The torches in the dungeon hissed and flickered, casting long shadows against the damp, stone walls. Chains rattled softly from deeper within, but here—at the center chamber—the air was heavy with silence and blood.
The imposter guard was tied to the interrogation chair. Arms bound behind him, ankles strapped to iron loops bolted into the floor. His face was bruised, a thin line of blood trailing from his nostril. But his eyes—defiant. Unbroken. At least, not yet.
Damon stood at the back, arms folded, a looming shadow against the dark wall. Silent. Watching.
Only Ethan, Gareth, and Lord Roran moved.
"You're wasting your breath," the imposter said, spitting at Gareth's feet. "I'd rather die than betray him."
Gareth wiped the spit with the tip of his boot. "So you admit there is a 'him.'"
The assassin clenched his jaw.
"Who are you?" Ethan asked. "Who sent you?"
No answer.
"What Creed do you belong to?" Roran added.
The assassin turned his head and smiled, blood in his teeth. "Ask me again, and I'll snap my own tongue just so you never hear another word from me."
There was silence.
And then Damon moved.
He stepped forward slowly, the sound of his boots measured, deliberate. The three lords turned their heads slightly as he approached, but said nothing. The air around Damon felt different now. Cold. Tighter. Like the eye of a storm had opened.
He stood before the prisoner, eyes hard as obsidian. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"You want to die?" Damon asked. "Good."
Without warning, he backhanded the assassin so hard his chair rocked. Blood flew from the man's mouth.
"You'll die," Damon said, "but only after you beg for it."
He reached to the table nearby—laid out with blades, pincers, iron rods. Tools of pain.
Damon picked up a thin, hooked blade. "This one's good for nerves."
He drove the tip slowly into the assassin's shoulder—just under the collarbone—and twisted. The man grunted, veins bulging in his neck, eyes fluttering—but he didn't scream.
Damon smiled faintly.
He removed the blade and placed it back. "Maybe that one's too quick."
Then came the iron spike.
He pressed it under the assassin's fingernail and tapped the end with a small hammer.
Tap. Tap.
The nail split. The skin tore.
This time, the man screamed.
"Who sent you?" Ethan repeated calmly.
Silence again.
So Damon reached for the iron brand. It was already red-hot from the coals near the corner.
He pressed it gently against the assassin's chest. The hiss was sharp. Flesh seared. The assassin writhed against the bonds, screams echoing in the stone corridor.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he whispered into the man's ear. "A pawn. One who'll bleed for men who'll never come for you. Let me remind you how little you mean to them."
Then came the blade again.
A cut along the ribs. Just enough to hurt.
And finally—finally—the assassin broke.
His body sagged. Chest heaving. Blood in his teeth and eyes full of pain.
"I'll talk," he gasped.
Damon straightened.
"Who sent you?" Gareth demanded.
"The man… who sent us… he's from Stonecrest."
Roran's jaw tightened.
"The Creed… the one we belong to…" the assassin coughed violently. "We're sworn to The Dark Veil."
Damon's eyes darkened, but he said nothing yet.
Ethan's jaw clenched. Lord Gareth took a step back, his brows knitting with recognition. And Roran—usually the light of the group, the one who found humor in even the tensest of moments—was silent, still, as if a cold wind had swept through his bones.
They all knew what that name meant.
The Dark Veil.
The ancient assassin creed rooted in Stonecrest, buried deep beneath layers of the House's blood-soaked history. It was one of those dark things—spoken of in whispers, trained in shadows. And its patron, its founder, its funder—was Lord McCain of Stonecrest.
Roran's father.
Damon stepped forward slowly.
The assassin was bleeding heavily, his limbs trembling from where he was chained. His lip was split, a deep cut ran across his temple. He had held out for a long time. But Damon had a way of getting the truth—cold, precise, methodical. A dislocated shoulder. A hot blade pressed slowly to flesh. Nails pried one by one. He never raised his voice. He simply stared into the man's eyes with that same chilling stillness that made even Gareth uneasy.
And now, with the name spoken, there was no more need for words.
Damon reached forward—swift, sudden—and gripped the assassin's head in both hands. A sharp twist. A brutal snap. The man slumped instantly, neck bent wrong.
Silence held for a moment.
"I need to speak to my father," Roran said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. He wasn't looking at anyone in particular, just staring at the now lifeless corpse of the assassin.
Damon didn't respond immediately. His jaw flexed, tension thickening the air around him. He turned halfway, gaze fixed on the shadows, mind clearly racing.
Roran took a small step forward. "Damon," he said, firmer now. "Let me go to Stonecrest. Let me speak to him first."
"You think I should wait?" Damon asked without looking at him. "When he's behind the Creed that just tried to kill Kaelith? When assassins wearing our colors are crawling through the castle?"
Roran's fists clenched. "I know what it looks like. I know what it means. But you also know how Stonecrest works. You trained there. We all did. Just because the Creed answers to him doesn't mean he gave the order."
Ethan crossed his arms, his face unreadable. "You think someone moved behind his back?"
"Wouldn't be the first time," Gareth added. "We've seen noble houses eat themselves from the inside. It's not far-fetched."
Damon turned fully to Roran now, eyes burning with something unreadable. "You're telling me to trust that the man who commands the Dark Veil might just be… unaware?"
Roran met his gaze. "I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me."
That made Damon pause.
