The silence between them was as thick as the gloom that filled the house. The wavering flame of the oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the scribe's face—a man in his middle years, thin-bearded and small-eyed, more accustomed to dealing with ink and parchment than with armed intruders.
Rael, still crouched beside the table where the papers lay scattered, did not speak a word. His eyes, cold and intense, were locked onto the man with such force it was as though he were stripping him to the soul. Instinctively, the scribe stepped back.
"Who... who are you?" he whispered, more to himself than to the stranger.
At first, his thoughts leaned toward the obvious—a common thief, perhaps from the woods, one of the many desperate souls who occasionally invaded the village in search of food or easy coin. But the way this man held himself—unmoving, breath measured, gaze unwavering—quickly revealed the error of that assumption.
This was no thief. He was something closer to a predator.
And then, he saw the sword. Even in the dim light, the metal seemed to pulse. It was no common blade. This was a weapon of war. Of blood.
The scribe's face drained of color. Fear seized him all at once. In a desperate impulse, he turned to flee, hoping to reach the door and cry for help—but he never made it past the second step.
With a subtle, utterly silent motion, Rael surged forward, crossing the short distance between them like a cutting shadow. In less than a second, the former prince's hand clamped over the man's mouth, the other gripping the sword's hilt—not drawn, but steady and firm.
The scribe was pinned against the wall, eyes wide with panic and disbelief.
"Don't scream," Rael whispered into his ear, voice hoarse but precise. "I only want answers."
The tension in the scribe's body remained, but slowly, he nodded—comprehending that this was far deeper than a simple robbery.
Rael eased back just enough to let the man breathe more freely. His eyes, though calmer now, still bore the weight of someone who had seen death—and returned to collect its debt.
The scribe gasped for air, still half-pinned to the wall. Rael released the pressure but stayed close, alert to the smallest motion.
"I want to know everything about the shipments passing through here. Tribute. Patrols. When the next visit from the Kingdom of Cronos's tax collectors will be."
The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the blade at Rael's side and the silent fury in his stare.
"T-the shipments come every week…" he began, trembling. "But the kingdom's collectors arrive with each full moon. They came through five days ago. They should return in less than twenty…"
Rael cut him off with a look.
"Exact date."
"Ten days," he answered quickly, as though the question itself were a blade against his throat. "Fifteen days from now, at dawn. They come with two large wagons and four riders. They collect the grain, the iron, and the raw gold from the southern mines. The village pays what it can. The rest… is taken by force."
Rael took in the information in silence. His eyes wandered over the small room—the pile of crumpled newspapers in the corner, the dust-covered shelves. There was more he needed to know.
"And what about shipments directly from the capital?" he asked. "Warhorses. Military movement. Names. Routes. Messages."
The scribe hesitated, lowering his gaze.
"I don't know about that. I just write and sell the news brought by the riders. Public reports. Gossip. If you're looking for anything more... specific…"
Rael leaned in slightly—just enough for the man to feel the heat of his breath.
"Speak."
"You'll need to talk to the mayor. He's the one who receives the officials. He keeps the records… He knows everything that comes in and out of this village."
Rael remained silent for a moment. Then, he stepped back.
"His name. And where he lives."
"H-his name is Harlon. He lives in the large stone house on the central square, right next to the bell tower. You'll know it by the kingdom's banner hanging over the gate."
Rael nodded, slowly turning his body toward the window through which he had entered.
As he slipped through the opening once more, ready to vanish into the receding shadows at the edge of the horizon, the scribe's voice reached him—low, but carrying something more than fear. There was a thread of plea in it.
"Wait… please."
Rael stopped. His silhouette barely stood out against the frame of the open window. The scribe stepped closer, cautiously, as if approaching a wild beast.
"T-there's something… something you need to know. About the mayor. Harlon."
Rael tilted his head slightly—just enough to show he was listening.
"He's corrupt," the old man whispered. "But not only that. He's cruel. A tyrant hiding behind the smile he wears for the royal collectors. He rules this village as if it were his own petty kingdom. No one dares to defy him without paying dearly. He's had the hands of debtors cut off. Made mothers disappear for complaining their children went hungry. And they say… they say he keeps the village guard under a crooked arrangement, using them like his own pack of hunting dogs."
