The road toward the outskirts of Arven was not paved with stone, but with cold mud and horse manure.
Daemon Kladis ran along it, or at least, he tried to.
His run was a pathetic scramble, a grotesque parody of movement. His right leg, where Aldric had struck him with brutal precision before he escaped the kitchen, throbbed with an agonizing fire. Each step sent a flash of pain from his knee to his hip, forcing him to gasp and stumble.
"Damned... damned be all of them," Daemon sobbed, wiping away the snot and blood dripping from his broken nose.
His golden brocade suit, which only hours before had been the envy of high society, was now a rag stained with grease, dirt, and bodily fluids. He was missing one shoe, lost somewhere in his frantic escape through the back alleys when he jumped the stable fence.
The night air burned his lungs.
Daemon did not look back. He did not want to see if the armored giant was following him. He did not want to see if the imperial guards were looking for him. He only wanted to reach the city limits.
'I have...,' he thought, frantically touching the inside pocket of his jacket. 'I have rings. I have a diamond brooch. I can buy a horse. I can buy a passage on a ship. I can go wherever I want. Or north.'
His mind, fractured by terror and the sudden fall from the peak of the world, tried to construct a survival plan.
'Dad is dead. I saw him fall. That animal crushed him.'
The memory made his stomach churn. But immediately, the selfish instinct for self-preservation, which had always been his strongest trait, took over.
'Better him than me. He was old. I am young. I have a future.'
He reached a crossroads on the outskirts, where the city lights began to fade and the darkness of the open country took over. There was an old stone watering trough for travelers' horses and an abandoned shed that smelled of rotten straw.
Daemon collapsed against the edge of the trough, panting like a dying dog. His legs gave out and he hit the muddy ground.
"I need... water," he croaked.
He plunged his hands into the dark water of the trough, not caring that it was probably full of larvae, and drank desperately. The cold water soothed his throat, but not the trembling of his hands.
He stayed there for a few minutes, catching his breath, listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets. The wind in the tall grass. The pounding of his own heart in his ears.
There were no footsteps. There were no shouts of pursuit.
A laugh bubbled in his throat. A high-pitched, hysterical laugh.
"I made it," he whispered. "I escaped. I am Daemon Kladis. They can't catch me."
He stood up, swaying on his good leg. He felt invincible again, if only because of the rush of adrenaline.
"I'll be back," he promised the darkness. "I'll get money. I'll hire real mercenaries. And I'll come back to burn that Voss bitch and that cursed child."
"Are you going to come back?"
The voice emerged from the shadow of the shed. It was not a shout. It was a conversational tone, quiet, deep.
Daemon spun on his heels so fast he almost fell down again.
"Who's there?" he shrieked, searching the darkness. "Do you know who I am? I am Daemon Kladis! If you help me, I'll make you rich!"
A figure separated from the shadows.
A man. Large. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in simple worker's clothes, clean but humble.
He walked slowly, his empty hands hanging at his sides.
Daemon squinted, trying to focus in the gloom.
"You?" Daemon frowned. "The crazy man from the party? The shouting drunk?"
It was Thorne. The man who had interrupted the wedding. The one who had initiated the end of his life.
Daemon felt a mix of relief and contempt. It wasn't an imperial guard. It wasn't the giant Aldric. It was just a commoner. A nobody who had been lucky in the ballroom because there were many people.
"You," Daemon spat, recovering a shred of his usual arrogance. "Damn peasant. You ruined my wedding. You ruined my night."
Thorne did not reply. He kept walking. Step by step. Without haste.
"Get away!" Daemon ordered, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle, more a jewel than a weapon. "I have steel! I'll cut you open if you come closer!"
Thorne stopped three meters away. The moonlight illuminated his face. There was no visible anger. There was none of the shouting fury of the ballroom.
There was something worse. There was peace. The terrible peace of an executioner who has already pronounced sentence.
"You don't recognize me, do you?" Thorne asked softly.
Daemon scoffed.
"Recognize you? You're trash. You're one of a thousand beggars who infest my city. Why should I recognize trash?"
"Lina," Thorne said.
The name floated in the cold air.
