Rowan's house is a haven of quiet warmth amid Liveria's unforgiving chill. The hearth's dying embers cast flickering shadows across the worn wooden floors, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching dark.
Elsbeth sits at Layla's bedside. The girl's small frame is bundled in faded quilts, her breaths shallow and ragged after the collapse.
Luan hovers nearby. His motley is a patchwork of faded colors under the dim lamplight, his painted face a mask that hides the storm within.
Elsbeth takes Layla's limp hand in hers. The child's skin is clammy and cold. "Everything's going to be alright, little one," she whispers, her voice cracking like brittle glass.
Luan's eyes—those eternally jesting orbs—flutter shut for a moment. His silence is a heavy shroud. Then, with trembling fingers, he unties the pouch from his belt and places it beside Layla.
He lifts his gaze to meet Elsbeth's, raw curiosity mingled with desperation.
"Will that... make her better?"
His words hang in the air, heavy and fragile.
Elsbeth forces a gentle smile, though her chest aches with the weight of uncertainty. "Yes," she murmurs, squeezing his hand briefly. "I'm sure it'll make her feel better."
But as she speaks, her thoughts drift to the empty doorway, where Sir Rowan and Leonard vanished into the night.
The knight's stern farewell echoes in her mind: Leonard and I will go. Worry gnaws at her.
Outside, the cold night clings to the empty roads like a shroud. The lantern in Rowan's gauntleted hand swings with each armored step, its light carving harsh edges from the darkness.
Leonard trails a few paces behind. His boots scuff the frost-kissed cobblestones, the distance between them a chasm of unspoken years. The clack of Rowan's plate mail fills the silence—a relentless rhythm that mirrors the pounding in Leonard's chest.
Finally, Rowan halts. His breath fogs the air. He turns, his face etched with lines deepened by grief and duty.
"You know you can't escape this forever, Leonard."
His voice is low, edged with the weariness of a man who has borne too much. Leonard flinches, his hand instinctively rising to rub his ear as if to ward off the words. "This isn't the time, Father. We've got—"
Rowan cuts him off, his eyes blazing in the lantern's glow. "Why did you run? I know you despise the kingdom, the knights' endless oaths... but I raised you to be one.
To stand guard over Elsbeth when I'm gone, to shield her from the palace's vipers." His voice rises, cracking like thunder.
"You vanished without a word. Do you have any idea how I searched? Nights without sleep, riders sent to every forsaken corner. I didn't know if my only son was alive or rotting in some ditch."
Leonard steps closer, his own face paling, but Rowan presses on, the dam of years finally bursting.
"Then Azik whispers you're an adventurer—alive, thriving in the wilds. I was relieved, gods help me. I waited every dawn for your shadow on the horizon." His broad shoulders sag, the armor suddenly too heavy. Tears glisten in his eyes, unbidden and fierce.
With a sudden motion, he swings, his fist connecting with Leonard's gut—not a knight's strike, but a father's raw fury.
Leonard doubles over, gasping, dropping to one knee in the mud.
"And now, twenty years later, you waltz back like a ghost, pretending nothing happened?"
Rowan's voice breaks fully now, tears tracing salty paths down his weathered cheeks. "You idiot. You broke me."
Leonard pushes himself up slowly, wheezing, his eyes wide with a mix of pain and regret. He hesitates, the weight of those lost years crashing over him like a wave. Then, tentatively, he reaches out, placing a hand on Rowan's shoulder.
"Father... I'm sorry. I was terrified. Of facing you, of failing Elsbeth, of becoming just another cog in that cursed machine." His voice trembles, thick with emotion he hasn't voiced in decades. "It took everything I had to come back. To face this."
For a heartbeat, Rowan stands rigid, his fists clenched. Then, the fight drains from him, replaced by a bone-deep ache. He pulls Leonard into a rough embrace, his arms wrapping tight as if afraid to let go again.
"I'm glad you're here, son," he whispers hoarsely, the words muffled against Leonard's cloak. "So damn glad."
Leonard hugs back, his own eyes stinging, a choked laugh escaping. "Stop crying, Father. It doesn't suit a knight like you."
Rowan pulls away with a watery snort, cuffing Leonard lightly on the arm—gentler this time.
He clears his throat, straightening his posture. "Enough of that. We've got a man to save. Move."
Leonard rubs his side, wincing but smiling faintly. "Right behind you, Father."
They press on through Lionheart's clean streets, the silence between them now companionable rather than fraught. Alleys twist like veins into the city's underbelly, leading them to the apothecary—Harlan's den, a squat, dingy shop reeking of desperation.
Dried blood stains the threshold like a grim welcome.
Leonard knocks, the thud echoing hollowly. The door creaks open a sliver, revealing an old man's rheumy eyes.
"No money, no healing," he rasps.
Rowan rattles his pouch, the coins clinking enticingly. The door swings wider, admitting them into a haze of acrid smoke from hanging herbs and flickering candles. Jars line the shelves, their labels mocking the destitute with exorbitant prices.
Leonard nods toward the crumpled figure in the corner, blood pooling beneath him. "That's the man the little girl brought?"
Harlan puffs on a foul pipe, exhaling a cloud that stings their eyes. "Aye, good as dead if she don't return soon. Owes you somethin'?I'm thinkin' of carvin' him up for parts—sell his organs to cover the mess. We could split the coin, eh?" He cackles, yellow teeth gleaming.
Rage ignites in Leonard's veins like wildfire. He lunges, slamming Harlan against the wall, his dagger flashing to press against the man's throat. "Watch your filthy tongue, you worm. One more word, and you'll be the one bleeding out."
Harlan squirmed, gasping. "You think you can threaten me just 'cause you're with a knight? You piece of—"
"Enough," Rowan's voice rumbles low, authoritative. Leonard's blade bites deeper, drawing a bead of blood, his eyes burning with fury.
"Let him go," Rowan commands again, sharper.
With a snarl, Leonard releases him, shoving Harlan away before storming out into the night, fists clenched.
Harlan wheezes, clutching his neck. "Fucking bastard..." He eyes Rowan warily. "Three gold coins to patch him up. Pay or drag the filth out yourself."
Rowan slaps the coins onto the scarred table, his gaze steel. "Do it. And he lives, or I'll be back."
Harlan's demeanor flips like a coin, his voice oozing false honey as he pockets the gold. "Oh, don't you fret, good sire. He'll be right as rain under my care. Just wait outside—I'll work my magic."