9:59
An oppressive silence clung to the night, thick and suffocating, as though the world itself held its breath. Neither man dared to move, yet the weight of that stillness was not shared equally. For Caspian, it was a prison—a rigid paralysis born of tension, his nerves taut, the weight of all his burdens pressing him into immobility. Every beat of his heart felt like a drum too loud, a betrayal of the stillness. Rowen, in contrast, carried silence like a cloak. He stood at ease, perfectly composed, his stance casual, his mouth curved into a faint, almost playful smile.
A whisper of wind swept through the trees, rustling their leaves in muted shivers. It brushed through Rowen's blood-red hair, lifting it slightly as though the night itself bowed to him. Then, breaking the quiet, a blue jay's shrill cry cut through the air. The bird descended with sudden grace, perching upon the rusted lamp post that stood between them. Its claws clinked against the corroded metal, and with quick, jerking motions it pecked at the lantern's surface. The lamp sputtered, its glow faltering, and for an instant, the path was drowned in pure, suffocating black.
When the light steadied again, Caspian's breath caught in his chest. Rowen was gone. The space where he had stood just moments before was empty, a void. Panic surged in Caspian's veins as his eyes darted, searching the shadows. Then, with the simple treachery of a blink, reality shifted. Rowen stood directly before him now, close enough that Caspian could feel the sheer weight of his presence. Towering, immovable, terrible—his figure loomed like a storm given form, blotting out everything else. His crimson eyes gleamed with the thrill of inevitability, and the soft curl of his smile had not changed, as if he had always been exactly where he wished to be.
Rowen lifted his hand high, the motion sharp enough to make the air tense around him. Caspian braced himself, every muscle tightening in anticipation of a strike that would surely shatter him. But instead of a crushing blow, the hand descended gently, resting with unexpected weight upon his shoulder. The sudden warmth of the touch was disarming. Rowen's grin widened into something fierce, almost too alive for the gloom around them.
"How's it going, old friend?!" Rowen boomed, his voice rolling through the night like thunder breaking the silence.
His voice carried power, deep but not cavernous—coarse, roughened by years of hardship, harsher than when Caspian had last spoken with him. That, of course, was no surprise. Ezra had sent Rowen to Zul'Azar, and no man returned from that desolate empire unchanged.
"I'm alright," Caspian answered flatly, his tone short, almost evasive, as though the words themselves carried too much weight to push out.
Rowen's expression shifted instantly, disappointment darkening his face. His red eyes narrowed, his grip on Caspian's shoulder tightening ever so slightly, as though trying to pull something more from him than that hollow response.
"Actually… I'm doing well right now," Caspian corrected quickly, forcing some light into his words.
That small adjustment was enough. Rowen's disappointment melted, replaced by a genuine smile, fierce and unrestrained. He slung his powerful arm around Caspian's neck, pulling him into the heavy embrace of someone who treated affection with the same intensity as battle.
"That's what I like to hear!" Rowen exclaimed with unshakable warmth, his voice booming with such conviction it seemed to push back the shadows themselves.
Caspian exhaled slowly, easing into the embrace. For the briefest moment, it was almost as if the night had lost its threat.
"So," Rowen began, his tone softening into curiosity, "what have you been up to since we last talked? How long has it been—two years?"
"Three years, actually," Caspian corrected, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Rowen blinked, genuinely stunned. "No way!" he barked, shaking his head as though refusing to believe it. But after a pause, his brow furrowed, and he chuckled. "No—you're right. The Battle of Brisbale Mountain… three years ago. Hell, time really does fly."
Caspian's smug look in response was answer enough.
Rowen narrowed his eyes playfully, his grin crooked. "Alright, then answer the damn question. What've you been up to, huh?"
"Other than the occasional mission? Not much," Caspian replied, his tone candid, stripped of embellishment.
Rowen laughed, the sound harsh but sincere, a rare note of genuine joy in his voice. "Good for you, brother. Not everything has to be blood and fire."
The words lingered in the air between them, strange but comforting, a pact sealed in the weight of silence. For a few moments, neither spoke. The night itself seemed to pause, as though the world held its breath at what had just been spoken aloud. The breeze stilled, the lantern above them flickered weakly, and in the oppressive stillness, their breaths felt too loud.
Then, as though the silence had become unbearable, Caspian broke. A sharp laugh burst from him, sudden and uncontrollable, his shoulders shaking with the release. It startled the tension away for a moment, like a blade cutting through fog.
"What the hell are you wearing?!" Caspian managed between gasps of laughter, his hand gesturing wildly at Rowen's ragged layers, the dirt-stained rags, and battered boots.
Rowen blinked in surprise, his crimson eyes widening slightly, and for the briefest instant, he looked less like a terror of legend and more like a man caught out of place. His cheeks darkened faintly—an expression so alien on him that it almost seemed absurd. "H-hey, it's not funny!" he shot back, defensive, though the embarrassment was clear in his tone. "I didn't exactly have time to change on the drive from Zul'Azar!"
