A whisper in the dark.

A hiss of breath—my breath.

I was breathing. I was alive!

The dull throb in my head and shoulder confirmed my suspicions.

"Ugh…"

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

I opened one crusty eye to the blinding sun overhead. A reverse rain of ash floated high above. It was the cremated remains of the dead going wherever ashes go. My fingers twitched like a dying bug. My limbs were like firewood left in the rain.

"Dugan…" I said with a rasp. "Dugan?"

Heavy footfalls crunched on dry grass.

Dugan's pale, sooty face stared down at me.

"You're alive?"

There was surprise in his voice.

How bad did I look?

"Help me up, will you?"

A strong hand clamped around my wrist and pulled me upright. I peeled open my other eye.

The mercenary camp was a dark scar on the land. Their canvas tents were in various states of collapse. Blackened bodies littered the field, and the air reeked of charcoal.

In the middle of the clearing were two burning legs, the lower half of Van Lagos.

I blinked and looked down at my body.

The upper half of Van Lagos was all over me: black blood, bits of seared flesh and intestines. Dugan leaned forward and plucked a charred tooth out of my forehead.

"Ow!"

Whatever magic that made the Dahlgeshi fireproof went away with his will.

"Now you can tell them," I whispered under my breath.

"What?" Dugan asked.

"Nothing."

Dugan dragged me to my feet. It took a moment to remember how to move my legs.

"It's done," Dugan said.

"I hope so..."

"Hey! Anyone alive?!"

I whipped around to the new voice behind us.

Slippery Sim rolled our wagon into the camp, trampling over fallen tents and dead bodies.

"Sim?! You were supposed to wait at the stable!"

"I know, but you shot a bonfire a hundred feet in the air! I looked like a signal!"

"A signal for what?!"

"How should I know?! It's your signal!"

I sighed.

"It wasn't my fire! It was his..."

I pointed a thumb at the smoking legs behind me.

Sim pulled on the horse's lines, slowing it to a stop in the middle of our battlefield.

"Damn! Did you do that?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," Sim said.

He looked around the devastation in the camp, his eyes wandering up the hill.

"What happened to them?"

I turned around again, almost giving myself whiplash.

My annoyance at Sim was replaced with an icy pit in my stomach.

Castille walked down the hill's slope with Thor trailing behind her. She carried a small, limp body bundled in burnt bedsheets.

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Isla…

Before I could think, I was running. I met them at the base of the hill, and my stomach turned when I caught sight of her.

Isla's face was raw and red from half-healed burns. Most of her hair was gone, burned down to the scalp, except for a few wispy strands and small blonde tufts behind her ears. My only relief was the shallow rise and fall of the bedding wrapped around her chest.

She was alive, but for how long?

"Seven spirits, what happened to your face?!" Sim asked.

I'd been so focused on Isla that I forgot to look up at her carrier. The right side of Castille's face was a twisted mask of pain. The warped flesh was swollen, and blood from a dozen weeping wounds ran down the canals carved into her skin.

I almost stepped away from her, but caught myself at the last moment.

She was still Castille, and as uncomfortable as her wounds made me, it was a thousand times worse for her.

Castille ignored Sim's look of disgust.

"Don't pay me no mind. We need to get Isla on the wagon. Simon, make some room in the back. Throw out the camping supplies if you have too."

She turned her head from side to side, her one remaining eye scanning the camp.

"And where's my sword?!"

"Here…"

A deep whisper rang out from a collapsed tent.

Heavy canvas cloth shifted and flipped over.

It was Rugar. The old blacksmith crawled up to his hands and knees. His pale skin was damp with sweat. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He panted, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the soiled sleeve of his gambeson.

"You're still alive?!" I said, more surprised than angry.

Castille sighed.

Dugan walked up and took Isla out of her hands, Thor waddling beside him.

"Alright, let's make this quick," the Northern woman said.

I unsheathed my short sword, walking up to Rugar with Castille on my left.

"Yes, let's!" Rugar said.

He raised his right hand, and my short sword jerked up in the air.

I grabbed it with both hands, but as quickly as it rose, it fell, becoming limp between my fingers.

"What?!" Rugar shouted.

He pushed his right palm forward, making my short sword tremble, but nothing more.

