(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man poured himself a cup of wine and drank it in a single, long swallow. The Scholar had never seen him do that before. Aurelio was a man who sipped, who savored, who let the wine sit on his tongue before letting it pass. This was different. This was medicine. This was a man trying to wash away a taste that had lingered for decades.
"The deal was struck at dawn," he said, setting the cup down with a click. "Godbrand demanded the children be delivered to the cliff path, where the fog was thickest. He promised to perform the ritual there, in full view of his followers, so they could witness his 'mercy.'"
He laughed; a dry, brittle sound.
"Mercy. He used that word so often it lost all meaning. Mercy was a blade in his vocabulary. A blade he wielded with surgical precision."
— Memory —
The walk to the cliff path was the longest journey of Aurelio's life.
He led the procession; thirty-seven children walking in neat rows, their silver eyes fixed on some distant horizon only they could see. Behind them came Cecilia, her arm linked through Elara's, her face pale, her breath shallow. Behind her came Gerald, Liam, and the surviving Norsemen, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the fog for any sign of betrayal.
Godbrand stood at the edge of the cliff, his arms spread wide, his robes billowing in the sea wind. Behind him, his followers knelt in a semicircle, their heads bowed, their hands raised in prayer.
"You have done well," Godbrand said, his voice carrying across the fog. "You have chosen life over pride. Mercy over vengeance. It is a small step, but it is a step toward the light."
"Save her," Aurelio said. "That was the deal. Save her, and the children are yours."
"The children are already mine. They have been mine since the moment they were born. I am merely... collecting them."
Gerald's grip tightened on his axe. "Say the word, Aurelio. One word."
"Not yet."
Godbrand approached Cecilia. He circled her like a merchant inspecting a piece of livestock, his eyes lingering on the black mark that now covered her entire arm.
"The Shade has made a home in you," he said. "It feeds on your memories, your hopes, your fears. But I can starve it. I can sever the connection and set you free."
"At what cost?" Cecilia asked.
"The cost has already been paid. The children are mine. You owe me nothing more."
"I asked at what cost to me."
Godbrand's smile faltered for just a moment. "You will lose something. A memory. Perhaps more than one. The Shade has woven itself into the fabric of your mind. Cutting it out will leave... gaps."
"What kind of gaps?"
"I cannot say. No one can. You will only know what is missing when you try to remember it and find nothing there."
Cecilia looked at Aurelio. Her eyes were steady, but he could see the fear beneath.
"Do it," she said.
The ritual took an hour.
Godbrand chanted in a language that made Aurelio's teeth ache. He traced symbols on Cecilia's skin with a mixture of ash and seawater. He burned herbs in a small brazier, the smoke thick and cloying, and made her breathe it in.
Cecilia did not cry out. She did not flinch. She sat cross-legged on the cold stone, her eyes closed, her hands resting on her knees, and she waited.
The children watched.
Their silver eyes followed every movement, every gesture, every word. They did not blink. They did not breathe. They simply watched.
And then, with a sound like a sigh, the ritual ended.
The black mark on Cecilia's arm began to fade. The lines receded, retreating from her elbow to her wrist, from her wrist to her palm, from her palm to her fingertips. And then, with a final, almost imperceptible flicker, it vanished.
Cecilia opened her eyes.
"Aurelio," she said.
"I am here."
"I... I remember you. I remember the river. I remember the Grove." She paused, her brow furrowing. "But there is something else. Something I should remember. Something important."
"Your mother's name," Godbrand said, his voice soft. "You have forgotten your mother's name."
Cecilia's face went pale. "My mother..."
"Gone. A small price for your life."
Aurelio helped her to her feet. She swayed, and he caught her, holding her close.
"The children," she whispered. "We cannot leave them."
"We have no choice."
"There is always a choice."
Godbrand stepped between them and the children. "The deal is struck. The children remain. You may go."
"Go where?" Gerald demanded. "Our ships are burned. Our supplies are gone. Our people are scattered."
"That is not my concern."
Aurelio looked at the children. At their silver eyes. At their still, small bodies. He thought of Riccio, who had held the door. Of Donata, who had forged weapons from scrap. Of Serafina, who had given them shelter when no one else would.
"We will come back," he said. "For the children. For all of them. And when we do, we will burn this place to the ground."
Godbrand smiled. "I look forward to it."
— Present —
The old man poured himself another cup of wine. This time, he sipped.
"We walked away from that cliff with nothing but our lives and the clothes on our backs. Cecilia was free of the Shade, but she was not the same. Fragments of her memory were gone. Small things, mostly. A favorite song. The taste of her mother's bread. The face of a childhood friend."
He stared into the cup.
"But she remembered me. She always remembered me. And that, I suppose, was enough."