(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man rose from his chair and walked to the window. The dawn had fully arrived, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, but he did not seem to see it. His eyes were elsewhere, trapped in a memory that still had the power to wound.
"Godbrand did not leave," he said. "He retreated. There is a difference. A predator does not abandon its prey; it circles, waits for weakness, and strikes when the moment is right."
He turned to face the Scholar.
"He circled us for three days."
— Memory —
The fortress became a tomb.
Not a tomb of stone and bone, but a tomb of waiting. Every moment stretched into an eternity. Every sound was a potential attack. Every shadow held a ghost.
Serafina's Tower, as they had come to call it, was not designed for a siege. It was a watchtower, meant to spot invaders, not withstand them. The walls were thick but low. The gate was sturdy but old. And the well, though deep, would not produce enough water to sustain them for more than a week.
Aurelio walked the perimeter at dawn, as he had done every morning since Godbrand's retreat. His footsteps echoed on the stone walkway, a lonely rhythm in the grey light.
"How many?" Gerald asked, falling into step beside him.
"Serafina says enough food for ten days. Water for seven. After that..."
"After that, we drink blood."
"Let us hope it does not come to that."
Gerald grunted. "You should have killed him."
"I know."
"You should have killed him when you had the chance."
"I know, Gerald."
"Then why? Why did you lower your blade?"
Aurelio stopped walking. He turned to face the Viking, his eyes tired, his voice quiet.
"Because I looked into his eyes and saw myself. Not the man I am. The man I could become. The man I am afraid of becoming."
Gerald's expression softened. "You are not him."
"I am one bad decision away. We all are."
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind tugging at their cloaks, the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below.
"Then we make sure we do not make that decision," Gerald said. "Together."
"Together," Aurelio agreed.
The children had not improved.
Cecilia spent every waking hour with them, sitting in the center of their circle, holding their hands, whispering words that none of the others could understand. The Shade's language. The language of whispers and echoes.
"The mark on my wrist is growing," she admitted to Aurelio one evening. They sat on the tower's roof, watching the stars emerge one by one. "Every time I touch their minds, the Shade touches mine. It is a bargain. A trade."
"Then stop."
"I cannot. They are children, Aurelio. They did not choose this. Godbrand chose for them. The Shade chose for them. Someone must choose for them to be free."
"And if the price is your freedom?"
Cecilia was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "Then it is a price I am willing to pay."
Aurelio took her hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was firm.
"I am not willing," he said. "So we will find another way."
"There is no other way."
"There is always another way."
She smiled; a sad, tired expression. "You are stubborn."
"I learned from the best."
On the fourth day, Godbrand's followers returned.
They came not with torches and pitchforks, but with something worse. They came with a battering ram.
The gate shuddered under the first impact. Stones dusted the walkway. Men shouted. Women screamed.
"Archers!" Liam called, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Loose at the ram!"
Donata's archers, a motley collection of fishermen and Norsemen, sent a volley of arrows toward the ram. Several of Godbrand's followers fell. But more took their place.
"Again!" Liam shouted.
The second volley was less effective. The third was weaker still.
"We are running out of arrows," Donata reported, her face grim.
"Then we use stones," Gerald said. He hefted a rock the size of a man's head and hurled it over the wall. It crashed into the ram, splintering the wooden frame. The followers scattered.
"Good shot," Aurelio said.
"I was aiming for the man behind it."
"Still a good shot."
The ram was broken, but Godbrand's followers did not retreat. They regrouped at the edge of the torchlight, chanting his name, their voices rising in a hymn of hatred and faith.
"He is not even here," Riccio said, appearing at Aurelio's side. The young archer had survived the tunnel; he had held the door, fought his way free, and rejoined them the night before, battered but alive. "He sends his followers to die while he watches from safety."
"He is testing us," Aurelio said. "Probing our defenses. Looking for weakness."
"Is he finding any?"
Aurelio looked at the gate, splintered but still standing. At the walls, manned by exhausted, terrified defenders. At the well, already running low.
"No," he lied. "He is not."
That night, Godbrand himself appeared at the gate.
He came alone, unarmed, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. The guards on the wall hesitated, their arrows nocked but not loosed.
"Let him in," Aurelio said.
"A trap," Gerald warned.
"Probably. But we need to know what he wants."
Godbrand entered the courtyard with the confidence of a man who owned the world. He looked around at the faces of the defenders; weary, frightened, angry. He smiled.
"You are dying," he said. "Not quickly. Not cleanly. Slowly. The way a candle dies when the wax runs out."
"What do you want?" Aurelio demanded.
"I want to offer you a choice. The same choice I have offered from the beginning." Godbrand spread his arms. "Surrender the children. Surrender the witch. Surrender the grove-keeper. And I will let the rest of you walk free."
"You lie."
"I do not lie. I have never lied. I have only spoken truths that others are too afraid to hear."
Aurelio stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "The children are not yours. The witch is not yours. And I am not yours."
Godbrand's smile widened. "Not yet. But soon."
He turned and walked toward the gate. The guards did not stop him. No one dared.
At the threshold, he paused.
"Oh, and grove-keeper? The girl with the silver eyes. The one you call Cecilia. She is dying. The Shade is eating her from the inside. You cannot save her. But I can."
He stepped through the gate and vanished into the darkness.
Aurelio stood in the courtyard, his hands shaking, his heart pounding.
"He is lying," Cecilia said, appearing at his side.
"Is he?"
She did not answer. She could not.
— Present —
The old man returned to his chair and sat down heavily. The dawn light had grown stronger, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air.
"We lasted seven more days," he said. "Seven days of hunger and thirst and fear. Seven days of watching the children slip further into their trance. Seven days of watching Cecilia fade."
He looked at the Scholar, his eyes wet.
"And then, on the eighth day, Godbrand offered us a new choice. A choice that would change everything."
He opened the journal to a page covered in frantic, jagged handwriting.
"Chapter 32 ends here. But the worst was yet to come."
The Scholar dipped his quill. The room was silent except for the scratching of the nib and the distant sound of birds greeting the morning.