Rugar's eyes bulged. His face flushed red.

"What did you do?! It's gone. Why is it gone?!"

I glanced at Castille. She turned to me and shrugged.

"Wasn't me."

Rugar coughed up blood. His blood-slick lips twisted into a smile.

"It doesn't matter. You already lost."

He laughed. It came out in a dry wheeze.

"After your ambush in the tent, I sent riders to the capital and along my perimeter. My reinforcements are coming. The girl, you, you're all going to die here. In the end, I'll have the last-"

THUNK!

My dagger sank into his throat. Rugar's voice cut off, bubbles of blood gurgling between his lips. The red flecks splattered down his chin. His limp body fell to the side, Dusk driving deeper into his stomach.

I willed my dagger into my left hand, leaving my short sword in my right.

"We're going to save Isla, and we're killing anyone who gets in our way… Everyone, got it?!"

Dugan nodded. Castille gave me a lopsided grin.

"I need to get my sword. Sim, how's it going?!"

"It's going!" Sim said from the inside of the wagon.

I heaved a deep breath. That was easier said than done. Rugar's mercenaries were veterans, and we're in no shape for another fight. Our best chance was to leave as soon as possible.

I folded my arms.

As much as I hated to admit it, Sim made the right call.

I turned to the wagon.

Metal pots, wooden tent poles and lanterns were flying out of the wagon's canopy. Our horses, who were tied to the back, whinnied their disapproval.

Dugan and Thor waddled past me, their movement more sluggish with each step. If Castille and I could take the horses and scout ahead, we might be able to avoid the mercenaries.

I left Castille to walk to the wagon. While she fished her sword out of Rugar's belly, I could saddle our horses for the ride ahead.

Thor paused mid-waddle. He turned his head to the side and let out a low-pitched grunt.

A sheet of canvas cloth flipped up in the air. Feet shuffled on dry grass, and Castille shouted out a warning.

I turned.

My short sword slapped aside a knife aimed at my liver.

I twisted to face my attacker.

It was the boy who carried Rugar down the hill.

I tightened the grip around my dagger and smashed my left fist into his face.

His head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed. He landed with a thud and squirmed on the ground, the fine bones of his face broken.

I pressed the tip of my short sword to his neck and cocked my head.

Wait, I knew this kid…

He was one of Took's thugs who threatened me in the Gentleman's Rest.

I laughed.

What were the odds?

I had him in a similar position a few months before.

My lips twisted into a snarl.

No more hesitation.

I let him go once, and he almost killed me. Today, he would learn. Today, he would die.

Be. Better.

There it was again, that voice… That sliver of morality in the back of my head telling me right from wrong. My life was easier when it wasn't there. No, that was a lie—two lies. The voice had always been there, only… quieter. It was the one thing stopping me from being like Sin. And then there was the second lie or… the simple truth I didn't want to admit: when I ignored the voice, my life was more miserable.

"Jacob," Castille said. "He's only a lad. Let him go."

I turned to her.

The Northern woman was halfway through pulling Dusk out of Rugar's body.

I laughed.

Morality is weird.

I glanced down at the boy staring up at me with wide eyes. His nose was a bloody pulp, and he was missing front teeth from my punch.

I sighed, stepping away from the teenage boy and resembling my weapon.

"Go home..."

I turned away and walked to the wagon.

"B-but I don't have a home. I don't have a family!" the boy said.

I turned back to him, waving a hand to Castille, Dugan, Isla, and Thor.

"Then make one… And next time make sure they aren't assholes."

# # #

We galloped to the capital at full speed. Castille and I rode ahead with Sim and the rest of the party in the wagon. We did our best to make Isla comfortable, making a thin bed from the material of our tents. Sim drove the wagon while Dugan and Thor used all their will to keep Isla stable.

The mage had bumped up against his magical potential. Even with all the will in the world, he could only heal Isla a little more than her worsening wounds. It was a miracle that she lasted this long. A miracle that wouldn't last.

I pushed the fear out of my mind. I needed to focus. Rugar's reinforcements could be anywhere.

"What's that?!" Castille shouted, pointing down the road.

I blinked.

I couldn't believe it.

I licked my chapped lips, my mouth going dry.

"It's them…"

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