They shoved him forward, hands tied behind his back, a blindfold over his eye, like an animal driven to slaughter. The rope bit into his wrists, leaving him unable to steady his steps whenever he stumbled on a root or stone. Every misstep earned him a sharp blow to the back or behind the knees, forcing him back in line.
And always that voice behind him.
That rasping voice, soaked in contempt and vice.
The one belonging to the man who had held Emma.
"Got to tell you though… your redhead's something else."
A hot, foul breath grazed the back of his neck. Victor clenched his jaw.
"She likes to act tough, but… I felt her flinch. Especially when I slid the blade under her ribs. Ah… now that was sweet."
Victor said nothing. His steps slapped against the mud, each one heavier than the last.
"And those hips… damn. Well-shaped. No wonder you kept her for yourself… though I do wonder if you were really the only one."
A filthy laugh broke out.
"That scarred bastard… he looks like he knows what he's doing. And the tall one, the knight-looking fellow… bet they've had their turn too. Girls like that, living surrounded by men, they love it. They make themselves indispensable."
Something cracked inside Victor's chest. Adam. Édric. That bastard had just dragged them through the dirt too.
"She tried to hide a knife. Clever… but not clever enough."
He chuckled.
"I pressed my blade under her ribs. That little sound she made… you've no idea what that did to me."
The rope ground against Victor's wrists. His breathing grew jagged. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples.
"When I leaned in… mmmh… her hair… that smell… swear to you, one-eye, I don't know how you keep yourself from spending the whole night on her."
The dam broke.
Victor stopped dead, spun sharply, and drove his shoulder back like a battering ram into the man's chest. The blow tore a muffled "Ouf" from him. Before the man could step away, Victor threw his head back, a hard crack of skull to brow.
"Shut. Your. Mouth."
His voice trembled with as much rage as effort.
The man's hands grabbed his collar. Another man appeared, and the punch to Victor's stomach came fast—hard, just beneath the ribs. The air left him in a ragged gasp. His legs folded. Knees hit the soaked earth.
"Oh… the one-eye bites…" someone sneered.
They hauled him up with a violent jerk. The rope dug into his wrists. He breathed in sharp bursts, each inhale stabbing.
The ground changed beneath him. The smell of leaves gave way to damp stone. The air turned colder. His steps now echoed over uneven, rocky ground. The blindfold stayed in place.
"We're here," a voice announced.
They pushed him a few more steps. Then they set him against a rough post. The rope wound around his torso, his arms. His wrists were cinched tighter behind him. Finally, the blindfold was yanked away.
A sickly yellow light stabbed into his good eye. Dark walls glistened with moisture. Rotting beams propped up a low ceiling. In one corner, crates were stacked high.
The man with the filthy smile stepped forward, one hand still pressed to the cut above his eye where blood beaded.
"Welcome to our place, one-eye."
He smirked.
"And don't worry… we'll take good care of your girl. Our way."
Victor stared at him. Only one thought cut through his mind: live long enough to gut him.
---
Time stretched in the damp shadows of the mine. Victor had lost all sense of hours, marked only by the slow drip of water from the ceiling and the dry creak of the beams. His arms ached from being bound too tightly behind his back, the wet rope cutting into skin.
No one spoke to him anymore. Even the filthy-mouthed one had drifted off. Then, suddenly, conversations died on their own, as if the air had thickened.
Victor looked up.
A man stepped into the flickering torchlight. Tall, straight-backed, broad-shouldered, black hair cropped short, dark beard neatly kept. Forty-five, maybe older, but his posture betrayed an unbroken pride. Everything in his measured movements, in the set of his mouth, in his dark eyes, radiated cold authority. He wasn't a soldier like Édric. He was the opposite: where Édric wore his scars as reminders of battle, this man wore immaculate cleanliness like a mask. Where Édric spoke little but true, this one seemed to weigh every word so it landed exactly where he wanted.
"So… you're the one poking around. Your name?"
The voice was deep, even, almost velvety—a politician's voice, crafted to hold attention without ever needing to raise it. A faint Italian lilt in it made Victor's blood run cold.
