"I remember us having that elven sunbread, delicious stuff, sweet, yet savoury at the same time. Father spent a fortune importing that in from Fylandofirr. Do you remember the taste, how they melted in your mouth as you took that first bite, and then those fruits, like raisins, what are they called?"

"I think the elves call them dæyhēre" Peyton smiled despite the bastard sword pointing precariously toward him as he slowly lowered himself onto the creaking wooden floor.

"Yes! That's it," Sir Cedwyn chuckled almost unaware that he was the one menacingly pointing it at the Knight of Terriers.

Peyton attempted to smile with him, desperate to relieve the room from the intense darkened atmosphere that he had brought himself, unarmed, into.

The Count of Oakfort, Sir Cedwyn, was a shadow of his former self. Dejected and heartbroken, he sat up against the corner of the room beside a well-made bed, appearing as if all hope was lost. As he talked of sunbread, his voice appeared to bounce in excitement, yet the minimal light in the room made it difficult for Peyton to see what his face truly spoke.

"The last time I had it, that big-bosomed woman sang 'The mistress from Sainte-Esquedo', gods what was her name, she was such a beauty?" Cedwyn's slightly broken voice recalled, his sword slowly lowered as Peyton sat on the floor.

"Esmerelda Crueza, she was deliberately sailed in from Cerbero Muerte. An extremely gifted woman." Peyton smiled.

"Gifted indeed," Cedwyn's chuckle appeared more mischievous than normal. "That woman turned me into a man that evening, father would have been furious if he had found out. How are you able to remember her name so vividly?"

"I remember a vast number of details as if it were yesterday. It is a blessing and a curse."

"I wonder if you recall, then, that it was the last time I saw my father before you and he set off to the east for riches and glory?" Cedwyn's voice quickly switched from happiness to venom, "I wonder if you recall the favour that my father had always shown you during the eight winters that you slept within my castle? I wonder if you recall the various times he chastised me for failing to live up to his high expectations, unlike his page who seemed to continuously achieve them effortlessly?"

Peyton sighed, his frustration evident as the air escaped his mouth. Years of resentment, anger and hardship, all down to petty jealousy? It had always been an emotion that Peyton rarely understood. It was an irrational sentiment, and it continuously created strife where most times it was not required. As a man of Sir Cedwyn's stature, revered by the nobility and respected by peers, how could he understand what it was to be considered no more than a peasant?

Peyton needed to work twice as hard and twice as long to even be noticed by the other knights. He had the title of Sir, but were it not for his adventures in the east with the father of the man that despised him, Peyton would be a nobody, likely sent in the vanguard that devastated so many lives at the beginning of the war.

Pure exasperation took over Peyton's thoughts, as there was no way, as Sir Cedwyn was at his lowest, would Peyton allow himself to be treated as the focus of all of Cedwyn's failures.

"I remember everything. I remember how your father forced me to work double the hours of everyone else to be considered an equal of the other pages, I remember how your mother refused me to be in the same room as her due to my low standing, and I also recall how you and your brothers teased me and beat me at every opportunity as I was the ginger peasant, including one time breaking my arm so bad, the doctor was concerned I would not be able to use a sword with it ever again." frustration rose within Peyton's voice.

"Uh... I..." Cedwyn stuttered.

"I also recall how your father praised me for my work ethic, that he was surprised and encouraged how I stood up to the adversity of the castle and became a page that he considered proud to be his own. I recall how I wept for your father as if he was my own as the Manticore's tail pierced his armour like it was parchment, infecting and deforming him in ways I could never consider imaginable."

"Deformed? Deformed? He was completely unrecognisable, his skin bloated and pus-filled, blacker than midnight. He was no longer a man when he was returned to us."

Peyton could sense the blade of the bastard sword rise toward him once again. A drip of sweat slipped from his brow, he wondered whether he should have kept his frustration to a minimum.

"The soldiers told me how the man that killed my father was a hero and saviour. How he organised and defeated the Manticore so that they all could live. They also told me how, as I mourned my father, you went and celebrated your new adventure with the very same mercenary that granted my father mercy. Was it mercy, or was he simply satisfying his ego?"

