Tom's boot slipped. He skidded, colliding with Kael's heels and scrambling for balance. The rhythm broke. He lagged, then rushed.
"We—" The word jumped out. High. Sharp. Tom clamped his mouth shut.
Kael kept walking.
Tom forced himself closer. "We're rich," he whispered, wiping his nose with a messy sleeve. "That ring... And the pouch. Even just the silver. It's enough for a week. Two weeks. We stay out here."
Kael's boots packed the snow down. Crunch. Crunch.
"If we go back—" Tom grabbed the hem of Kael's tunic. "They'll beat us. The Knight is dead. Someone has to pay."
Kael stopped. He turned. "No."
"Why?"
Kael veered left, stepping off the trail into the deeper woods. He found the roots of an old oak, heaved up from the earth to create a frozen hollow. He crouched, fingers digging into the soil, and emptied his pockets.
The Dagger clattered onto the roots. The fine leather Pouch followed, heavy with silver. Kael looked up, extending an open hand. "The ring."
Tom stiffened. His hand flew to his pocket, fingers curling protectively over the fabric. He stood rooted. That ring meant freedom. It was the only thing that made the nightmare worth it.
"Tom." The voice was low and full of warning.
Tom hesitated, his gaze darting between Kael's flat stare and the dark hollow of the tree roots. Finally, his shoulders slumped. He fished out the ring and dropped it into Kael's palm. Warm from his body.
Kael ignored the gold. He tossed it onto the roots next to the blade.
He loosened the strings of the pouch, pouring the coins into his palm. Silver. A handful of heavy, tarnished stags. Spending money. Pocket change to a Knight, but three year's wages for a servant.
Kael divided the pile.
The Ring, the Dagger, and the empty leather Pouch—embroidered with fine silk that screamed nobility—went into a rag. He tied it tight, forced it deep under the roots, and packed dirt over it—then dead needles, then snow. He smoothed the bark until the evidence vanished.
He put five silver stags into his own pocket. Loose. Just coin.
"That stays," Kael pointing at the roots. "Until I say."
Tom glanced back toward the clearing. "So when do we come back for it?"
Kael answered at once. "When we have the strength—and a chance to fence it. Or when we're no longer moving as servants."
He stood up. "We go back. We survive."
Tom glanced at Kael's side. "Your waist. There's blood."
Kael lowered his head and looked to the side. A dark splatter spread across his tunic at the waist.
He walked to a thick pine. The bitter cold had split its bark—a fresh, jagged frost crack running down the trunk. Inside the wound, a clot of dark resin had oozed out, thickened by the freeze.
Kael dug his fingers into the sticky black sludge. Stiff, like cold tar. He scraped a handful free and smeared it heavily over the bloodstain, adding another layer to the mess he had made earlier. He ground the thick paste into the fabric with his palm, the friction warming it just enough to bind with the wool.
The red vanished, buried under a matted, black smear. Filth.
"It's covered," Tom whispered.
They walked back. Fast. The wind found the gaps in their clothes, pressing cold against skin. Blackstone Keep crouched in the dark.
The side gate was a crack in the wall. A guard leaned against the frame.
"Thought you two had tried to run," he said. "The Steward's looking for you. Get inside." He kicked the door. It groaned open.
They crossed the yard and stopped by the sheds.
"Wait here." Kael walked to the main house alone.
A knock. Sharp. "Enter."
The Steward's room was a furnace. A roaring hearth blasted dry heat against the walls. The air smelled of ink, stale wine, and now... the sharp, stinging scent of raw sap rising from Kael's clothes.
The Steward sat behind a heavy oak desk, a dark velvet doublet pressing into the flesh of his thick neck. He kept his head down. His soft hand moved a quill across a ledger. Scritch. Scritch.
Finally, the scratching stopped. He raised his head. Small, beaded eyes fixed on Kael.
"Late." The voice was flat. He sniffed, nose wrinkling. "And you smell like a damn forest fire. What is that?"
"Slipped climbing a pine, sir," Kael keeping his head down. "Checking a high snare. I slid down a frost crack. Covered in raw pitch."
The Steward grunted. A clumsy servant. Believable. "Quota?"
Kael stood still. "No skins. The trap line was buried."
The Steward leaned back, the chair groaning. A flicker of cruel amusement curled his lip. "Then you know the price. The whipping post at dawn. "
He reached for the bell.
Kael reached into his pocket. He pulled out the loose silver coins and placed them directly on the corner of the desk.
Clink. Silver hitting wood. Clear. Distinct.
The Steward's hand paused inches from the bell. His eyes narrowed. A hand slid out—a pale spider moving across the wood. Fingers swept over the coins. Five stags.
The Steward blinked. A bribe. A week's worth of drinking money.
