Aric Vale
We reached the second murder site late the next afternoon. Another ravine, deeper this time, with a stream running through it. The body lay half in the water, preserved by cold.
Two weeks dead instead of three months. Fresh enough to see details that decay had destroyed in the first victim.
I dismounted, hands still bound. Garrett cut the rope after a long pause, but kept his sword drawn. "Stay where we can see you."
"Not planning to run." Where would I run to?
The descent was steep. Loose rocks, slippery with moss. I went slowly, aware of soldiers behind me, aware that one wrong move might look like escape.
The smell was worse than the first site. Fresher death, not yet rotted to bone. I breathed through my mouth and approached.
Female. Mid-thirties, maybe. Royal courier by her uniform, leather riding gear, insignia on her shoulder. Her horse was probably long gone, spooked and running.
The wounds were identical to the first victim. Four parallel cuts to the throat, deep and precise. Claw marks across the torso. And there, burned into her abdomen…
The Mark of the Vale.
Still warm. Faintly glowing with residual heat.
I knelt beside her, forcing myself to look at every detail.
Her hands showed defensive wounds. Broken fingers on the right hand where she'd tried to block. Cuts on her palms where she'd grabbed at her attacker's weapon. She'd fought hard. Died fighting.
"Do you know her?" Captain Lyons asked.
I studied her face. Features bloated from time in water, but bone structure visible. Something familiar about the cheekbones, the jawline.
"Maybe." Then it hit me. "She was at the palace. Seven years ago, around when Dorian died. Junior courier, just promoted. She delivered messages to the border patrol."
"You remember that?" Garrett sounded surprised.
"I remember everything before the curse. It's after that night that it's foggy." I stood, looked around. "What was she doing here? Couriers use main roads, not backwater routes."
"Special assignment according to reports," Lyons said. "Delivering sealed documents to a garrison commander near the Wastes border."
"What documents?"
"Classified. Even we don't know."
I moved to examine the area around the body. Footprints are mostly washed away by streams. Signs of struggle, disturbed rocks, broken branches. And there, caught on a thorn bush…
Fabric. Dark cloth, heavy weave.
The same kind used for military cloaks.
I reached for it carefully, pulled it free. Hold it up to light.
Silver hair was caught in the weave.
My silver hair.
The world went still. I could hear my heartbeat, too loud in silence. Could feel soldiers shifting behind me, hands going to weapons.
"It's not what it looks like," I started, then stopped. Because what else could it look like? A dead woman, my mark burned into her flesh, my hair caught in fabric at the scene.
"Then what is it?" Captain Lyons' voice was cold. Professional. Preparing to make an arrest.
"I don't know." I turned to face them, hands open and empty. "I don't remember being here. Don't remember killing her. But this…." I held up the fabric, "this suggests I was."
"Or someone who looks like you," Garrett said quietly.
"Who else has silver hair and knows my mark perfectly?" I gestured at the burned symbol. "That's not just the public version. That's exact, including signature details I never told anyone. Only I could create that."
"So you're admitting it," Lyons said. Sword half-drawn now.
"I'm admitting I might have done this without remembering. That's not the same as admitting I chose to." I met his eyes. "There's a difference between action and intent. Between being a weapon and being a murderer."
"Try telling that to her family," Thomas muttered.
He wasn't wrong.
I looked back at the courier's body. I tried to imagine myself doing this. I tried to feel the memory of it.
Nothing. Just blank emptiness where memory should be.
But evidence said I'd been here. Said I'd done this.
And somewhere in my head, that presence stirred.
The pain hit suddenly. Worse than before, like spikes through my eyes. I fell to my knees, gasping.
"Aric!" Garrett was beside me instantly.
But I couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Because my vision was splitting again, doubling, and this time it lasted longer.
I saw through my own eyes, the ravine, the body, Garrett's concerned face.
And I saw through other eyes, standing on the ridge above, looking down at myself kneeling beside my victim.
Looking down with satisfaction and contempt.
Pathetic, a voice said in my head. My voice, but not. Still pretending you don't know. Still playing innocent.
"Who are you?" I gasped out loud.
Who do you think? I'm you, brother. The part you buried. The part you've been denying for seven years.
The double vision intensified. I could feel myself in two places, kneeling in the ravine and standing on the ridge. Two perspectives, two positions, one consciousness splitting between them.
"Aric, what's happening?" Garrett's voice sounded distant.
Tell him, my other voice said. *Tell him you remember now. Tell him what you did to her.
And suddenly, I did remember.
Fragments flashing through my mind:
Running through darkness. The courier ahead, terrified, her horse thrown. She was reaching for something—a letter, sealed with red wax. Trying to destroy it before I caught her.
Too slow. I was on her in seconds, striking fast and precise. Not rage. Necessity.
"You were there," she gasped, blood on her lips. "You saw what she did—"
But I didn't let her finish. Couldn't. Because she knew. She'd been there seven years ago, had seen something, had kept silent.
Had been part of it.
Justice, not murder. Punishment, not cruelty.
The mark burned into her flesh as I pressed my palm to her abdomen. Claiming the kill. Declaring the reason.
Then walking away, satisfied. Righteous. Whole.
The memory faded. I was back in the ravine, kneeling, gasping. Garrett was shaking my shoulder, calling my name.
"I remember," I whispered. "I remember killing her."
Silence. Absolute, terrible silence.
"When?" Garrett asked quietly.
"Two weeks ago. At night. I walked out of Blackwatch while sleeping. I traveled here somehow. Found her. Killed her."
"Why?"
"She was there. Seven years ago, the night Dorian died. She saw something. Knew something." I looked up at Garrett. "She was part of it. Part of whatever happened."
"Part of what?" Captain Lyons demanded.
"I don't know!" Frustration exploded. "I remember killing her but not why! I remember thinking she deserved it but not what she did! It's all fragments that don't connect!"
I stood, staggering. My head is still splitting, the presence stirring restlessly.
*Getting closer to the truth now. Keep going. See the rest.*
"There are more murders," I said. "Fifteen more between the first and this one. Were they all connected to that night? Were they all there?"
Garrett and Lyons exchanged glances.
"We don't know," Garrett admitted. "We haven't traced all the connections yet. But.."
"But some were," I finished. "Some were on that border patrol. Some were at the palace. Some knew things they shouldn't."
More silence. Answer enough.
I climbed out of the ravine, not waiting for permission. Soldiers followed, tense. At the top, I turned.
"I'm not running. Not fighting. But I need to see all of it. All the sites, all the victims. I need to understand the pattern."
"So you can kill more efficiently?" Lyons asked bitterly.
"So I can stop," I said quietly. "Whatever's doing this—whatever's using me—I need to understand before I can fight it. Right now, I don't even know what I'm fighting."
"You're fighting yourself," Thomas said.
Was I? I looked at my hands, at my silver hair, at my shadow stretched long in the afternoon sun.
The shadow seemed wrong somehow. Too dark. Moving slightly out of sync.
I blinked, focused. Shadow was normal again.
But I'd seen it. For just a second, moving independently.
"Maybe I am fighting myself," I said. "But which self? The one standing here trying to understand, or the one that walked out of Blackwatch and killed seventeen people?"
No one had an answer.