Mat fell to his knees, his head bowing to the floor. "Lord Captain! I... I take full responsibility! He is my mentor! I could not stop him!"
"Stand up," Thane ordered, his voice lacking any anger. It was just empty.
Mat stood, shaking.
"Remus has deserted," Thane said, closing his book and placing it on the table. "He has disobeyed a direct order during a wartime operation. That is punishable by death. However..."
Thane stood up and walked to the window, looking out toward the dark, twisted silhouette of the Marsh Forest.
"That explosion," Thane mused. "That was not our enemy's affinity. That was Iron Awen essence. A specific signature. High velocity. Kinetic bombardment. It seems we are not the only ones hunting in the woods tonight, judging by the impact it's someone really powerful."
He turned back to Mat.
"I knew Remus would leave the moment he walked out of this tent. I allowed it."
Mat blinked, stunned. 'You... allowed it? But... why?'
Thane said, a cruel glint appearing in his eyes, "if there is something in that forest powerful enough to cause that explosion, Norvin is already dead. And if Remus runs into it... well, I am curious to see if a Fragment Cipher can survive."
Thane walked back to his table and poured another glass of wine.
"Keep your secret, Mat. Tell the men Remus is sick. Let us see if he returns. If he does, I will execute him myself. If he does not... then the forest has saved me the trouble."
Thane took a sip, his gaze piercing through Mat.
"Now, get out of my sight. And Mat? If you ever lie to me again, I will pull your tongue out through your throat."
"Yes, Lord Captain," Mat whispered.
Thane looked out of the window with a distant gaze.
'Besides, It isn't like I left the boy all alone.'
Mat backed out of the tent, his legs feeling like jelly. He had survived the encounter, his heart was still beating loudly as drums out of fear of Thane, but as he looked toward the dark forest, he realized the horror had only just begun.
Norvin stood in the center of the old barn, his childhood home, though it felt more like a tomb. Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying sunlight that pierced through the gaps in the wooden roof. In the corner, lying on a pallet of straw that had long since been flattened by the weight of a dying body, lay his grandfather.
The old man looked like a scarecrow abandoned in the winter. His skin was stretched tight over his skull, translucent and pale as parchment, his breathing a wet, rattling wheeze that filled the silence of the barn.
"Grandfather? How? …I see. I'm dead."
As Norvin looked at his grandfather, the realization washed over him. He wasn't left behind anymore; he was finally back with his family.
"Norvin," the old man rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm here, Grandfather," Norvin whispered, stepping closer. He was a child again, small and helpless.
The old man's hand, a claw of gnarled bone and sinew, shot out and gripped Norvin's wrist. The grip was shockingly strong, born of desperation.
"Look at us," his grandfather hissed, his eyes burning with a feverish, terrified intensity. "Look at this wretched place. We are born in the mud, boy. We toil in the mud. And we die in the mud."
"Grandfather, please, rest..."
"Rest?" The old man laughed, a dry, hacking sound that turned into a cough. "There is no rest for the weak, Norvin. There is only silence. Your father... your mother... they think endurance is a virtue. They think if they keep their heads down, the world will spare them. They are fools."
He pulled Norvin closer, his face inches away. Norvin could smell the decay on his breath.
"We are slaves, Norvin. Not only in chains, but also in spirit. We serve masters who do not know our names. We break our backs to build their castles, and they will step over our corpses without a second glance. Their wishes are commands; our wishes are dust."
The old man's eyes filled with tears, not of sadness, but of fury.
"I am dying, boy. I have lived a life of fear. I have swallowed my pride until it choked me. Do not be like me. Do not let your soul rot in a barn while the world spins on without you."
"What do I do?" Norvin cried, the tears spilling down his cheeks.
"Run," his grandfather commanded, his voice rising. "Grow. Proceed. Learn the blade. Learn the energy that surrounds us. Accumulate Wealth. True Wealth. Gain power until the world has no choice but to listen when you speak. Improve yourself until you are no longer a man, but a force of nature."
The old man's grip tightened until it hurt.
"Make a name, Norvin. Do not be a nameless ghost. Die honourably, with a sword in your hand and the blood of your enemies on your boots. Strength... strength is everything that matters in this hell. Without it, you are nothing. With it, you are...you are….!"
The old man gasped, his eyes rolling back. The barn began to dissolve, the wooden walls melting into darkness, the smell of hay replaced by the stench of damp stone and urine.
"Grandfather!" Norvin screamed, reaching out.
But the hand holding him turned to smoke.
Norvin gasped, his eyes snapping open.
Norvin tried to sit up, but a sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs forced him back down with a groan. His body felt like it had been trampled by a horse.
He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his vision. He wasn't in the barn. He wasn't in the Marsh Forest.
He couldn't quite fathom his surroundings. He found himself inside a small, dark cell. The walls were constructed of damp, uneven red bricks, and the entire area was covered in a layer of grimy dirt and dust, a sign of poor maintenance.
He was inside a cage, more like a prison cell than a holding room. The only source of light was the flickering torchlight burning outside the cells, lined up along both sides of the narrow hall, casting dancing shadows across the rough walls.
"So... you are finally wake."
The voice was soft, feminine, and laced with a heavy sorrow.
Norvin flinched, instinctively reaching for the axe that was no longer at his belt. He looked around the cramped cell.
"Show yourself," he croaked, his voice a ruined rasp.
The air in the corner of the cell shimmered. Red mist curled up from the dirty straw, coalescing rapidly into the familiar, faceless female figure of the Red Ghost. She floated cross-legged in the air, but her usual playful demeanor was gone. Her shoulders were slumped, and the red light of her form was dim, pulsing weakly.
"I am here, Norvin," she whispered.
"You..." Norvin rubbed his temples, the memory of the fight with Cahir Merlin crashing back into his mind. The crushing weight. The broken ribs. The invasion of his soul. "What happened? I tried... I tried to let you in. I said yes."
"I know," the Red Ghost replied, her voice filled with a genuine apology. She drifted closer, hovering just outside the reach of his hand. "I tried to take the reins. I tried to pull your consciousness back and unleash my Awen to protect you. But I failed."
"Failed?" Norvin looked at her, confusion warring with anger. "You said you were powerful. You said you could help me!"
"I am powerful," she said, her tone defensive but brittle*. "But my strength is greatly diminished by these restrictions. The chains of my prison were forged not just to confine my body, but to suppress my power. And that man, Cahir Merlin... I would have fled, but then the Knights of the Bronze Falchion arrived. Amidst the chaos, I couldn't protect you."*
She lowered her head. "I watched them break you, Norvin. And I could do nothing but scream from the other side of the veil. For that, I am truly sorry."
Norvin stared at her. He wanted to scream at her, to blame her for his capture, but the heaviness in her voice stopped him. She sounded as defeated as he felt.
"Where are we?" Norvin asked, resting his head against the damp brick wall.
"The Obsidian Tower," she answered quietly. "We are in the prisons in the lowest floors, under the earth. You have been unconscious for eighteen hours."
"Eighteen hours..." Norvin squeezed his eyes shut. The mission was over. By now, the attack had likely already happened—or been called off. He had failed Mat. He had failed Remus.
'Die honourably', his grandfather's voice echoed in his mind. 'Make a name.'
"Well," Norvin muttered, a bitter smile touching his cracked lips. "At least I didn't die in the mud."
"Not yet," a deep, masculine voice boomed from the other side of the bars.