Aric Vale
The soldiers returned at dawn. I was waiting with my sword, water skin, and nothing else. Everything I owned fit inside that tower, and none of it mattered enough to bring.
The young captain looked surprised. "You're coming?"
"I'm coming."
They'd brought a spare horse, a gray mare that eyed me with suspicion. Smart horse. I approached slowly, letting her smell my hand before mounting. Seven years since I'd sat on a horse, but muscle memory took over.
We rode in silence. The soldiers kept their distance, forming a loose circle around me. Not quite prisoner formation, but close. I didn't blame them.
The scarred soldier rode closer after an hour. Up close, I could see he was older than I'd thought—fifty, maybe. Gray in his beard, lines around his eyes.
"Name's Garrett," he said. "Lieutenant Garrett Moss. Twenty-three years with the Royal Guard."
"You would have served when I did."
"I did. I was there the night they brought you back. The night Prince Dorian died." He paused. "I was there when they exiled you."
I had no memory of that. The days after Dorian's death were blank, washed out by shock and curse.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I need you to know, I don't think you killed him. Never did." Garrett kept his eyes forward. "I saw your face that night. That wasn't guilt. That was grief."
"Grief doesn't prove innocence."
"No. But twenty-three years of reading people proves something." He looked at me. "I've seen killers confronted with their crimes. They don't look like you looked. They don't exile themselves without fighting."
"Maybe I deserved it anyway. Failed to protect him."
"There's a difference between failure and murder." Garrett's jaw tightened. "Truth matters, even when it's inconvenient."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.
The landscape changed as we traveled from the Wastes. Twisted trees straightened. The gray sky gave way to blue. Colors looked too bright, like I'd forgotten what real light looked like.
We made camp that night at an old way station. The soldiers built a fire, shared rations. I sat apart, watching.
The young captain approached eventually. Sat across from me without asking.
"Captain Lyons," he introduced himself. "Marcus Lyons. I was twelve when you were made Commander. You gave a speech about duty and honor. I memorized every word. Joined the Guard because of it."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You haven't. Not yet." He leaned forward. "Do you remember anything about these murders?"
"No."
"What about your nights at Blackwatch?"
I wanted to lie. But Garrett had talked about truth matters.
"No. Most nights are blank. I wake up and can't remember falling asleep. Sometimes I'm in different places. Sometimes I'm exhausted for no reason."
Lyons' hand moved toward his sword.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said quietly. "I've had seven years of opportunities. Travelers cross the Wastes sometimes. I've fed them, given directions. Never hurt anyone."
"That you remember," Lyons pointed out.
He wasn't wrong.
We slept in shifts, two always watching. I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't shake the feeling that closing my eyes meant waking up somewhere else with blood on my hands.
Around midnight, Garrett took a watch near me.
"You should sleep," he said.
"Can't."
"Afraid of what you might do?"
"Afraid of what I won't remember doing." I fed the fire. "Tell me about the first victim. Marcus Chen."
Garrett was quiet. "Good man. Wife, three kids. Training for sergeant."
"How was he killed?"
"Throat torn out. Four parallel wounds, deep. Claw marks across his chest. Your mark burned into his ribs. Perfect detail."
"Where?"
"Drainage ditch beside the eastern road. Forty miles from the Wastes border." He met my eyes. "Eighty miles from Blackwatch."
Eighty miles. I'd need a horse. But distance didn't mean much in the Wastes. Time and space moved wrong there.
"The others?"
"Similar. Some worse. Some fought back. But every one had your mark. And everyone was alone. No witnesses."
"Until the princess."
"Until her." Garrett shifted. "Her guards heard screaming. I heard a voice saying 'I'm sorry' over and over."
The stick in my hand snapped.
"My voice?"
"They said it sounded like the Commander. Formal. Precise." He watched me. "Does it mean anything?"
It should. But there was nothing. Just fog.
"No," I said.
We sat in silence. The fire died. The sky lightened.
"Why help me?" I asked finally. "I might be what they think."
"Because truth matters. And because I've seen what happens when kingdoms choose convenient lies over difficult truths. Never ends well."
Dawn came. The others woke, packed. We rode on.