(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man did not speak for a long time after that. The morning had fully arrived, and the room was bright with sunlight, but he sat in shadow, his face half-hidden, his hands motionless on the arms of his chair. The Scholar waited. He had learned that some memories required a running start.
"Seven days," Aurelio said finally. "That is how long we held the tower. Seven days of hunger, thirst, and the slow erosion of hope. On the eighth day, Godbrand came again. But this time, he did not come to talk."
He looked up, and his eyes were the eyes of a man who had seen something he could never unsee.
"This time, he came to collect."
— Memory —
The morning of the eighth day began with fog.
It rolled in from the sea, thick and grey, swallowing the cliffs, the harbor, the ruins of the burned ships. The guards on the wall could not see ten paces beyond the gate. Every sound was muffled, distorted, turned into something other than what it was.
Aurelio stood at the main gate, his hand on his sword, his gift humming at the edge of his awareness. Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones, in his teeth, in the scar on his palm where he had cut himself as a boy and the wound had never quite healed.
"They are out there," Liam said, appearing beside him. The swordsman's face was calm, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the fog for any sign of movement.
"How many?"
"Impossible to say. The fog hides them. But I hear footsteps. Many footsteps."
"They are not trying to be quiet."
"No. They want us to hear them. They want us to be afraid."
Aurelio drew his sword. The sound of steel clearing leather was loud in the silence.
"Then we give them something to be afraid of."
The attack came at the weakest point.
Not the gate, which had been reinforced with timber and stone. Not the walls, which were lined with archers and rocks. But the postern door; a small, hidden entrance on the seaward side, used by fishermen to access the cliffs.
Godbrand's followers had found it.
The first Aurelio knew of the breach was a scream. One of Serafina's fishermen, a man named Pietro who had been stationed at the postern, came running into the courtyard with blood streaming down his face.
"They are inside!" he shouted. "Dozens of them! They came up the cliff path!"
Aurelio was already moving. "Gerald! With me! Liam, hold the gate!"
They ran through the fortress, their boots pounding on the stone floors. The postern door was in the cellar, behind a stack of wine barrels. By the time Aurelio reached it, the barrels had been overturned, and the doorway was filled with bodies.
Godbrand's followers were not soldiers. They were farmers and shepherds, armed with knives and clubs and broken oars. But they were driven by something stronger than skill; they were driven by faith.
Aurelio cut through the first wave with brutal efficiency. His sword found throats, wrists, knees. He did not kill; he disabled. A slash to a sword hand. A pommel strike to a temple. A kick to a knee that buckled and did not rise.
Gerald fought beside him, his axe Bloodsong singing a different song. Where Aurelio disabled, Gerald destroyed. The Viking's blade was a whirlwind of death, and he did not discriminate between those who attacked and those who simply stood in his way.
"Gerald, hold back!" Aurelio shouted.
"They are trying to kill us!"
"They are trying to get to the children!"
Gerald's jaw tightened. He adjusted his aim, striking arms instead of chests, shoulders instead of skulls. It was a small mercy, but it was mercy nonetheless.
And then, through the chaos, Aurelio saw him.
Godbrand stood at the back of the cellar, watching. He was not fighting. He was not hiding. He was simply waiting.
"Gerald, hold the door!" Aurelio shouted, and he charged.
Godbrand did not run. He stood there, his arms spread wide, his eyes bright, his lips curved in that infuriating smile.
"You cannot kill me," he said. "You have already proven that."
"I can try again."
"And you will fail again. Because you are weak. Because you are afraid. Because deep down, you know I am right."
Aurelio's sword was at Godbrand's throat. The blade pressed against the skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Say one more word," Aurelio said, "and I will prove you wrong."
Godbrand's smile did not waver. "The girl is dying. The Shade is consuming her. You cannot save her. But I can. I have the knowledge. I have the power. I can sever the connection and set her free."
"At what price?"
"The children. Give me the children, and I will save her."
Aurelio's hand trembled. The blade pressed deeper.
"You are a monster."
"I am a survivor. There is a difference."
Upstairs, in the great hall, Cecilia sat among the children.
The trance had deepened. Their eyes were fully silver now, and their breathing was shallow. They did not respond to touch or sound. They were fading, slipping away into the Shade's embrace.
Cecilia's own mark had spread. The black line had grown from her wrist to her elbow, branching like a river delta. She could feel the Shade's presence at the edges of her mind, waiting, patient.
"He is offering to save you," Elara said. The girl had refused to leave Cecilia's side. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her small hands folded in her lap, her eyes watchful.
"He is offering to use me as an excuse to take the children."
"Do you think he can save you?"
Cecilia looked at the children. At their silver eyes. At their still, small bodies.
"I think he is a liar. And I think I would rather die than let him win."
The fighting in the cellar had stopped.
Godbrand's followers had retreated, carrying their wounded with them. The postern door was secured. The breach was contained. But everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they tried again.
Aurelio stood in the courtyard, his sword still in his hand, his chest heaving. Gerald stood beside him, his axe dripping.
"We cannot hold them forever," Gerald said.
"I know."
"The children are dying. Cecilia is dying. We are dying."
"I know."
"Then what do we do?"
Aurelio looked up at the tower, where Cecilia sat with the children. He thought of her smile. Her stubbornness. Her refusal to give up, even when giving up would have been easier.
"We make a deal," he said.
Gerald stared at him. "You cannot be serious."
"We give him the children. He saves Cecilia. And then, when she is safe, we take the children back."
"That is not a plan. That is a suicide note."
"It is the only option we have."
— Present —
The old man's hands were shaking.
"We made the deal," he said. "We gave Godbrand the children. Thirty-seven of them. And he... he saved Cecilia. Or so we thought."
He closed his eyes.
"He lied, of course. Godbrand always lied. The cure was temporary. The children were never returned. And the guilt... the guilt of that choice followed me for the rest of my life."
He looked at the Scholar, his eyes wet.