Victor held his gaze.
"Name's Peter," he said flatly.
A flicker of a smile, without warmth, passed over the man's face.
"Peter. Of course."
He stepped closer, unhurried.
"In Briarhold… there was a barn. Old, abandoned. But… useful. Do you know what it held? Archives. Papers. Things you might have enjoyed, given your little curiosity."
Victor stayed silent.
"It burned," the man went on in that same level tone. "We burned it. So you'd find nothing. We gave you a chance."
Victor's gut clenched.
"But," the man continued, "at the abbey, it only took persuading a monk to talk. And we learn you've started again. In the library this time."
Victor flinched before he could stop himself. How could he know that?
"When we want to know something, we find out," the man murmured, almost amused.
He tilted his head.
"In the forest… that scarred man, was he your brother?"
Victor said nothing. No denial. Safer that way.
"A shame," the man went on, "because if you'd let yourself be taken quietly, we wouldn't have had to hurt him."
The image of Adam, his arm bloodied, tore through him.
"Two men," the man said, fixing Victor with surgical precision. "That's what I lost that day. Two men… for a half-blind boy."
Then he lifted his fist. Not to strike—but to hold it still under Victor's nose. In the light, something golden caught his eye.
The signet ring.
Not a copy. The real one. Heavy, old, the Néri lion engraved deep. Exactly like the ones Victor kept hidden on a cord around his neck. His breath caught. Could it be…? He forced his gaze away from the ring to that impassive face, but knew he'd looked a second too long.
"Why are you staring at that?" the man asked, voice low but sharper now.
Victor didn't answer.
"They say in Briarhold, a one-eyed boy was stirring up the past," the man continued. "Asking questions about a symbol just like that."
Silence.
"So, Peter… why?"
Victor drew a slow breath.
"People say a lot of crap," he replied at last.
The man's gaze held, patience beginning to erode.
"Why were you digging?" The voice stayed quiet, but the softness was gone.
"I wasn't digging."
"Don't lie to me."
"I wasn't digging," Victor repeated, sharper.
The slap came faster than he could brace for it: a clean, controlled strike across his face, hard enough to snap his head to the side. The metallic taste of blood spread over his tongue. The sound cracked against the wet walls, then faded to silence.
When he looked back up, the man's stare was the same—calm, implacable, heavier than the violence.
"I'll ask you one more time," he said, each word weighted. "Why were you digging?"
The rope cut deeper into Victor's wrists as he searched for an answer. Too long a pause could bury him. So he threw out a half-formed lie:
"It was… a guy in Briarhold. He told me stories… ghost tales. Rumors, stupid stuff. I just… got curious. Didn't think… there was any danger to… to my family behind it."
He had chosen the word family deliberately. Maybe it would make his interest seem like harmless naivety. Maybe.
A thin, twisted smile touched the man's lips. Not amused—assessing.
Victor's heart pounded as he asked,
"And you… who are you? What's that damned symbol?"
A flicker lit the man's eyes, subtle but real. Not a true smile, but something like an inner shift—sudden interest.
"A symbol?… It's nothing but a shackle," he said evenly, his deep voice calm, not hard. "A shackle I've made heavy enough to become a weapon."
He tilted his head, his shadow spilling long against the wet wall behind him.
"I came to this country with a name. It was given to me, I bore it. I was married. Forced. Then I learned that if I wanted to survive… I had to make my own life, my own rules, my own path."
He gestured at the mine, at the muffled voices outside.
"So this is the path."
He didn't elaborate, but the weight in his words was almost like an unspoken confession. It was enough to send a dry chill crawling up Victor's neck.
His breath quickened. He couldn't stop searching that face—those deliberately impassive features—for something. A resemblance. A sign. Anything to prove him wrong, that this was just coincidence.
No. Impossible.
But the longer he stared, the more the dread rose—a mix of denial and the dull certainty he wished he could punch out of his skull.
The man saw only fear in that look. He stayed still, one brow lifting slightly, as if measuring how long the boy would hold his gaze before breaking.
---
The camp had lost its colors.
Everything looked washed-out, as if by invisible rain.