Daemon blinked.
"Who?"
"Lina," Thorne repeated. "She had light brown hair. She liked to sing while she washed clothes in the river. She was sixteen. She was wearing a cheap green dress the day you took her up into your carriage."
Daemon searched his memory, through the haze of hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies he had used and discarded.
"Ah," Daemon said, a cruel smile curving his swollen lips. "The laundress. The one who shrieked a lot. Yes, I remember. She was... tight. But boring in the end."
He laughed, an unpleasant sound.
"Were you her boyfriend? Her father? I'm so sorry. If I had known she had such a persistent watchdog, I would have paid her a few extra coins before throwing her into the water."
Thorne did not move. He did not tremble.
"I am her brother," he said.
Daemon shrugged.
"Brother, boyfriend, it doesn't matter. She's dead. And you're here, alone, blocking my way. Move or I'll kill you."
Daemon took a step forward, brandishing the dagger.
"Move!"
Thorne took a step too.
Daemon lunged. Quick, vicious, aiming for the stomach.
Thorne did not retreat. His left hand moved with the speed of a snake, catching Daemon's wrist in the air.
The grip was iron. Daemon felt his bones creak under the pressure.
"Let go of me!" Daemon screamed, hitting Thorne's chest with his other hand.
It was like hitting a brick wall. Thorne didn't even blink.
With a dry movement, Thorne twisted Daemon's wrist.
Crack.
The dagger fell into the mud. Daemon howled, falling to his knees, held up only by Thorne's grip on his broken arm.
"Lina screamed like that," Thorne said, looking down at Daemon. "She screamed a lot. The fishermen who found her body said her nails were broken from struggling so hard."
"Please!" Daemon whimpered, the pain suddenly clearing his mind, bringing the terror back. "I have money! Take this!"
With his good hand, he tore off the diamond brooch and offered it.
"It's worth a thousand gold coins! It's yours! Let me go!"
Thorne took the brooch. He looked at it for a moment, glittering under the moon.
Then he closed it in his fist and squeezed until the metal bent and the diamonds cut his own skin. He dropped the ruined jewel into the mud and stepped on it, sinking it into the dirt.
"I don't want your gold, Daemon."
Thorne lifted him from the ground by the lapels of his ruined jacket, raising him until his feet hung in the air, Daemon's injured leg dangling uselessly.
"I want your face."
The first blow was methodical. Thorne's right fist impacted Daemon's jaw. The snap of breaking teeth was heard. Daemon's head bounced back.
The second blow was to the stomach. Daemon doubled over, vomiting bile and wine onto Thorne's boots.
"This is for the fear she felt," Thorne said, his voice monotone as he lifted him again.
Third blow. To the already broken nose. The cartilage gave way under the impact. Blood exploded, covering Daemon's face in a red mask.
"This is for the pain."
Fourth blow. To the right eye. The orbital bone crunched.
Daemon no longer screamed. He only made wet gargling sounds, hanging like a rag doll in the giant's hands.
Thorne did not stop.
He hit. And he hit. And he hit.
Not with frenzy. With industrial precision. Breaking what had been beautiful. Destroying the arrogance. Erasing the noble and leaving only bruised flesh.
When he finally let go, Daemon fell to the ground. He was not moving, except for the spasmodic rising and falling of his chest. His face was unrecognizable. A swollen mass of bruises and cuts.
Thorne looked at his knuckles. They were split open, bleeding. He wiped the blood on his pants.
He crouched beside Daemon.
"Are you awake?" he whispered.
Daemon let out a weak moan. One eye was closed from swelling, the other barely open, full of blood.
"Good," Thorne said. "Don't die yet. That would be too easy."
Thorne pulled a rope from his belt. A thick rope, like the ones used on the docks to tie up ships.
He tied Daemon's hands behind his back. He tied his feet.
Then he grabbed the rope and began to drag him.
"W... where...?" Daemon stammered, spitting out a tooth.
"To the river," Thorne answered, walking into the darkness of the forest, dragging the fallen heir behind him like a log. "Lina loved the river. I think she'd like you to see it up close."
"No... no... I'll drown...!"