Peyton could sense the bitterness aimed in his direction. "Ethelston Darke may have come from a mercenary's background, but never have I met a man that is the literal definition of honour. His moniker as the Manticore Hunter is well deserved, but he would have gladly let your father take the renown that fell at his feet. And as for my role, your father offered me as a prize to Ethelston. I did not choose the life of a mercenary, but to this day, I will always thank your father and credit him for allowing me to become a man far beyond my station. Yes, I have received a great fortune in my short life, but were it not for your father, I would not have worked as hard or as long to achieve what I have done."

There was a silence in the room, almost as piercing as the blade in Peyton's direction, but as the sound of metal clanking on the floor broke it in two, so did the sniffles of the grown man beside him.

"And now the Manticore Hunter aims to kill me," Cedwyn cried.

Peyton thought long and hard for the next words to escape his lips. "Ethelston would have known little of the turmoil his actions would cause. He would not have known that Oakfort stood with the men of Ravenscourt."

"Or that the man that leads them is sadistic," interrupted Cedwyn.

Peyton couldn't disagree with the comment. Sir Emhyr, the head of the Ravenscourt forces took great pleasure in the suffering of others to the point where it was completely unnatural. The cries of the man next to him seemed to cause Peyton a discomfort that was unfamiliar to him. He had seen grown men cry on the battlefield when fear overtook their minds and anxiety controlled their actions, but it was normally the men beside them who encouraged them to face their fears or humiliated them to the point of capitulation. Dealing with the emotional breakdown of a decorated soldier was something that Peyton was not trained to do.

"Do you remember the dæyhēre bread?" Cedwyn responded cutting directly through Peyton's spiralling thoughts.

"No," Peyton responded abruptly. He didn't know what came over him at that moment, perhaps it was years of frustration bottled up inside of him or maybe it was the futility of the situation that they found themselves in. Whatever it was, the words that could not be said were truths that he had kept subdued for so long, and now, as the man beside him sat dejected on the floor, Peyton's tepidness would be no more.

"I never had the dæyhēre. I was deemed, by your mother, to be of insufficient stature to be allowed to dine with you. My food came from the leftovers along with the other servants in the kitchens. I ate well, considering, but never once was I considered worthy to have the same delicacies as you." Peyton could feel a sense of anger rising within him, "and Lady Esmerelda Crueza was paid to provide you with the services that you required. Your father wanted to ensure, that when he was away hunting the Manticore, there would always remain a man at Oakfort."

Silence sliced through the room once again, a piercing dagger in the lightless room, cutting through unwanted truths with absolute ease.

"You were not chosen for his trip to the east because, for him, nothing else mattered more than someone sitting on the seat at Oakfort. Your two brothers were not old enough to fulfil that role. For many winters I have had to deal with your resentment and anger and all of it was completely unfounded. I was never your equal, except with a sword in my hand. I never demanded anything from you either, just your respect, which I never received."

"Is that why you're here now, to demand my respect?"

"Sir Emhyr is cruel," Peyton eventually responded, "this is why I came. To do what I can to help you escape, before Emhyr breaks down your resistance."

Peyton could almost feel the glistening teary eyes stare directly at him in disbelief. "After everything, you still aim to save me?" Sir Cedwyn replied.

"You are a knight of the Isovine Empire, why would I not do so?" Peyton responded.

There was an almighty rustle of clothing and Peyton immediately shuddered as he felt the arms of the Count of Oakfort wrap themselves around him. Ask Cedwyn embraced him tight, his musky smell enveloping Peyton's nostrils, he did not know whether to push him away or share the embrace. Instead, as his arms lay lifeless by his side, Cedwyn eventually released his grip.

"I know not how to apologise, Sir Peyton, for it is not in an Oakfort's nature to do so, but I know how to express gratitude. Your attempts to save me from the claws of Sir Emhyr will, however, be futile." Sir Cedwyn explained.

Lifting himself to his feet, Peyton encouraged Cedwyn to do the same, "I refuse to believe that it is futile, surely there must be some secret passage nearby?"

Cedwyn firmly grabbed Peyton's arm before the young knight could waste his enthusiasm and energy. "Peyton, it's futile," he remarked. "I found one and sent one of my men to investigate it. Emhyr's men made me watch as they hammered nails through his wrists on a cart that they found."

