The gallery yawned before him like the maw of a beast. Édric entered without hesitation, bow in hand, the taste of blood and dust already thick in his throat. The sounds of fighting at the entrance were fading behind him; here, all that remained was his own breathing — heavy, fast — and the pounding of his boots on stone.
Behind him, the chaos and running sparked by the fire in the storeroom.
A first guard appeared in the wavering torchlight. Édric loosed without slowing. The arrow punched through the man's throat; the body collapsed with a wet gurgle. No glance back. No time.
My boy.The words turned like a blade in his skull, hammering against his temples, feeding every step.
Two shapes burst from a side corridor. No time to draw — he used the arrow as a dagger, driving it into the first man's eye, then shifted his weight to smash the skull against the wall. The other barely had time to raise his weapon. The bow came down like a club, breaking his brow open, and Édric slid his dagger up under the jaw, pushing until the tip punched out at the back of the neck.
He tore the steel free in one sharp motion, and kept going.
Rage burned under his skin, hotter than the blood already running down his forearm — a cut he hadn't even felt being made. Every drop only pushed him harder, every wound fed the certainty that he would not stop.
As long as he's breathing, I'll bring him back.
A clash of metal rang out — a giant, maul raised, blocking the tunnel. Édric didn't parry in time; the blow crashed onto his shoulder, bone shuddering, flesh screaming. But the pain dissolved into fury. He let the bow fall, drew his sword, and struck low, severing the hamstring. The man roared and dropped to his knees. The blade came up in a clean arc, opening his throat.
Hot blood sprayed across Édric's face. He didn't even blink.
He moved faster, almost running now, his breath a growl in the tunnel. Another man lunged at him; Édric caught the cut, pivoted, and rammed the sword under the ribs. A third tried to come at him from behind — he reversed the blade in his hand and hacked in a brutal backhand, carving the man's face to the bone.
If they've hurt him...He didn't finish the thought. He simply struck again.
Now he was only cutting and advancing. Every cry, every clash of steel fed that warrior's trance in which nothing existed but the path to Victor.
He skidded on a dark slick, caught himself, and wiped the blood from his left eye with the back of his arm. His hands, his weapons, his tunic — all were smeared, a sticky mix of red and black. His boots crushed through puddles and indistinct bodies in the gloom.
One last turn, lit by the trembling glow of a torch on the ground. Édric slowed only enough to keep from slipping, sword ready. Ahead, two men guarded a makeshift door. The first barely had time to raise a hand before an arrow, loosed at point-blank range, punched through his throat. The second tried to back away, but Édric slammed him into the wall and cut deep through the collarbone.
He let the body slide to the ground and fixed on the door. His breath rasped loud in the sudden silence. His arms, his cheeks, his neck... all streamed with warm blood.
Without thinking, he drove the door in.
---
The crash hit like a cannon blast.
The door, already weakened by damp and time, flew clean off its hinges under the impact, slamming into the wall with a sharp crack that echoed through the galleries.
Édric appeared in the frame like a shadow dragged out of war. His breathing was heavy, his steel-grey eyes locked dead ahead — as cold and sharp as a blade fresh from the forge. His shirt and brigandine were splattered with blood — on the sleeves, the collar, deep in the beard — and his sword's steel still ran red. Each step seemed to swallow the light, as if the mine itself recoiled from him.
Victor recognised him first. His heart leapt, his breath caught. And despite the raw burn at his wrists and the red mark circling his throat, something bright anchored itself in his gaze. He had never been so glad to see that hard face, that relentless stride.
The count froze mid-gesture. A heartbeat of pure instinct — like an animal recognising a bigger predator entering its territory. But he recovered quickly, straightening slowly, trying to reclaim his height.
Édric looked at no one but Victor at first. No words — just an exchange that said I'm here.Then his attention shifted to the count.
"So... you're the father he mentioned?" the man asked, his tone half-mocking, half-curious.
Édric stopped a few paces away, blood still dripping from his blade onto the stone. He studied him from head to toe, weighing every muscle, every breath, as if calculating the exact distance at which he could kill him.
His eyes narrowed. His voice, deep and without a flicker of hesitation, dropped like a sentence:
"Damn right I am."
A shiver ran up Victor's spine. It wasn't a throwaway line. It was a declaration. A promise.
The count's eyebrows rose a fraction, a thin smile ghosting his lips.
"Well... that's convenient. Because I'm his real father."
Édric didn't move. But Victor saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened on his sword's grip.
"'Real father'?" Édric repeated, his voice low.
He took a heavy, measured step forward, each boot hitting the rock with a sound that echoed through the gallery.
"You don't know what that means. Not to him. Not to me."
The count arched a brow, folding his arms as if danger had no claim on him.
"Oh... he's spoken of you. Enough for me to know you matter."
"Because I was there. When he was hurt. When he had to learn to fight. When he needed an arm to keep him from falling. Unlike some."
Victor's breath came fast, but not from his bindings. His jaw clenched, and then he looked straight at Édric.
"He's telling the truth."
The count's gaze lingered on Victor, sharper now, almost calculating.
"So... you've made your choice."
Édric shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth.He stepped forward again, closing the gap. Then his hand left the hilt and turned the sword, offering the grip to Victor, blade reversed.
"Here."
Victor hesitated, his throat tight, before taking it. The leather of the grip felt strangely warm, almost alive. Memories surged — training sessions, Édric's curt corrections, the blows taken to learn how to rise again.
The count's smile was mocking."You want him to fight me? Against me?"
"No," Édric rumbled. "Not if it can be avoided. But he'll be armed when we walk out of here."
The count shifted sideways, like a predator sizing up another beast. Édric matched him step for step, their movements circling. Victor, caught in the middle, felt the tension thicken with each heartbeat.
