair,” Kenan said, lips twitching. “We gave our names. Your turn.”
They were right—nobility demanded truth. I sighed, the weight of it crushing. “Dorack… Dorack Dun.”
“A cloud of mystery clings to you,” Kenan said, smiling faintly. “A sojourner. We’ll host you.”

“Just like that?” I asked, confusion spiking, pain throbbing.
His smile faded, eyes hardening. “Not quite, friend. There’s a price.” Terror crept in as Crust leaned closer, his gaze like stone.
“We need your help,” Kenan said, his voice low, the torch’s flicker casting shadows across their faces.