Without warning, Cedwyn grabbed hold of the sheet that covered a window, tearing it down forcefully to reveal the horrifying truth that had covered it.

Stepping toward the window, sickness and anger seemed to fill Peyton's thoughts as he looked into the courtyard below, watching the man who had been nailed into a cart, stripped naked and left to rot out in the open. As the man moaned, and his movement appeared minimal, Peyton couldn't believe that Emhyr, a man that he revered, would perform something so barbaric to a peasant who was simply following orders.

"I covered the windows as I couldn't bare to see the damage that I have caused. How do you do it? How do you remain so strong in such adversity?" Cedwyn asked.

Looking toward his peer, words failed to exit Peyton's mouth, the look of torment on Cedwyn's face disarmed him forcefully to the point where it felt easier to view the dying man below.

"My travels with Ethelston have made me seen worse than this," Peyton exclaimed, "but at no point does it make things easier."

Cedwyn slumped to the floor once more, and the sound of his subordinate's dying drone started to filter into the room.

"I can not escape, Peyton, brother, there is only one way out of this that doesn't allow me to experience the same fate as the man that I had ordered to his death."

Peyton could feel turmoil inside his mind, emotions that he rarely felt were buffetting his thoughts and tormenting his aching bones. With Cedwyn calling him brother, a simple word almost burst the dam to his sorrow.

Cedwyn had never called him brother before.

"Several times I tried to end my life this day," Cedwyn muttered, "but I was born a coward, and I lived a coward. Even as a fate worse than death awaits me, I am unable to do what must be done to relieve me from potential suffering."

With the light filtering into the room, Peyton could now see the red swollen eyes of the Count of Oakfort that had exhausted all tears from their tear ducts. His face was dishevelled and bereft of hope and as he continued to slump in the corner of the room, Peyton's thoughts of escape seemed to filter away with the darkness.

"If you shared the love of my father, then you must help me to join him in the afterlife," Cedwyn eventually commented, his puffy and disjointed eyes focusing on the Knight of Terriers.

As the words infiltrated his thoughts, the realisation of what Cedwyn was asking him started to become clear to Peyton.

"No," he replied, immediately standing to his feet, "you can not ask me to do this!"

Cedwyn gradually pulled himself off the floor, taking hold of Peyton's arm before he could step further away from him.

"Look at him," Cedywn commented angrily, forcing the young knight to look toward the man nailed on a cart. "My fate will be worse than his, you know this. Emhyr will do all that he can to make an example of me, and I will not be able to take it with dignity. You must help me in what I ask."

"But you are a knight, the Count of Oakfort, not only is it inhumane, but for Emhyr to do what you say would go against the code of chivalry," Peyton responded, his voice becoming strained as he spoke.

Releasing his grip, Cedwyn instead rested his hand on Peyton's arm in comfort. "Don't be foolish, Peyton. Emhyr cares little about chivalry or honour. You must remember what he did to those three chevaliers at Le Portier. Despite all of our protests, he still had them flayed and put on display outside the town for the next army to see."

Peyton recalled the horrific day. Soldiers surrendered after being overwhelmed by Emhyr's superior forces and when it was suggested to imprison or release those who had surrendered, he instead executed every last one of them, except for the three Chevaliers in charge. For them, he reserved a special judgment, taking great pleasure as he tore the skin from their sinew.

Emhyr could not have been stopped, the gratification he obtained by the screams of those he had subdued was a pleasure that did not appear natural. Despite Peyton's limited protests, Emhyr had moved into a stage of ecstasy that did not appear human.

Could Peyton do what was asked of him, to kill the son of the knight who gave him an opportunity for a future, who taught him the knight's code among so many other important life lessons? A glance out the window reminded him of Cedwyn's fate, unless he could find a way to assist the Count, Peyton would have no choice but to deliver the same mercy that Ethelston provided Cedwyn's father many winters ago.

Cedwyn's forces had been pushed back heavily, and only a few rooms were now available for them to fortify. Soon, Emhyr would grow impatient and launch all of his forces until the resistance capitulated. He would be relentless in his pursuit to defeat the last remaining forces of the Count of Oakfort. Even knowing that the diminished space for combat would favour the defender, Emhyr would sacrifice many to reach the man desperately asking for mercy.