"Perhaps," Thorne said. "Or perhaps the current will take you. Or perhaps the water rats will find you first. It is the traveler's judgment, Daemon. The path decides."
Daemon tried to resist, digging his heels into the mud, but he had no strength. His body slid over the earth, hitting stones and roots.
Thorne walked with a steady pace. He did not look back.
They entered the forest, moving away from Arven, away from civilization, toward the sound of water running in the darkness.
The Avenger had collected his debt. And the night swallowed the muffled screams of Daemon Kladis, until only silence and the eternal flow of the river remained.
A kilometer away, on a low hill overlooking the crossroads, a small figure watched.
Kael lowered the spyglass he had "borrowed" from the Kladis mansion before fleeing.
"Good," he commented in a low voice.
Aldric, standing beside him holding the reins of two horses they had acquired from the stables of the nearby inn, looked toward the dark forest.
"Is he dead?" the knight asked.
"Not yet," Kael replied, putting away the spyglass. "Thorne took him. Daemon will have an... ugly. And slow end."
"Was it necessary?"
"The guard would have imprisoned him," Kael corrected. "Perhaps they would even have executed him. But he would have had a trial. He would have spoken."
Kael turned to Aldric, his gray eyes shining in the moonlight.
"Thorne needed this. He needed closure to be useful later. Without his revenge, he would be unstable. Now... now he found peace through violence. He understands that justice is taken, not asked for."
"And that makes him better?"
"It makes him loyal," Kael said. "Because he knows I gave him the opportunity. I gave him Daemon."
He mounted his horse with an agile movement.
"Let's go, Aldric. Arven has nothing left for us tonight. We have to return to the Voss before dawn. We have to collect the merchant's debt."
Kael smiled, turning his horse toward the city.
Kael and Aldric rode back to the Voss residence. The horses were tired, their hooves echoing with a slow, heavy rhythm on the cobblestones. The city was beginning to wake up, confused and terrified by the rumors of the previous night. "Clan war," the bakers whispered. "Vengeance of the gods," the old women said.
No one mentioned a child.
Perfect.
They arrived at the Voss house. The door, which had been provisionally repaired after the attack by Kladis' thugs, opened before they could knock.
Donal Voss was in the doorway. He was wearing the same clothes from the wedding, wrinkled and without his jacket. His eyes were red, but when he saw Kael, they lit up with an intense relief that was painful to see.
"You're alive," Donal whispered, as if he couldn't believe it.
"We are alive," Kael confirmed, dismounting with a fluid movement despite the weariness weighing on his bones.
Donal ran toward them, forgetting all etiquette, and grabbed Kael's hand with both of his, shaking it frantically.
"We heard... we heard the fire bells. The rumors run fast. They say Kladis is dead. That Torren is... destroyed."
"They say many things," Kael gently but firmly withdrew his hand. "Let's go inside. There are things we need to clarify."
In the living room, the scene was almost domestic if you ignored the broken furniture piled up in the corners. Martha was serving tea with hands that no longer trembled so much. Elara was sitting on the sofa, out of the wedding dress, wearing a simple tunic. Her face was washed, with no trace of makeup or false tears. She looked exhausted, empty, but whole.
And Nia.
The girl was standing by the window, keeping watch. When Kael entered, she turned. She didn't run to hug him. She stood still, observing him with an intensity Kael recognized. It was the look of someone who has just seen a miracle and is trying to figure out how the trick works.
"Sit down, please," Kael said, taking control of the room for the last time.
Donal and Martha sat down. Aldric remained standing, his shadow projected over the family.
"Nikolas Kladis is dead," Kael informed bluntly. "Daemon has fled and probably won't survive his own exile. House Torren has burned down."
"What matters is this: the debt is gone. The original documents burned or are in the hands of inspectors who will be too busy confiscating Torren's assets to worry about a merchant."
Donal let out a sob, covering his face.
"Free... truly free."
"Yes," Kael said. "But freedom has a price."
The atmosphere in the room changed. Donal looked up, wiping his eyes. His expression became serious, that of the businessman he had been before fear broke him.
