The Pattern Beneath the Blood
Caspian sat alone by the riverbed, a flat stone in one hand, his spear in the other. With deliberate strokes, he honed the blade's edge, letting the rhythmic rasp of metal on rock drown the whisper of the wind in the trees. Leaves rustled, but the world beyond his thoughts barely registered.
His mind was elsewhere—entrenched in the past.
The man who attacked him... the accusation he hurled... none of it had unsettled Caspian.
If anything, it had confirmed everything.
"You were seen with her."
That had been the claim.
Not I saw you.
Not You were caught.
Just: You were seen.
By someone unnamed. Unfound.
And that silence—it was unnatural.
Caspian's gaze drifted to the river, to the place where they had found Lira. He pictured the path she walked, the angle of the trees, the direction of her gaze. Every small detail clicked into place like shards of glass forming a mosaic.
Lira had said she was alone that day.
But she wasn't.
Someone had been following her. Whether from the shadows or in plain sight. Someone she may have trusted—or not noticed at all.
She lied to protect them... or because she never knew they were there.
Whoever it was saw Caspian and Lira's brief exchange. And when Caspian walked away, they struck.
And then disappeared.
Not with a witness's truth—but with the power of absence.
He stood, feet quiet against the damp earth, and walked along the edge of the bank. His voice broke the hush of the woods—low, even, dissecting.
He remembered it now—how he'd told Lira where he was heading. How she'd nodded, but her eyes flicked toward the shadows beyond the trees.
He hadn't thought much of it then. But someone had been there. Close enough to hear every word.
"She said she was alone… but she kept glancing back. Her posture turned ever so slightly toward the tree line. As if she knew. As if she felt eyes on her."
He stopped, staring into the slow-moving current.
"She wasn't afraid of me," he continued. "But she was guarded. Distracted."
His brow furrowed.
"The one who claimed to see me… was already watching her. Following her."
He knelt, fingers brushing over a faint impression in the dirt—a scuff long overlooked, now sharp in memory.
"They were waiting. They saw me leave. They saw the window open… and they took it."
He spoke it flatly. Without anger.
"This isn't about revenge."
His eyes lifted to the trees, narrowing.
"It's about correcting a mistake."
Then his tone shifted—colder. Sharper.
"The real culprit is the one who never came forward. The one who vanished after planting the seed of doubt."
It had been a smart frame job. Not precise—but effective. Subtle enough to pass in the haze of grief. Calculated enough to misdirect rage.
Caspian had let the man land a punch.
Not because he was guilty.
But because someone needed that release. Someone needed a scapegoat—so the truth could stay buried.
He took that weight willingly.
Back then, he thought he needed the pain. Something to carry. Something to harden him.
But now?
Now he saw it for what it was.
He reached for the spear, now sharpened to a lethal point, and tied it across his back.
Then he began to move.
Eyes forward.
Pace steady.
There would be no confrontation.
Only a reckoning.