Searching the remaining rooms for another secret passage appeared futile. Perhaps they would find another, although the chances appeared remote, what was waiting for them on the other side?

Solutions were now becoming rare. Escape through the window, several metres from the ground was suicidal, and that was before taking into account that soldiers had surrounded the keep. Hiding and hoping everything would blow over appeared nonsensical, which only left two options. Fulfilling Cedwyn's request or a full frontal assault.

"What if you attempt to fight your way out? There's always a chance that you could push your way through," Peyton suggested.

"Don't be foolish," Cedwyn replied harshly. "For once I think clearly. For my whole life, I have ordered many men to their deaths, eager to sacrifice them for my reputation. No more!"

Peyton allowed silence to descend upon the room, concentrating on the words that had been harshly spoken by Cedwyn.

He had known the Count of Oakfort for so long, that his words sang true. Cedwyn did not care for a peasant, a soldier, or even someone of Peyton's standing. Perhaps his immanent death had provided Cedwyn with new clarity, or perhaps his sanity was being stretched as a result of today's events, either way, it appeared that Peyton was being left with little to no choice.

"What you ask of me is a step I am unwilling to take," Peyton responded.

Cedwyn slid a knife from his side, before spinning the golden embroiled jewelled handle towards Peyton. "It must be you, Sir Peyton Whitehill. You are a man of honour, even after I have treated you with contempt. You will strike clean and efficiently, I could not ask for anyone else. Give me the same dignity that Ethelston gave my father all the winters ago."

Taking a deep breath, Peyton did what he could to not show the emotional strain he was under. He could sense the tears welling up in his eyes, but as he slid the dagger from the Count's outstretched hand, the tears dried up with the emotion he desperately attempted to subdue.

"Before you do this, there are two favours I must ask of you?" Cedwyn requested.

Peyton didn't know whether to feel angry or honoured by Cedwyn's request. Why did he have to be the man to fulfil this awful demand?

"I ask much of you, I know," Cedwyn responded, seeing the anguish in Peyton's eyes.

"Speak," Peyton reacted, briefly forgetting their positions within the aristocracy, "if it is in my power to grant, I will do so."

Cedwyn gave a quick glimpse of a smile, "my sword, please take it to Oakfort, or present it to one of my brothers. The Count of Oakfort must always have Stoneheart."

Peyton looked toward the sword that lay lifeless on the floor. Its blade shone viciously as the sun's rays attempted to spread throughout the room, while its crossguard's twisted metal appeared to blend into the sword with ease, spinning around the bottom of the blade like vines of a bush. At the top of the handle, in beautifully carved oak wood was a majestic tree, branching to the very edges of the circled insignia. The house sigil of the proud Oakforts.

Solemnly, Peyton nodded, "You have my word."

With a small smile, Cedwyn placed his hand firmly on Peyton's shoulder. "Thank you. Now my second request is somewhat harder. I ask that you do what you can to spare my men. They are not responsible for what has transpired today, they do not deserve the horrific fate that my man below is currently suffering."

Peyton knew it would be difficult to achieve, but if they were his men, he would certainly have requested the same. "I will do what I can."

"Thank you," Cedwyn replied, "that is all I ask."

There was a brief pause as Cedwyn released his hand from Peyton's shoulder. He briefly sighed before looking past Peyton and toward the exit, "BROCCA!" he called.

The rattle of chainmail could be heard echoing through the corridor beyond the room where Peyton and Cedwyn had deliberated. As a soldier marched into the room, a halberd resting sternly on his shoulder, Peyton's thoughts of apprehension briefly flooded his mind.

"Brocca, make sure that whatever transpires in here, Sir Whitehill will remain unharmed," Cedwyn asked calmly.

Peyton felt brief relief as the soldier agreed to his orders, but then was immediately replaced by an unnerving sense as the Count of Oakfort appeared much calmer and at ease than he had ever seen him before.

"Once Sir Whitehill leaves, you and the men are under his command. You fulfil his orders with the same dignity and resolve as you have done with me. Is that understood?"

The soldier, Brocca, took a glance at Peyton before returning to his leige lord. "As you command, milord. Is it time?"

"It is time," Cedwyn replied calmly.