Caspian doubled over with another laugh, clutching his side. "Gods, Rowen—you look like you crawled out of a battlefield and just kept walking until you ended up here."
Rowen gave a sheepish shrug, his grin returning, though tinged with resignation. He tugged at the frayed desert turban around his neck, the fabric stained and sand-bitten, as if mocking him with its battered state. "You're not entirely wrong."
The laughter dwindled, fading into a softer smile on Caspian's face. But curiosity replaced amusement, a sharper light settling in his eyes. His voice lowered, carrying a note of genuine interest. "How is Zul'Azar these days?" he asked carefully.
The question landed like a stone in Rowen's chest. His expression shifted instantly—the grin faltered, his eyes darkened, and the faint humor drained away. His gaze dropped to the ground, and he raised a hand, running his fingers through his blood-red hair to push it back from his face, though the motion was more habit than necessity. It was a stalling gesture, one that betrayed the weight of what lay behind the question.
"The same as it always is," he said finally, his voice subdued, stripped of the bravado he'd carried moments ago.
Caspian frowned slightly, his brow knitting. "Meaning?"
Rowen's sigh was heavy, as though pulled from the very depths of his chest. "The people are as brainwashed as ever," he answered, bitterness lacing his words. "The empire's claws run too deep there. They've been taught not to question, not to think beyond the chains on their wrists." His voice grew quieter. "Most don't even remember what freedom looks like."
Silence hung again, but this one was heavier, darker. Even the air seemed to resist movement, the shadows clinging closer around them.
Then Rowen spoke again, slower this time, each syllable heavier than the last, as though the memory itself demanded more strength than he cared to spend. "I was paid to help a family escape slavery there…" His voice caught briefly, his jaw tightening. His hand flexed, as if he were trying to squeeze the memory from existence.
Caspian's gaze sharpened, his laughter long forgotten. His tone was low, even, but it carried a quiet demand. "And did you succeed?"
The pause that followed was suffocating. A silence not born of hesitation, but of inevitability. Rowen's crimson eyes, once so fierce, seemed distant now, as though he were looking through Caspian rather than at him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped bare, every trace of playfulness gone. Four words fell from his mouth like a hammer blow, heavy and final, shattering what little levity had lingered in the air.
"They were all killed."
The words carried no flourish, no anger, no grief. Just fact—cold and merciless. And yet the silence that followed felt deafening, filled with all the weight that Rowen's voice refused to show.
The night seemed to flinch. Even the faint buzz of insects felt muted, swallowed by the blunt finality of his words. The atmosphere that had moments before been warm with camaraderie was now frigid, cut through with grief and fury that neither man gave voice to. Caspian looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line, while Rowen stood unflinching, his crimson eyes reflecting a burden too deep to measure.
The silence dragged on, thick and suffocating. Finally, Rowen broke it, his voice louder, brighter, as if forcing the air itself to move again.
"Enough about that," he declared, shaking his head as though casting off the weight of Zul'Azar. "I came here to help you out! So tell me, what do you need?"
"I must warn you," Caspian said at last, his voice low, weighted with the gravity of what he was about to ask. His eyes narrowed, and there was a grim finality in the way he stood—shoulders squared, jaw tight. "It won't be easy."
Rowen smirked, his crimson eyes glinting in the lantern's faint light. "I don't mind a challenge." His voice carried no hesitation, only a dangerous amusement, as if the promise of difficulty only sweetened the task ahead.
"Are you up for a fight?" Caspian asked. But the words were more ritual than inquiry, a formality between men who already knew the truth of each other.
Rowen's grin sharpened, teeth flashing in the dark. "Always," he replied, the word brimming with certainty. The sound of it settled into the night like a vow.
The silence that followed was heavier than before, pressing down on them as the breeze died, leaving the air unnaturally still. Caspian turned fully toward him now, the last traces of camaraderie draining from his features. His expression was carved into something cold, honed like the edge of a blade. In his eyes, there was no jest, no hesitation, only the iron weight of resolve.
"I only need one thing," Caspian said, his tone deliberate, steady, every syllable shaped with purpose.
Rowen tilted his head slightly, the grin never leaving his face, though his gaze sharpened, searching Caspian's expression for what was hidden beneath. His anticipation was palpable, like a predator sensing the hunt before the first move was made. "And what's that?"
Caspian did not blink. His stare locked with Rowen's, cold and unyielding, as though the two men stood not as old friends but as conspirators on the brink of reshaping the world.
"Help me kill Alexander Blackwood."
The name struck the air like thunder, reverberating through the silence around them. The lamp above gave a faint flicker, shadows dancing across Rowen's face, amplifying the sharpness of his grin. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the words hang between them, their weight settling deep into the earth beneath their feet.
Then, slowly, Rowen's grin widened. He gave a short, almost delighted laugh under his breath, shaking his head as though Caspian had just offered him the greatest gift in the world.
"Well," he said at last, his voice low, dangerous, and utterly certain, "it's about time someone asked me for something worthwhile!"