"Found a cache?" The voice oily. "Or stole it?"
"Saved. Mine and Tom's. Years of it."
The Steward took the answer for what it was. The question had been idle. He only cared that the silver was there.
His hand swept across the desk, gathering the coins. Clean, little wear. He noticed it and said nothing. They vanished into a drawer. Click.
He muttered, picking up his quill. "Fine. No whipping." He dipped the ink. "But you're still late."
The Steward paused, the quill hovering over the paper. He looked up, a nasty smirk playing on his lips. "And where is the other one? The runt?"
"Outside."
"Can't have the others thinking I'm soft just because you slipped me a few coins." The Steward waved a hand toward the door. "Guards."
The door opened.
"Take him to the well, three buckets each. Ice water."
He sneered. "Consider it a bath for that smell. Now get them out."
Kael turned to leave. A blast of cold air hit the room.
The Patrol Leader stood in the frame. Snow melted on his armor, and his face was grim. He stepped in, then stopped dead. His eyes locked onto Kael.
The Captain froze. His gaze swept over the boy—the heavy smell of pine, the wet clothes, the exhaustion. For a split second, the Captain's hand twitched toward his sword hilt. He was looking at a servant, but his instincts were screaming wrong.
The silence stretched. Thin. Dangerous.
"Captain?" The Steward's voice cut through the tension. He looked up, annoyed. He glanced at Kael, then back to the officer. "Don't mind the trash. He's just leaving. Out!"
Kael lowered his head, slipping past the Captain. He felt the man's eyes drilling into his back, suspicious and heavy. He stepped into the hall and closed the door.
The courtyard.
Two guards waited by the stone trough, breaking the surface ice with the butts of their spears. Grinning. Evening entertainment.
"Step up, rats," one guard barked.
Tom started shaking before the water even touched him. He stepped forward and stripped bare. The guard heaved a bucket. Splash.
Liquid ice hammered him. "Ahhh!" The scream tore out of Tom's throat. He doubled over, gasping, body convulsing in shock. "Gods! Please!"
The guards laughed. "Two more!"
Tom took them. He sobbed, lips turning blue.
"Next!"
Kael stepped up and stripped bare. The wind bit into his skin, but he barely reacted. The guard swung the bucket.
The water crashed into him, drenching him from head to toe. Steam rose from his skin.
The guards were watching. Waiting for the show.
He threw his head back. He opened his mouth and let out a raw scream. He dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself. He willed his muscles to spasm, chattering his teeth.
Kael kept his eyes on the mud. He remembered it.
"Loud one!" The guard jeered, dumping the second bucket. Then the third.
Kael screamed again, louder. Give them what they want.
"All right, get out of my sight," the guard kicking snow at them. "Freezing clears the sin."
Kael grabbed Tom, hauling the boy up. Dead weight. Legs useless. He scooped up their clothes and dragged him toward the livestock shed. They stumbled inside. The door slammed behind them, shutting out the wind.
The air inside was thick with wet straw and ammonia, but it was out of the gale. Tom crumbled toward the pen. He crawled in, moving carefully to avoid spooking the animals. He found a spot in the center of the flock and curled into a tight ball, wrapping his arms around a ewe, burying his face into the warm, greasy fleece.
"Gods... gods..." Tom gibbered, teeth clicking like dice. "My... hands."
Kael sat in the straw, leaning back against the wood. Soaked to the bone.
Cold water clung to his skin. The wind cut in. His body stayed steady. No shaking. No weakness.
Something's wrong with my body.
The water on his skin was already drying. Steam rose faintly from his shoulders in the dim light. Inside his chest, the breath moved steady. In. Out.
He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have been able to react in time. But he had. He'd moved, clean and fast.
His thoughts felt sharper now. Quicker. The dull, sluggish haze he'd lived with was gone.
Something stirred in his gut. Aether?
A blessing.
The thought struck with the weight of conviction. Priests spoke of grace. Of the light of the Seven. Of purity.
But Kael was not pure. He looked at his hands. Rough. Stained with invisible blood. He had just butchered a man. He had carved meat, stolen gold, and lied to a Steward's face. He was a murderer.
What kind of god looked down at a throat slit in the snow and offered a gift? What divinity watched a boy hack at a corpse and decided to grant him strength?
Not the God of Mercy. Not the Mother.
They would have struck him down. They would have burned him with cold. But this heat... this was not judgment. It was approval.
Only one god smiled at the red work. Only one god rewarded the blade and the slaughter.
God of Slaughter.
Kael stood still, eyes on the dark. He spoke the words only in his mind.
Great God of Slaughter.
If you desire blood, I will offer it.
The night stretched on. The warmth in his veins remained.