(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man did not move from his chair. The dawn light had crept across the floor and now touched the edge of his boots, but he seemed not to notice. His hands were folded in his lap, still as stone, and his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere between the present and the past.
"Riccio," he said. The name came out like a wound reopening. "He was young. Younger than the rest of us, though he would have hated to hear it. He joined Giovanni's company because he wanted to protect his village. His father had been a hunter, and Riccio had learned to track before he learned to read. He could put an arrow through a coin at fifty paces. He could skin a rabbit without spilling a drop of blood. And he had a laugh that made you forget, for a moment, that the world was ending."
He paused.
"He was the first of us to die. Not the last. But the first. And I have never forgiven myself for letting him be the one to hold that door."
— Memory —
The tunnel was darker on the return.
Perhaps it was the weight of the children in their arms. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Riccio was behind them, alone, his bow singing its last song. Perhaps it was simply the darkness itself, pressing in, hungry and patient.
Aurelio ran with a boy slung over his shoulder. The child could not have been more than seven, his small body limp, his eyes still carrying that terrible silver sheen. Behind him, Liam carried two children, one under each arm, his face a mask of concentration. Gerald brought up the rear, an axe in one hand and a girl clutched against his chest with the other.
They splashed through the freezing water at the tunnel's lowest point. The children did not cry. They did not shiver. They simply hung there, their breath shallow, their hearts beating slow.
"The entrance is ahead," Liam called. "I can see light."
Aurelio pushed harder. His legs burned. His lungs screamed. The boy on his shoulder was a dead weight, but a dead weight he refused to drop.
They burst from the tunnel into the grey light of dawn.
Serafina was waiting, her old eyes wide. "The children—"
"Take them," Aurelio gasped, handing the boy to her. "Hide them. Keep them safe."
"How many?"
"A dozen. There are more. Many more."
Serafina's face hardened. "And the young man? The archer?"
Aurelio could not answer. He turned back to the tunnel, but Liam grabbed his arm.
"He is gone."
"We do not know that."
"We know." Liam's voice was gentle, but firm. "We heard the door close. We heard the silence after. He bought us time. Do not waste it."
Aurelio wanted to argue. He wanted to run back into the tunnel, find Riccio, carry him out if he was wounded or bury him if he was not. But Liam was right. The children were safe. For now. And Godbrand was still out there.
"We need to move," Gerald said, his voice rough. "The preacher will send his hounds. He will not let us keep the children."
"Where can we go?" Cecilia asked. She had emerged from the tower, Elara clinging to her hand. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear. "The ships are burned. The roads are watched. We are trapped."
"Then we stop running," Aurelio said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"We have been running since the Anvil fell. Running from the Cabal. Running from the plague. Running from Godbrand. And every time we run, we lose someone. Every time we run, he grows stronger."
"You want to make a stand," Liam said.
"I want to end this. One way or another."
Gerald hefted his axe. "I have been waiting for you to say that."
They spent the day preparing.
Serafina knew the fortress better than anyone. She showed them the weak points in the walls, the hidden storerooms, the well that had been dug into the bedrock and still held fresh water. She showed them the armory, where rusted swords and dented shields hung on pegboard hooks.
"Not much," she said. "But better than sticks and stones."
The Norsemen worked alongside the fishermen, reinforcing the gates, stockpiling rocks to drop on anyone who tried to scale the walls. Donata, who had somehow survived the journey from the Anvil, set up a makeshift forge in the courtyard and began repairing what weapons she could.
Cecilia tended to the children.
They had not woken from their trance. They sat in a circle in the tower's great hall, their eyes open, their faces blank. Serafina's people brought them broth and bread, but they did not eat. They did not drink. They simply sat, waiting for something none of them could name.
"The Shade's influence," Cecilia said, kneeling beside a young girl with silver-flecked eyes. "It is not possession. Not fully. It is more like... a suggestion. A whisper. Godbrand is using the Shade's language to speak to them, to keep them docile."
"Can you break it?"
"I can try. But it will take time. And I will need to be close to him. To the source."
"Then we will bring you to him."
Cecilia looked up at him. "You make it sound simple."
"No. I make it sound necessary."
That evening, a scout reported movement on the coast road.
Torches. Dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds.
Godbrand was coming.
Aurelio stood on the wall, watching the lights flicker in the distance. Gerald stood beside him, his axe resting on his shoulder.
"How many do you think?" Gerald asked.
"Enough."
"We have faced worse odds."
"Have we?"
Gerald was silent for a moment. Then he said, "At the Crow's Nest, you were a boy with a spear. I was a boy with an axe. We hated each other. We wanted to kill each other. And now..."
"And now?"
"Now I would die for you. Without hesitation. Without regret."
Aurelio turned to look at him. Gerald's face was set in stone, but his eyes were soft.
"I would die for you too," Aurelio said. "But I would prefer that neither of us dies. Not today. Not ever."
Gerald almost smiled. "You are getting soft, grove-keeper."
"I am getting tired. There is a difference."
The attack came at midnight.
Godbrand did not bother with subtlety. His followers marched on the fortress with torches and pitchforks, chanting his name, their voices rising in a hymn of hatred and fear. They were not soldiers. They were farmers, shepherds, merchants. They were people who had lost everything and been given a monster to blame.
"Do not kill them unless you have to," Aurelio ordered. "They are not our enemy. He is."
The first wave hit the gate like a storm. The Norsemen held the line, their shields locked, their axes swinging. Liam moved along the wall, picking off the leaders with arrows, his face calm, his hands steady.
Aurelio stood at the center of the chaos, his sword in his hand, his gift screaming. He saw the path through the battle; the narrow channel that would lead him to Godbrand. He took it.
Step by step, he pushed through the crowd. His blade deflected a pitchfork. His shoulder shrugged off a club. A woman grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his flesh, and he twisted free without hurting her.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
No one answered. They only screamed and swung and fell.
And then, through the chaos, he saw him.
Godbrand stood at the edge of the torchlight, watching. He was not fighting. He was not hiding. He was simply waiting.
Aurelio charged.
Godbrand did not move. He stood there, his arms spread wide, his eyes bright, his lips curved in a smile.
"Kill me," he said. "Go ahead. Kill me. And watch what happens."
Aurelio's sword hesitated.
"They will not stop," Godbrand continued. "If I die, they will tear you apart. They will burn this fortress to the ground. They will kill every child, every woman, every man who followed you. I am not their leader. I am their god. And gods do not die. They only transform."
"You are not a god."
"I am what they need me to be."
Aurelio's hand trembled. The sword hovered an inch from Godbrand's throat.
"Do it," Godbrand whispered. "Prove me right."
Aurelio lowered the blade.
"Get out," he said. "Take your followers and leave. Do not come back."
Godbrand laughed. "You think this is mercy? You think you are being noble?" He shook his head. "You are being weak. And weakness is a disease. I will cure it. I will cure all of it."
He turned and walked away, his followers parting before him like water.
Aurelio stood in the darkness, his sword hanging at his side, and watched him go.
— Present —
The old man's hands were shaking.
"I let him live," he said. "I had the blade at his throat, and I let him live. Because I was afraid. Not of him. Of what I would become if I killed him."
He looked at the Scholar, his eyes wet.
"I was wrong. I should have killed him. A hundred times, I should have killed him. And every death that followed... every life he took... they are on my hands."
He closed his eyes.