"I know, young Kael. Nothing is free in this world. You saved our lives. You saved my daughters. You saved my honor."
Donal stood up and knelt in front of Kael. It was not a theatrical gesture. It was a gesture of absolute submission.
"Everything I have is yours. My house. My business. My routes. Tell me what you want. Gold? Ownership of the warehouses? I'll sign everything right now."
Kael looked down at him. He could take it all. He could own a thriving business in Arven at ten years old.
But that would be thinking small.
"I don't want your house, Donal. And I don't want your gold today. Your business is in ruins. If you give it to me now, you only give me debts and rubble."
"Then... what?"
"I want you to rebuild it," Kael said. "I want you to use the void that the Torrens and Kladis have left. Their competitors are scared or dead. The market is open. Take it."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Grow, Donal. Get rich. Get powerful. Reclaim your routes and open new ones. Become the most important merchant in Arven."
"I will," Donal swore. "For you. To repay you."
"Exactly. Because one day," Kael said, and his gray eyes shone with the promise of the future, "one day, in a few years, I will send a message. It won't be a demand for payment. It will be a request. A special transport. Information. A refuge. Or perhaps funding for something bigger."
Donal nodded fervently.
"That day, the answer will be yes. No questions asked."
"That's the deal," Kael leaned back. "But there is one more condition. The most important one."
He looked at each member of the family.
"No one can know that I was behind this. To the world, this was a war between Kladis and Torren. A partners' dispute that went wrong. I was a terrified guest, a child who hid under a table. Aldric was a loyal guard who protected me."
"Understood?"
"My name does not appear in this. Ever."
"I swear it," Donal said. "By my life."
"We swear it," Martha added.
Elara nodded.
"You will be a ghost, Kael. No one will know that the monster who ate the Kladis had a child's face."
Kael smiled.
"Good."
He stood up.
"Aldric, we are leaving. We have a long way back."
The farewell was brief. There were no long hugs. There was too much intensity, too much shared reality for sentimentality.
Donal shook his hand tightly. Martha kissed his forehead, crying again.
Elara accompanied him to the door.
"Thank you, Kael," she said. There was no longer fear in her eyes, only a deep and cautious respect. "I hope you find whatever it is you are searching for with such hunger."
"I will find it," Kael assured.
He was about to leave when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
It was Nia.
The girl looked at him with a seriousness that did not belong to her age. She had changed. The girl who cried for her sister had died in that carriage; the one who remained was something new, forged in the fire of the conspiracy.
"Kael," she said.
"Nia."
Without warning, Nia stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Kael stood still, surprised. Not by the gesture of affection, but by the energy behind it.
Nia stepped back and looked him in the eyes.
"I am going to learn," Nia said. Her voice was firm, crystalline. "I am going to learn to read Dad's books. I am going to learn about the routes. I am going to learn to listen behind doors and to smile when I lie."
Kael raised an eyebrow.
"What for?"
"To be ready," Nia replied.
In that moment, Kael saw the change. He saw how admiration shone in the girl's eyes. Not admiration for a saving hero, but for a power that destroys and commands. Nia had seen what Kael could do: move invisible armies, overthrow tyrants, rewrite reality.
And she wanted that.
"When you send that message," Nia said, "I will be the one who receives it. And I will be useful. Not just as a girl who hides. I will be your partner."
Kael felt a pang of laughter. He had come to Arven to destroy enemies, and he had ended up creating a disciple.
"I hope so, Nia Voss," Kael said, smiling with a sincerity he rarely showed. "
He ruffled her hair, a childish gesture that contrasted with the words.
"Grow up fast. I'll be waiting for you."
Nia nodded, her eyes shining with a fanatic promise.
Kael walked out to the street, where Aldric and Marcus waited with the carriage ready. The sun was finally breaking through the smoke, illuminating a city that no longer belonged to the Kladis or the Torren.
The carriage set off, moving away from the Voss house, from the girl who watched from the doorway with adoration in her eyes, and from the ashes of a conflict that had served to sharpen the fangs of the young Drayvar.
Kael leaned back and closed his eyes.
'One down,' he thought.
Now it was time to go home. And prepare the next move.