Leonard stands on the porch, his eyes tracking the red stains on the iron spade Henry holds. The morning air clings to the skin, sharp and cold, carrying the heavy scent of raw earth.
"You could've woke me up, Henry," Leonard says, his voice flat, gravelly from sleep.
Henry keeps his eyes low, staring at the mud on his boots. "I just didn't want to wake you up. You looked at peace while sleeping."
He pauses, his fingers tightening around the wooden handle until the leather of his gloves groans.
"But sir... I don't know how you managed to sleep after witnessing all that horror. I couldn't sleep at all. But it's good you got some rest... and I actually wanted to do the burial myself."
Leonard looks at the dried, dark grease coating Henry's forearms. "The water's working. You should go bathe, you're all covered in blood. I'll make the breakfast."
Henry nods once, a slow, heavy drop of his chin. He leaves the spade leaning against the railing and steps past the threshold, the door clicking quiet behind him.
Leonard steps out into the open square.
The fog has broken completely, leaving Budsle bare under a pale, featureless sky.
Without the white mist, the empty houses feel larger, their hollow window frames staring down at the mud like dead eyes.
The wind sweeps through the alleys, crisp and biting.
He walks toward the clearing, his boots sinking into the wet clay.
Four mounds now lie in a neat row in the frost-bitten grass three long, one tiny. He stops at the foot of the earth, his right hand coming to rest on his sword hilt, and lowers his head into a silent prayer for the dead.
Thud.
A sharp, heavy crack echoes from the abandoned stone house directly behind the graves. It sounds like a heavy piece of wood striking the flagstones inside.
Leonard's thumb immediately drives his sword guard up, exposing two inches of bare iron.
He turns, his boots crunching through the frozen weeds as he crosses the threshold of the empty cottage.
He pushes the door wide, his eyes scanning the gloom.
Nothing.
The rotting table stands steady. The broken chairs are undisturbed. A thick layer of grey dust sits like velvet over every surface, completely unmarked.
No fallen objects.
No tracks.
The quiet inside the room is absolute, heavy enough to ring in his ears.
Leonard lets the blade slide back into the scabbard with a dull click.
He scratches the back of his neck, his breath rising in a tight plume of white vapor. "Was I hearing things?" he mutters to the dark corners. He turns and steps back out into the light.
He returns to the clearing, his eyes dropping back toward the earth, and his entire body goes rigid.
The rough pine cross Henry had driven into the little girl's grave is no longer bare.
Deep, jagged grooves have been gouged into the wood, the fiber split and splintered as if hacked by long, sharp fingernails.
The marks trace out a single word: ROSE.
Leonard takes a slow, dragging step forward, the air dying in his throat.
His hand trembles as his fingers hover over the fresh, raw letters. "It's not real," he whispers, his voice cracking.
He had just been inside the house for a fraction of a minute.
The wood was blank. He presses his thumb into the carving, testing the reality of the splinters.
"Leonard..."
The whisper is a soft, warm breath against the nape of his neck.
His head snaps up. In the upper window of the stone house he had just searched, a shape stands behind the cracked glass.
A girl.
Her long, vibrant red hair falls loose over her shoulders, shifting slightly in a draft that shouldn't exist.
She wears a soft pink wool dress, the fabric bright and clean against the black rot of the window frame. She looks down at him, her lips curved into a gentle, familiar smile.
Leonard shuts his eyes tight, squeezing the lids until his vision flashes with red sparks.
He forces his chin down, staring hard into the gray mud between his boots. She died in the dungeon, his mind screams, his chest tightening into a knot. I buried her under four feet of shale.
"We were about to get married, Leonard," her voice drifts from the window, low and heavy with the weight of an old promise. "Do you not love me now?"
The words twist through his ears, digging into the rawest spaces of his grief.
The illusion is cruel, a deliberate violation of his mind, yet the sheer sound of her voice hits him like water to a man dying of thirst.
"I do," Leonard chokes out, the confession tearing from his throat before his reason can stop it.
He flings his eyes open, turning back to the glass. "I still love you."
The pane is empty. There is no red hair, no pink wool.
Only the reflection of the pale sky and the thick dust on the ledge.
Leonard grabs his head, his fingers clawing into his hair, his nails digging into his scalp until it throbbed.
A cold sweat breaks across his ribs. It's not real. It's all in my head.
The horror of it settles deep in his gut not just that the monster is watching, but that it knows the exact name to break him.