Roran's voice softened, sincere. "I know my father's sins. Gods know I've never been blind to them. But if he's behind this… if he gave that order…" He swallowed hard. "I'll bring you the truth myself. But let me ask him first. If I don't—if we go at him without knowing the full picture—we risk war between us and Stonecrest. And maybe we lose more than just answers."
Silence fell again.
Damon exhaled slowly, then looked away. His hands were still bloodstained.
"You have one day," he said finally. "Just one, Roran. Not a bell longer."
Roran nodded, solemn. "That's all I need."
Ethan shifted beside them. "Then you best ride at first light."
"And take only those you trust," Gareth added. "If the Dark Veil's been activated, Stonecrest might not be as welcoming as usual."
Damon turned and walked toward the dungeon stairs, his voice low but resolute. "If he lies to you, if this is really his doing—then the next time I ride for Stonecrest, I won't be knocking."
He didn't wait for a response.
Ethan exchanged a glance with Gareth, then without a word, turned and immediately followed the King, his cloak catching the dim light of the torches as he disappeared into the shadows after him.
***************
They walked in silence for a while. The castle corridors were mostly empty, the night deep and cold. Torches crackled in their sconces, casting flickering light across the stone walls. Damon's steps were precise, measured. Ethan walked a little behind at first, then closed the gap.
"I know you're angry," Ethan said quietly.
Damon didn't answer.
"But Roran had a point. You know how cunning men like Lord McCain are. Even if the Creed belongs to Stonecrest—even if he commands them—he might not be involved this time."
Damon exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's the thing. He might not be involved, Ethan, but he knows. That man knows everything that moves in Stonecrest. There is no way a Creed member moves without his permission, no way an attempt is made on Kaelith's life—and mine, twice now—without him at least knowing."
Ethan nodded slowly. "We need to be certain. If we make this about revenge too quickly, it clouds everything else."
They turned into a quiet hallway, their boots echoing on the stone. Damon rubbed his thumb across the edge of his ring.
"There's one other person with access to the Dark Veil," Ethan said, voice dropping.
Damon's jaw clenched. "Travis."
"Roran's cousin."
Damon stopped walking.
"He's my number one suspect," he said, looking ahead but seeing far beyond the stone and firelight. "But I can't place the motive. I know Travis. He's always been ambitious, but—why Kaelith? Why try to kill her? What does he stand to gain?"
Ethan folded his arms. "It's not just about tonight either. Don't forget—they were the same Creed that came for you on your wedding night. Same weapons. Same formation."
A silence passed again, but this time it wasn't heavy—it was familiar. Damon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring down the corridor like it might give him the answers he needed.
Ethan joined him, shoulder to stone.
"I'm tired, Ethan."
"I know," Ethan said after a beat, his voice low and steady. "You've been carrying too many battles alone."
Damon didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on a torch down the corridor, the flame dancing as if mocking the stillness in his chest.
"I thought by now it would get easier," Damon murmured. "Ruling. Protecting. Surviving."
"You're not the only one who thought that," Ethan replied, voice gruff.
They stood in silence.
Damon shifted, crossing his arms. "There's always one more war waiting. One more betrayal. And now Kaelith… She almost died, Ethan. Because of me. Because someone thinks hurting her is how they hurt me."
Ethan turned his head slightly. "You didn't put the knife in her chest, Damon. Don't carry what isn't yours."
Damon's jaw flexed. "Doesn't matter. She's in my world now. And my world's full of shadows."
Neriah.
Her name brushed through his thoughts like a whisper against steel.
Everything in him stilled.
She was in his world too.
No—she was the world.
There was no separation anymore between where his fury ended and she began. Every thought now passed through her shadow. Every breath seemed tethered to her presence in this dark place.
She hadn't seen him for what he was—not truly. Not the part of him that moved like a wraith in the dark, unflinching. The man who could bury a dagger so deep into a traitor's heart that they never even gasped. She hadn't seen the cold precision, the kind that left villains in alleyways and silence in entire keeps.
And gods, he didn't want her to.
He wanted to spare her that. Shield her from the cruelty that ruled the Bannerlands. The monstrous underbelly of men with noble titles and blackened souls. The things he'd done to protect the realm… and the things he'd done simply because justice wasn't always clean.
If she saw that—what would remain of the way she looked at him?
"You think it was Travis?" Ethan asked, changing the subject without apology.
Damon nodded once, gathering his thoughts, "He fits. He has the access. The ambition. And just enough arrogance to think he'd get away with it."
"You think it's personal?"
"That's what I don't know," Damon muttered. "He's never had reason to hate Kaelith. Not that I know of."
Damon's voice was flat. "If Travis is behind this, I'll bury him."
Ethan didn't respond. He didn't have to.
Instead, he pushed off the wall and looked at Damon. "You're bleeding."
Damon glanced at his arm—thin blood seeping from a shallow gash beneath the torn fabric of his sleeve. He hadn't even noticed.
Ethan scoffed. "You walk around like stone, but you're still made of skin."
He pushed off the wall too, and they started walking. Damon shrugged. "I'll live."
The King and his commander had trained together in the mountains above Stonecrest, bled in the snow with wooden blades and bare fists, slept on frozen stone with one eye open. Ethan had seen Damon kill his first man. Damon had seen Ethan carry his brother's body to the deadlands. There was no room between them for lies.