Cent had spent his whole life running.

From the raiders who'd burned his village to the ground an entire lifetime ago. From his homeland east of the Roga, hidden behind the shadow of real warriors, born with a bear's spirit. From his debts, when his coin had run out and he'd started borrowing more, falling in with the Vangen to wipe the slate clean.

And now he stood on the edge of it all, considering whether to run again. From Kel Dracon. From Danic. From everything. Never to look back.

Up on the castle's battlements, the wind howled a fearsome song, tugging at the braids in his hair, in his beard, the loose tassels of his great coat. It filled his ears with a wild, deafening roar, and yet it could not drown out the voice in his head. The voice that told him to stay.

It would've been easy, letting the Captain die. Down in the courtyard, the Right Hand had Libro by the throat, desperate legs kicking, desperate lungs gasping for air, but unable to stop the creature from toying with him. The thing was enjoying itself, dragging out the last, miserable moments of his life.

Like a cat playing with its meal.

Cent watched on, a silent observer, as if he wasn't even there. As if he could be anywhere but here. Unseen. Unheard. Unwanted. It would've been easy to simply turn back and walk away. Because deep down, he knew he owed Libro nothing. The Empire? Nothing. The Vangen? Nothing.

Hells, he owed himself nothing.

But Captain Dux? He owed him everything.

It was Dux who'd found him first, dead drunk in a filthy alley, pickling in his own piss and vomit, too foul smelling for even the stray cats to consider him a worthy meal. When Cent had first laid eyes on him, it had been done so with fists clenched in anger. The old Captain had kicked him awake, told him he'd need to find a better place to pass out in, or he might wake up with a knife in his belly.

Piss off, Cent had told him, before dragging his coat up like a blanket. So Dux did as he was told, pissing on Cent's head, drenching him completely, the bastard laughing as he struggled to get up, smelling worse than before, if such a thing were even possible.

They fought after that, the night a blur of fists and curses. Black eyes, bloody noses. Scarred knuckles. But by the end of it, they were sharing a drink, too battered to do much more than grunt and groan at each other.

When the sun finally rose, Dux dropped a conscript's token on the table and turned to leave. Said if Cent ever wanted to be something more, then the Vangen would take him in.

It wasn't loyalty that made him join. It was his debts. But when the creditors stopped coming, Cent found himself sticking around, staying for another twenty-seven years. Out of habit. Out of boredom. Out of nothing better to do.

And then came Libro. The Chronicler. The coward. Cent remembered the first time he'd seen him, back on the bridge in Byzantia. The villains they were facing were Magisters back then, and Cent had been a hero. At least, in his eyes. There was nothing glorious about the kid back then. Nothing noble. Nothing that screamed future captain of the Vangen. But Dux had seen something. Some glimmer of greatness buried deep within that trembling sack of flesh. Maybe that's what Dux had been, after all. Some farking fool with a soft spot for the weak.

And sure, Libro had survived a few close scrapes, like the time he'd come back from the dead after plunging into the icy rivers of the Bosba, or in the dark depths of the Deadways, but even the Goddess threw a bone to the foolish every now and then.

When Dux died, it was a shock to everyone. And when the Empress named Libro his successor, even more so. The cowardly Chronicler. Out of all the people in the Vangen, it had to be him. It should've been Regis, or Civis, or anyone else. Anyone but the boy who could barely tie his own boots without getting himself into trouble.

Even after Byzantia, after Middengard, Cent still had doubts. Libro had made mistakes during his tenure as Captain. Led good men to their graves. Fig among them. He'd made bad choices, brought in mercenaries to do his dirty work, and killed them off once the job was done, tossing them aside like scraps for the hounds.

And now here they were, hunting one of their own, pursuing a man who would've been hailed as a hero if the Empire hadn't branded him a traitor instead. Cent listened to Libro's excuses. How Regis was a renegade, a blasphemer, a deserter.

And he couldn't bring himself to agree with any of it.

It would've been easy to let the Captain die. All he had to do was turn around and walk away. But he didn't. He couldn't. If he ran, it would be Moss chasing after him next, and Cent couldn't let that happen. Not for a friend. Not after what happened to Fig.

Not after everything.

It would have been impossible reaching the Captain in time on foot. He couldn't shoot an arrow at the Right Hand either. Not with his half hand. But the ballista... that was a different matter.

The Chosen had left one behind, fully loaded and ready to go, like a delicious meal left abandoned on the table. Cent shoved the turning gears with all the force he could muster, straining his muscles to get the weapon into position. The iron tip of the bolt crept into place, the trajectory set, heart thundering in his chest the entire time. He'd never fired one of these before. Never had to. His world had always been of swords and axes, close quarters, where a good strike meant everything.

But this was war. And you had to improvise if you wanted to win.

The ballista clicked into position. Cent's grip tightened on the lever, the heavy bolt resting against the tensioned string. Below, the Right Hand was saying something to the Captain, too far away for Cent to hear, but he understood the gesture of it all quite clearly. The creature was enjoying the moment, savoring its power over the Captain like some petulant tyrant.

Cent lifted his axe high and swung it down onto the firing mechanism. The catch splintered with a sharp crack, releasing the bolt with a scream of unrepentant tension. The heavy, iron missile shot out like a thunderbolt, and Cent could only hope it found its mark.

It would've been easy to let the Captain die, but life wasn't easy.

Regrets even more so.