"You think you can stop me from taking him back?" the count asked.
Édric's stare was sharper than the blade in his hand."Try. And I'll tear that smile off your face."
A flicker crossed the count's eyes — something insidious, as if he had just found the perfect angle to strike without a weapon. Slowly, he raised his hand, stepped around Édric, and closed on Victor. The younger man tightened his grip on the sword Édric had given him, muscles taut, but he didn't back down.
"Maybe you've got a protector," the count murmured, "but you've still got your mother's face... and her hair."
Suddenly his hand closed in the dark mass of Victor's hair, yanking it back to expose his face. Victor let out a muffled grunt, eyes squeezing against the pain — but already, instinct was taking over.
In one quick, precise motion, he brought the sword up behind his head, the blade grazing his neck, and cut.Black strands fell like dark rain onto the mine floor, severed clean.
The count froze for a heartbeat, startled by the speed of it. The grip that had held Victor was now only clutching a dead handful of hair, sliding from his fingers.
Victor turned at once, the strands still clinging to his captor's hand, and met his eyes."You don't hold me anymore."
It wasn't just a line. It was a verdict.
One step, two, and Édric was between them, sword already raised. His grey eyes fixed on the man with an intensity sharp enough to force retreat."Wrong move."
The clash of their blades cracked through the gallery, a dry, metallic sound bouncing off stone. The count wielded a short sword — quick, biting — the weapon of a man used to dirty strikes, not duels of honour. Édric wasn't aiming for elegance. He struck heavy, furious, each blow carrying the weight of a sentence.
He wasn't thinking about risks. He wasn't thinking about outcomes. He was thinking about Victor, about the red mark around his neck, the raw skin at his wrists, the idea that this man had dared lay a hand on him. And that was enough to keep the fire in his muscles burning until the other man went down.
"You hit like a woodcutter," the count grunted, blocking a strike."And you like a coward," Édric shot back, eyes blazing.
He slid to the side, using the angle to smash the pommel of his sword straight into the count's cheekbone. The man staggered back, startled by the sheer brutality.
Behind them, Victor was catching his breath, still gripping the sword tight. The sound of hurried steps in the hallway made him turn — two guards burst in, blades drawn. No time to hesitate.
Adrenaline drowned the pain. He stepped forward, raised his blade, and blocked the first strike, the shock travelling to his shoulders. An opening — he pivoted, slashing in a backhand that bit into leather armour. The man grunted, stepped back — but the second guard was already on him.
Victor blocked again, but felt his arms shake under the impact. Too much blood lost, too many ropes, too much of everything. Still, he held on — until a crossbow bolt buried itself in the guard's throat.
"On your feet, kid!" Aldous barked from the entrance, his crossbow already reloaded. Bran surged in behind him, sabre drawn, charging the last guard.
Édric never looked away. The count pressed in again, strikes precise, hunting for an opening. They closed near a timber pillar holding the gallery ceiling, and Édric, in one brutal move, used his dagger to slice through a rope dangling within reach. It whipped around the count's wrist, just enough to unbalance him and open him to a knee driven hard into his gut.
The count spat blood and saliva, regained his guard, but his breath was already shorter. Édric stepped back just enough to let Victor into the centre, as if offering him a piece of his revenge. Blades clashed — and with a sharp motion, Victor knocked the short sword from his opponent's hand.
Édric didn't hesitate. One step, a pommel blow to the temple, and the count crashed to the ground, a deep gash splitting his brow. Maybe not dead. But broken enough to leave doubt.
"If you want to keep breathing, stay down," Édric said flatly.
He set a firm hand on Victor's shoulder, a touch that said everything words couldn't fix.
"Let's go home, son."
They backed towards the exit, Bran covering the rear, Aldous reloading. The air grew heavier; far off, a red glow began to dance. The storeroom fire, fed by wind and dry beams, had reached the gallery.
Outside, smoke wrapped around them as soon as they crossed the threshold. The horses waited, snorting at the heat.
"Mount up, quick," Aldous ordered.
Édric helped Victor into the saddle, then swung up himself. One last glance at the mine showed the gallery slowly filling with smoke. Nothing guaranteed the place would hold. And truthfully, Édric wasn't sure he cared to know.
They spurred the horses into a gallop, leaving behind the deep rumble of collapsing wood and the roar of fire swallowing stone.
---
The mounts bounded along the narrow path, the hot breath of the horses mixing with the cold mist rising from the forest. Victor sat behind Édric, one hand clenched on his belt to keep from slipping, the other still gripping the sword his mentor had returned to him. The wind whipped uneven black strands against his face — severed reminders of the fight.
Behind them, the rumble of the fire and the crack of collapsing beams faded bit by bit, but a red glow still pulsed between the trees, like a heart refusing to die.
Victor leaned forward slightly, his voice nearly swallowed by the pounding of hooves.
"Is he dead?"
Édric didn't answer right away. His grey eyes stayed fixed on the trail ahead, alert to every bend, every root. Then:
"I don't know."
He didn't look away, but his voice carried that hardness that only came with honest truths.
"And I don't care," he added, lower. "If he's still breathing, he's alone — and he'll remember the lesson."
Victor stayed silent for a moment, his body braced against Édric's solid back, listening to the steady breath of the man who had dragged him out of that pit. The heat of battle had ebbed, replaced by the cold bite of night. Yet in this ride, there was something sure and steady, as if the world had finally settled back on its axis.
The forest streamed past, dark shapes bending and twisting in the moonlight. Soon, the first campfires glimmered in the distance. Édric urged the horse forward, and Victor gripped him a little tighter, determined never to let that distance come between them again.