Brocca saluted, the rustle of the chainmail seemed to tingle even after the soldier had lowered his arm. "I shall prepare the men."

As the soldier turned away, his solid steps dwindling with each clunk, Peyton realised that Cedwyn had been planning this for some while.

With a calm, almost ghostly voice, Cedwyn returned his gaze to the young knight, "Sir Peyton Whitehill. You are a man of honour, and while my bitterness toward you for all these winters has been unfounded, never once have you treated me with the contempt that I deserve. My last request to you is an extremely hard one to make, but please, at least give me the dignity to die at the hands of a true knight, not slaughtered by the hands of a butcher."

Peyton took ahold of the dagger. Normally he would want to savour its jewelled handle, savouring how it sank into the palm of his hand, but not today. Today, the jewels felt coarse and harsh, as if the entire length of it had needles extending their way deep into Peyton's skin.

With all his might, Peyton tried not to look into the distraught eyes of the man who was resigned to his fate, but as they swept over his facial features, his eyes glanced directly towards Cedwyn, focusing deep into his lost, chaotic pupils.

He took a step forward, something which appeared to take all his might to do, placing his hand on Cedwyn's shoulder as he gripped the dagger harder.

The dagger felt so heavy as if at that moment it required more effort than to pick up a mighty broadsword, but as Peyton saw the resignation in Cedwyn's face once more, he knew what needed to be done.

Gripping tight, Peyton let all thoughts leave his mind, embracing numbness as he allowed his actions to take over.

He thrust hard, easily slipping his dagger through the flesh of Cedwyn, up between his ribs, and allowing the tip to slip into his still-beating heart.

Cedwyn's pitiful groan was nauseating to hear, his screwed-up face, twisted as the dagger cut deep made Peyton almost lose his nerve and his grip, but as he slipped the blade from Cedwyn's parted skin, Peyton returned his thoughts to the now and grabbed a hold of the man before he crumbled onto the floor.

The sound of the dagger clattering to the floor and the sticky sensation of blood oozing between his fingers seemed to fill him with regret, but as a small smile flashed ever so briefly on Cedwyn's face, a small moment of redemption filled his tense body.

Peyton lowered him down gently to the floor. He watched as Cedwyn's clothing started to stain and the brown shirt began to turn a grotesque shade of black.

Cedwyn's eyes started to flicker, and his consciousness started to wain, but with one quick grip of his hand on Peyton's, he looked up and attempted a smile, "A true knight," he gasped.

Peyton didn't notice the tear that had slipped down from his cheek and fell onto the dying man, and as Cedwyn's eyes slowly shut, Peyton could simply do nothing but place his forehead on top of Cedwyn's. For so many winters they had lived together under the same roof, and yet, despite living in separate circles, their commonalities were far beyond that of Sir Vermund Oakfort, father of Sir Cedwyn.

Peyton's two brothers and a sister, died at such a young age that he never really got to know them, and as the ragged breath of Cedwyn became more laboured, Peyton realised that Cedwyn was the closest person he could ever consider as being sibling to him.

As Cedwyn's final breath came, the silence that descended the room felt anything short of peaceful. The numbness that enveloped Peyton was initially overwhelming, but as the numbness switched toward anger at Sir Emhyr, Peyton knew he needed to take hold of intoxicating emotions before he did something rash.

He lowered Cedwyn to the floor, the shirt becoming more stained with each moment. He watched as the blood was now trickling onto the wooden floor, seeping its way between each plank. It felt like Peyton's honour was seeping away with it too.

There was no way after today, that Peyton could remain under Emhyr's authority. If he was to survive this day then he needed to be away from this mess and ungallant behaviour.

Peyton picked the dagger off the floor, wiping away the blood on his arm before sliding it into his belt. Picking up Stoneheart he held the bastard sword tight as if his life depended on it. His duty, now, was to perform a dying man's wish and return the sword to the new Count of Oakfort.

Taking one last look at the man who now appeared so peaceful, dead on the floor, Peyton knew that the Isovine/Ruvian war was over for him and that he, and his men, needed to walk away from the second army for good.

He had now seen two Counts of Oakfort die out of mercy, yet both times that mercy came at the cost of Peyton's soul.