Voices had been gone for a while; only muted, necessary sounds remained—the rasp of fabric, the metallic click of a buckle, the too-sharp crackle of the fire.
Adam paced, unable to sit. His boots hammered the hard ground, fingers clenched around his sword belt. At first, he said nothing—only the rapid breath and locked jaw betraying rage coiled tight.
Then the words came, clipped, cutting:
"If they hurt him… I'll tear their throats out. One by one."
Édric, crouched beside the two packhorses, didn't answer immediately. His hand stroked one's coarse neck slowly.
"Words won't change anything, Adam."
"You think I'm just talking?" Adam growled. "They've got my brother. Not just a brother-in-arms, not just a guy I've shared night watch with. My little brother."
His voice nearly broke on the last word.
"And here I am, pacing like an idiot while they drag him away."
Édric looked up, holding his gaze.
"You're injured. If you come like this, you'll slow us down."
"I don't care."
"I do."
Adam froze at the fierceness in Édric's eyes—something wild and tight that left no room for argument.
"Listen to me," Édric said, low but firm. "I promise you: I'll bring him back."
The simple words fell like lead into the air. Adam turned away, swallowing his anger, but his hands stayed clenched.
A short distance away, Emma sat with a blanket around her shoulders. Her swollen wrist was a purple mound she held close. She didn't complain, but her drawn face betrayed the pain.
Rufus, curled up beside her, refused to leave her side. His eyes flicked constantly between Emma and the camp entrance, as if expecting the attackers to return any second. His small hands gripped the edge of Emma's blanket like it could anchor her there.
Édric cast one last look over the camp, then straightened.
"We won't catch them with these horses."
Adam's eyes followed his to the sturdy but slow beasts, and he nodded grimly.
"No."
"Then we'll ask the monks."
Adam gave a bitter smile.
"And if they refuse?"
"Then they'll learn what it costs to tell me no."
---
The groan of hinges as the door opened echoed like a complaint.
Inside, the corridors smelled of wax and incense. Monks passed with heads lowered, some stopping at the sight of their dark expressions.
They were led to the great hall. Pale light filtered through high windows, laying squares across the stone floor. A long oak table stood at the center. Four monks sat there, speaking in low tones.
"Brothers," Édric said as soon as he entered, "we need your horses. One of ours has been taken."
A murmur swept through them. The eldest answered, hands folded:
"We know who took him… and what they do to those they keep. You cannot face them openly."
Adam stepped forward, anger sharpening every word:
"We don't have a choice. They've got my brother. And if anything happens to him… you won't want to be in your own skins."
Another monk raised his hands:
"Violence will only bring more misery."
Adam nearly exploded:
"Misery's exactly what will happen if you let us walk out of here empty-handed."
"Adam, enough," Édric cut in.
Adam backed off, seething.
Édric didn't move right away. He stood there, hand on the table, eyes locked on the monk's.
Then, slowly, he slid his fingers under his collar until they touched cold metal.
"You won't help us? Fine. But you're going to listen."
He yanked the cord free in one sharp pull. The leather snapped, and the heavy clink of the signet ring fell into the silence like a funeral bell.
Behind him, Adam felt a chill race up his spine. He knew Édric—and what this gesture meant.
Édric stepped forward, planted his hands on the table, and made it slam. The ring skittered across the wood before settling in the center, the sound echoing through the hall like a slap.
"You know me as Édric, a man of the road," he said, his voice deep, vibrating with a cold fury. "Allow me to introduce myself properly: Édric Lupenwahl of Daelor."
A heavy silence fell. The faint rustle of a robe, a nervous throat clearing.
"I was born noble. I fought as a soldier. And today, I claim your horses, by right, to take back my son you'd leave in the hands of those dogs."
The word son hit with such force Adam felt it physically, like a clean blow to the chest.
The lead monk lowered his gaze to the signet, then to Édric's hard face. He swallowed slowly.
"You'll have your horses."
Édric scooped up the ring, closed it tight in his fist like a promise, and turned on his heel without another word.
Adam followed, heart still pounding. Not from fear.
From what he'd just understood.