How does that bastard know about her?
Rose... was it really you?
No.
That's impossible. She's dead. That wasn't her.
A twisted, sickening warmth remains in his chest.
Even knowing it was the creature mocking him, hearing her speak had felt good.
The comfort was a poison, and he was drinking it.
Leonard clenches his right hand into a massive fist and drives it straight into his own cheekbone.
The wet crack of the impact echoes through the quiet little graveyard.
He stumbles back, his boots slipping in the clay as the sharp taste of copper bursts over his tongue.
He shakes his head, his teeth baring, and punches himself a second time, harder, right across his jaw.
The sharp, white-hot spike of physical pain cuts through the psychological fog, anchoring his mind back to the cold reality of the soil.
He walks back to the grave, his breath rattling in his throat, and checks the cross.
The wood is grey, weathered, and entirely blank. Henry's silver chain hangs undisturbed against the pine.
"I thought so," he mutters, wiping a thin line of blood from his split lip.
He sinks onto a low boulder beside the path, his hands resting on his knees.
He stares at the child's mound. "It must be so difficult for you, little one... living with this every day."
"Sir Leonard!"
The shout cuts through the stillness of the clearing.
Leonard turns his head toward the porch.
Henry stands by the door frame. The grime and grease are gone from his skin.
He wears a high-collared tunic of midnight-black wool, reinforced with heavy, matte-black leather plates buckled across his shoulders and chest.
The dark fabric is clean, structured, and tightly strapped against his frame, absorbing the pale morning light.
Leonard's chest hitches as he looks at the black leather. *Is he real?* the thought flashes, cold and unbidden. *I don't even know.*
Henry cups his hand to his mouth, shouting again. "You were about to make breakfast! Is something wrong?"
Leonard forces his spine straight, pushing the tremors from his limbs as he stands up.
He raises his hand in a brief wave and begins the long walk back to the house.
"Ahh, I was just praying for the men and got myself lost into that," Leonard says as he nears the porch, keeping his voice steady, masking the split on his lip.
"You look good. I think I should take a bath myself too."
Henry looks at the dirt on Leonard's cloak, his expression solemn. "Yeah. You should probably..."
Leonard lets out a dry chuckle, trying to ease the weight between them. "Hey, you don't have to say it like that."
Henry nods, turning back into the kitchen. He pulls the heavy leather sacks taken from the dead travelers onto the wooden table and unbuckles the brass fasts.
He reaches inside, pulling out a hard loaf of rye bread, a small stoneware jar of pickled vegetables, and several strips of salted, dried fish.
"It looks good," Henry says, his voice small in the quiet house. "I'll make the breakfast. You take the bath. Gotta get the breakfast ready before the ladies are up."
Far past the jagged mountain passes and deep into the heart of the capital of Liveria, the sun strikes the white stone facades of the upper district.
High upon the stone balustrade of a tiered estate overlooking the main thoroughfare, a man stands in the shadow of a decorative arch.
He holds a long, single-tube brass binocular to his eye, his adjustments minute and precise as he tracks a target through the moving crowds below.
Through the circular lens, the image is clear.
Sir Rowan walks along the cobblestones, his stride measured and heavy.
His hand is clasped around the smaller hand of Layla, guiding her through the bustling market stalls.
The man lowers the glass slightly, his mouth twisting into a cold line. "Sorry, sir knight," he mutters to the empty air.
"But you should've stayed in your place. We can't afford to let you be. You see... you'll die for his highness' sake and be grateful you'll die by Great Wesker's hands."
A cold, thin sliver of steel presses hard into the flesh right beneath his jaw.
The shadow behind him has no weight, no sound. The figure wears the close-fitting, dull gray linen of a high-tier assassin, the fabric absorbing the glare of the sun.
"Who's gonna die?" A man whispers, his breath brushing the back of Wesker's ear.
"Would you be kind enough to tell me, lad?"
Wesker's throat clicks as he tries to swallow against the edge of the blade.
The color drains from his cheeks, his fingers freezing around the brass binocular. "Who... who are you?"
The blade tilts, biting just enough to draw a thin, dark bead of crimson. "Can't tell you that, can I?"
With a swift, practiced jerk of the wrist, the steel shears through the windpipe.
Wesker's hands fly to his throat, the brass binocular slipping from his fingers to clatter against the stone floor as he sinks into the shadows, his life leaking into the white marble.