The Shed
Darkness solidified. The air inside the shed smelled of damp straw and sickness. Hours had bled away since the portcullis groaned shut.
Kael sat with his back against the rough wood, swallowed by the dark. His muscles burned, urging him to move, to run, to do something. But he remained frozen.
Escape was a lie.
He had weighed the risks in the silence. The main gate was sealed; without a Writ of Passage, the guards would put a crossbow bolt through his back before he took three steps. The walls were thirty feet of ice-slicked stone.
Even if he made it over, the storm outside was no longer a shield—it was a white tomb. To run into that blizzard without supplies was suicide.
To stay was a gamble.
If I run, I confess. If I stay... maybe they find nothing in the forest. Maybe the snow covered enough.
He looked at Tom. The boy's breath rattled—a wet, broken rhythm filling the silence. A dying clock counting down the seconds.
Kael closed his eyes and leaned back against the wooden wall. There was nothing he could do now. All he could do was wait.
Thud.
A vibration traveled through the frozen ground.
Kael's eyes snapped open.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy hooves on cobblestone. Iron shoes striking stone. The sound echoed from the courtyard, growing louder, sharper.
They were back.
Kael's stomach tightened. They were back too soon. Had they found something? Or had they already put the pieces together?
Or were they simply ready to close the matter?
The hoofbeats stopped. Voices barked orders, clipped tones cutting through the wind. Then, silence. The heavy, suffocating silence of a predator crouching before the pounce.
Steps approached the shed. Heavy boots crunching on the snow.
Kael let out a slow, shaky breath. He didn't reach for the spear. It was pointless. He simply waited for the verdict.
Crash.
The door exploded inward, wood splintering into the dark. Freezing wind and blinding torchlight flooded the narrow space. Armored hands seized him before he could stand, dragging him out into the snow, away from the warmth, away from Tom.
He offered no resistance. He went with them.
"Huh," one of them said. "Kid's pretty calm."
"Sir was right," another said. "He probably knows something."
"Sir's not here," the third replied. "No need to play to him."
The Interrogation
The dungeon didn't smell of blood. It smelled of wet stone and lye—the scent of a place that was cleaned often.
Kael sat in the heavy wooden chair, steady and silent. His hands were still. His thoughts were working. Captain Valen stood before him, a flaying knife resting loosely in his hand.
The tools laid out on the table remained unused. Kael had spoken without being pressed.
"A farmer," Valen repeated, his voice echoing in the stone room. "You expect me to believe a peasant crushed a Knight's chest plate with a hand axe?"
"It wasn't a peasant," Kael said, his voice flat and hoarse. "It wore a peasant's skin. But it moved wrong."
Valen leaned against the table, the knife catching the torchlight. "Wrong how?"
"It skipped," Kael said, staring at the flame. The memory was vivid, etched in ice. "Left, right. It said the Knight was a deer. Said it was a game."
"Tom and I were toys to it."
"The wounds to the neck," He looked at Kael. "Those too—done by this 'farmer'?"
Kael lifted his eyes. "When I reached him, he was already done. He wasn't going to live."
He paused, then went on. "I thought about ending it. Putting him out of his pain."
"But when I saw his face, I lost control."
The room went deadly silent. The Patrol Leader, standing by the door, shifted his weight, hand drifting to his sword.
"Why?" Valen asked, the question driven by genuine curiosity.
Kael looked at the flame. He saw the old man's face. The hands that had given him bread when he was seven.
"He skinned Old Tommy," Kael voice was quiet. "Tommy took me in when I was small. Janson made him scream for three hours. He laughed while he did it."
Kael looked up, meeting Valen's eyes.
Valen stared at the boy. He had expected a spy or a madman. Instead, he found something rarer. Loyalty. A servant who butchered a noble not for gold, but for a debt of blood.
A slow smile spread across Valen's face.
"Vengeance," he whispered. "And honest about it."
He tossed the knife onto the table. Clang.
"Commander?" The Patrol Leader stepped forward. "He confessed. Do we execute him?"
"No," Valen said, looking at Kael with a mix of disgust and fascination. "He's not a murderer. He's a wolf protecting his pack. I don't kill wolves that can be trained."
Valen turned to the door.
"Throw him in the Hole. Let him freeze for a night. If he's still alive tomorrow, I'll find a use for him."
The Hole
The "Hole" was exactly that. A vertical shaft cut into the bedrock, five feet wide, covered by a heavy iron grate.
Cold spread through Kael's limbs as he lay on the stone. The straw beneath him was damp, offering no warmth. Each breath burned faintly in his chest.
He understood it clearly. Exposed like this, with no fire, no movement, no shelter, he would not last the night. By morning, he would likely be frozen stiff at the bottom of the hole.
He breathed out slowly.
"Just got it," he said to the dark. "A god's mark. A contract." A pause. "And this is how it ends."
His jaw tightened. "I should've fought. Or run for the wilds."
He knew the odds. Either way would have meant death. But it would have been movement. Choice.
Lying here was neither.
Kael drew his knees in, holding on to what little heat remained. The cold kept coming.
He closed his eyes.
He slept.