*

"Any last words?" the Right Hand rasped, its grip like a vice around Libro's throat, squeezing tighter with every painful second. "Before I pluck that wriggling, little tongue from your skull?"

"Yeah," Libro grunted, closing his eyes as an old, familiar sound echoed from the distance. "Go feck yourself."

Chooom!

The Right Hand whirled about, growling with fury, the sound dying in a gurgling snarl as the ballista bolt drove straight through its chest. Like a screaming comet, it sent the creature sailing across the courtyard, releasing its hold on Libro, dropping him like an unwanted doll.

The ground met him with a sickening crack, his head bouncing off the cobblestones, the smell and taste of blood flooding his senses, the world above him swirling like a drunken whirlpool. He clawed his way back to his feet, nearly losing his balance, the weight of his bruised skull dragging him back down, the world a dark, seething smear.

The Right Hand lay crumpled on the ground, red ash oozing from the wound, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, yet still it drew breath. It clawed at the ground, broken bones snapping back into place, the other hand frantically wrestling with the embedded bolt, its one good eye rolling mad in its misshapen skull.

Libro glanced down, spotting his sword, the weight of it heavy and foreign in his numb fingers. The stump of his right arm burned like mad, the scars on his left still prickling with pain. He took a step, each movement igniting a flare of agony, as familiar as a long-lost friend.

"What have you done?" The Right Hand spat, its voice a slurred mess. A chunk of ashen flesh tumbled from its broken mouth, a piece of its tongue maybe. "What have you done to me?"

With gritted teeth, Libro took another agonizing step, then another, sword scraping against the cobbles, striking a line across the snow, spitting sparks into the air.

He didn't answer. Words felt like a weight he couldn't bear. Just walking drained him, but he forced the fire inside to burn brighter, burn hotter, scorching the weakness from his bones. The wind howled around them, whipping up snow and stinging at his eyes, his lips, his ears.

"I am the Right Hand of High King Erik. You cannot kill me. Your defiance will only prolong the inevitable." The creature struggled to rise, its legs betraying it, collapsing back into the snow.

It reminded Libro of a foal trying and failing to stand up for the first time, and a dark chuckle escaped him.

"How dare you!" The Right Hand snarled, teeth stained a sickly pink. "I am Her greatest warrior, the finest gift She has ever bestowed upon mankind! I will see your body ripped apart, scattered to the four winds! I will wear your skin as a cloak! Your skull as a chalice! I will—"

"Shut the feck up!" Libro hurled his sword at the Right Hand, the blade striking its head and bouncing off like a careless jest. It crumpled back into the snow with a hollow thud, limbs sprawled out, the bolt jutting from its chest like a grotesque trophy.

And there it was. The same dark tendrils as before, the familiar chill creeping down Libro's spine, colder than the Bosba, colder than the Deadways, colder than the damned seven hells.

"I am the Right Hand," the creature mewled, a note of fear slithering into its voice for the first time. "I am superior...I am blessed..."

"You're farking nothing," Libro spat, seizing hold of the creature's magick once more. His body froze in place with a wrenching snap, warmth fleeing from him like a frightened animal.

Instinct screamed for him to let go then, fear urged him to run, but that was the trouble with Libro. He'd never been one to heed warnings. Stubbornness ran thick in his blood. Given to him by Captain Dux himself.

So he tightened his grip instead.

The Right Hand shrieked, its back arching painfully as it struggled to scuttle away, feet flailing uselessly in the snow.

Libro's left arm felt like iron, light blooming from his scars, oozing through the fabric of his great coat, breaking through the slits in his armor, but he wouldn't let go. Not this time. Not ever again. He'd tasted the dark waters of the witch's magick, and it would never quench his thirst again.

Not until Elba was found. Not until his child was safe. Not until he killed this son of a bitch once and for all.

The light blazed brighter now. Libro's hand ignited with pain, edges of his glove melting away, then fingertips, then nails, skin blackening into char, his agony unlike anything he'd ever known.

Libro's scream joined the Right Hand's in a wretched symphony of suffering, a terrible calamity that echoed through the frigid air. The cold within him began to evaporate, replaced with an inferno that filled his veins, his breath billowing out in frosty clouds, steam rising from his skin as the snow around him melted into slush.

It felt like death. No, worse than death. Like he was being torn apart, piece by bloody piece. The magick sustaining the Right Hand was a monstrous tide, too vast, too fierce, a tempest beyond anything he'd ever encountered. If he kept absorbing it, it would surely shatter him.

So he let go instead. Heat, light, and sound erupted from his shoulder, swirling around him in a riot of color, as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. It lashed against the oppressive cold, igniting him with life, filling him with a fierce resolve. The pain in his body began to fade as he took a step, then another, and another, closing the distance to the Right Hand.

The creature's armor began to flake away as its form shrank and twisted, collapsing into itself. By the time Libro towered over it, it had reduced to little more than a whimpering husk, the last vestiges of its power unable to mask the pitiful man it had once been.

With deliberate slowness, he wrapped his hand around the creature's throat, fingertips black as coal, the light from his scars spitting sparks into his vision. Strangely, he felt no anger now, no hatred. Only a profound pity for this broken thing, more a dying animal in need of mercy than the monster it had once been.

The Right Hand met his gaze, wordless, each breath a crackling whisper as it closed its eyes, resigned to the inevitable. The end was here.

"Die well, and never come back," Libro said, as he ripped out the last of its magick.

***