The ride to Heartwood took only twenty minutes, but the silence between Ser Willam Corbray and Tiber was heavy. The morning sun burned through the clouds, casting a golden light over the trees and hills, but there was no beauty in what lay ahead. As they crested a hill, the village of Heartwood came into view—and both men reined in hard.
Heartwood was gone.
The small village had been razed to the ground. Blackened skeletons of cottages stood like twisted fingers clawing at the sky. Ash blew in the wind. Smoke still rose from some collapsed homes, and the stench of burned flesh clung to the earth like a curse. Ser Willam dismounted slowly, his jaw tight.
"By the Seven..." he muttered. "Who could've done this?"
Tiber said nothing. He simply followed on pebbles, hand on the hilt of his sword.
They picked through the ruin, finding bodies—charred, hacked, bloated. Then they heard something. Movement. Voices.
Behind a half-collapsed stable, a group of ragged men were sifting through corpses, stripping rings, boots, and anything they could sell. Petty thieves. Scavengers.
Ser Willam stepped forward, his voice thunderous.
"Thieves. Stand where you are."
The looters turned, startled. When they saw the three black ravens on William's tabard—the mark of House Corbray—they broke and ran like rats in the dark.
"Cowards!" Ser William roared, charging forward. His sword was out in a flash.
Within moments, Ser Willam had one of them by the collar and slammed him hard against a burnt-out beam.
"You kill and burn people? Is this your work?" he snarled.
The man, filthy and shaking, cried out, "No, no m'lord! We found it this way, we swear! We didn't burn it!"
"Then who did?" Ser William's voice was ice.
"I don't know names!" the man sobbed. "But it was a large band. Over twenty, maybe thirty. All armed. One of them wore armour finer than a knight's. He had a tabard... like yours, but the colours were wrong. Inverted."
Ser William's grip tightened. "Inverted?"
"Yes! white ravens on black. And he had... he had only one eye. I saw it, I swear it."
Ser William's face went pale. For a moment, he was still as stone—then, with a roar, he slammed his gauntlet into the thief's jaw, knocking him out cold.
"Gods damn him," Willam whispered. "I know who that is."
"Who?" Tiber asked.
"My uncle. Ser Rennifer Corbray. Thought dead ten years ago. He fought in the Stepstones and disappeared. We all thought him lost..."
Tiber didn't have time to ask more before Ser Willam hauled the thief onto his horse.
"I ride for Heart's Home," he said. "To raise more men. You stay and begin digging graves. These people deserve better than this."
Tiber gave a solemn nod.
Alone in the dead village, Tiber found a spade beneath a ruined barn. The ground was hard, dry, and stony. Each grave was a struggle. Sweat poured down his face, and his injured leg throbbed beneath his armor, but he kept going.
Five graves. Then seven.
The sky had darkened when the thunder of hooves returned. Ser Willam was back—alongside twenty House Corbray men-at-arms and several knights. One of the men dismounted and handed Tiber a waterskin.
"You've done more than most would," William said quietly.
"Thank you."
They dug until dusk. The wind blew ash across the fields. The smell of death was everywhere.
"What happened to the thief?" Tiber asked as they filled the final grave.
"I cut his hands off," Ser Willam said, not even looking up. "For looting the dead. Let him live, so others remember."
Tiber bit back his thoughts. Too harsh, he thought. But he said nothing.
When the graves were filled, William clapped Tiber on the shoulder. "You've done enough. Now you track."
Tiber was sent out with Ser Robar, a lean knight with cruel eyes. They followed a faint trail of blood through the trees. Robar sneered often, muttering slurs about bastards and hedge knights.
Tiber ignored him, though his knuckles were white on his sword hilt.
They found the trail led to three men—one wounded, two standing guard. Robar didn't wait. He rode straight at them with a roar, swinging his sword.
"Fool," Tiber muttered, drawing his own steel.
The fight was brief but vicious. Tiber parried a sword, ducked low, and drove his blade through one man's belly. Blood sprayed across his face. Robar cut down another.
The wounded man dropped his weapon and begged for mercy. "We... we camped in an old keep... Heartree..."
Robar plunged his sword into the man's throat before he could say more.
Then—voices. Crashing in the brush. More bandits.
"Run!" Tiber shouted.
But instead, he felt white-hot pain. Robar's sword stabbed through the back of his thigh, clean through the muscle.
Tiber screamed, falling. "Coward!"
Robar was already gone.
The bandits charged. Tiber clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and drew Twilight.
The Valyrian steel shimmered in the light.
The first bandit lunged—Tiber sidestepped and took his arm off at the elbow. Blood arced through the air.
Another came from the right—Tiber turned, blade flashing, slicing through leather, mail, and bone. The man screamed, gurgled, and dropped.
A third—Tiber ducked and rammed his sword up beneath the man's jaw, splitting his skull in half.
He didn't feel like a knight. He felt like a demon.
The world blurred. Pain in his leg. More men coming.
Then—horns.
Ser William. The knights of House Corbray thundered in, smashing into the bandits with fury. Tiber dropped to his knees, breathing hard.
When it was over, William rode to him, shocked.
"How are you alive?"
Tiber pointed his bloodied blade at Ser Robar.
"He stabbed me. Left me to die."
Robar, covered in gore, shrugged. "He was doomed. I didn't want to die too."
Tiber roared, lunging toward him.
Ser Willam held him back. "Enough!"
"I want his head!"
"You'll have none of it," William snapped. "He's a knight of my house. You're just a hedge knight."
The words struck like stones. Tiber said nothing, but inside, something burned.
"I need a bandage," he said coldly.
William nodded. "We ride for Heart's Home. And then... we ride for Heartree."
The ride back was quiet. Pebbles carried him steadily, despite the wound. The wind felt colder. Tiber looked down at his steel sword, then at Twilight, now sheathed.
He would only use it when it mattered.
The real battle hadn't even begun.