Silence followed, thick as smoke.
"And what is it you want from this?" Rael asked, still without turning back.
"I want you to kill him."
Vengeance.
Rael felt his chest tighten, and the sword at his back trembled with a subtle excitement. At last, the young man looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed—not in surprise, but with the hardness of someone who had already witnessed worse horrors.
The scribe shrank back, resigned.
"If anyone finds out I spoke with you," he murmured, "I'll know who talked."
And just like that, he vanished into the dark—like a shadow dissolved in air.
The sky was beginning to pale. The first faint strokes of sunlight brushed the clouds as a cold breeze whispered through the tall grass. Rael crossed the silent fields and returned to his refuge by the river. He sat once again beneath the same tree where he had awakened, his body still aching, his spirit still heavy.
It would not be long before Lyara returned. Until then, he would rest.
The sun had barely risen when Lyara awoke to the crowing of a distant rooster. The inside of the house was cold and dark, but she knew the routine by heart: sweep the floor, light the fire, prepare the water and breakfast. She moved silently through the tiny kitchen, bare feet gliding over the wooden boards as the first shafts of light filtered through the cracks in the window.
She was finishing setting the table when heavy steps descended from the upstairs room. The sour scent of old wine arrived before the mayor—her stepfather. A heavyset man with an unkempt beard and eyes perpetually half-lidded, even when sober. But that morning, he wasn't.
"Bring water. Now." His voice was slurred, his face creased with sleep as he rubbed it roughly.
Lyara hurried, took the clay jug, and brought it to him. But as she extended it, his hand came down like lightning. The slap cracked the air with brutal clarity, sending her tumbling onto the bench nearby, the jug toppling, spilling water across the floor.
"Too slow…" he muttered, as if justifying the blow to himself. "Always been slow."
Pain flared across her cheek, her eyes welling with tears—but she didn't cry. Not in front of him. With trembling fingers, she reached up and touched the swelling skin. A bruise was already forming.
"Cover that up. I don't want gossip spreading through the village," he said, staggering back toward the seat he barely left. "And clean up that mess before you leave."
Lyara nodded, barely breathing. Once he had turned away, she took a clean cloth, dampened it with what little water remained, and pressed it to her face. She wrapped another cloth around her head, hiding the mark. Then, without a word, she wiped the floor in silence, eyes downcast, heart tight, throat closed.
Without being noticed, she hid a piece of bread, a slice of cheese, and a few fruits in a cloth tied with a simple knot. She tucked it all into a small bag and slipped out the back door with quick steps, never once looking back.
The path to the river was calm. Dew still shimmered on the leaves, and the birdsong brought a kind of relief she only felt when she was far from home. When she saw the tree where Rael rested, Lyara's heart warmed, even as the sting in her cheek remained fresh.
The soft rustle of leaves underfoot announced her presence. She approached slowly, her steps so light they barely disturbed the morning stillness. With the sun still shy behind the clouds, she knelt beside the tree where Rael lay. Carefully, she untied the cloth bundle she carried—the same bundle that held the simple meal she had prepared.
With care, she removed the contents of the bundle and placed them gently atop a nearby stone. Then, just as she began to step away in silence, a low, hoarse voice stopped her.
"Lyara… that's your name, isn't it?"
She froze.
"I heard someone call you that… last time."
Rael had opened his eyes. His gaze was still heavy with sleep, but alert. He looked at her with a serene expression, his hardened features—etched with the faint scar that crossed his face—softened by a rare honesty.
"Thank you for the food," he said, lifting his head slightly to glance at the small offering.
Lyara tried to smile, but the effort faltered on her lips. A tremor betrayed her, and before she could stop them, tears welled in her eyes, burning hot. She turned her face away, ashamed, and instinctively stepped back.
"Are you crying?" Rael rose slowly and reached out, catching her gently by the wrist.
She shook her head, but as she turned to face him, the morning light revealed the bruise forming beneath her scarf—faintly purple, swelling under the skin.
Rael's brow furrowed.
"Who did this? Was it me? When you touched me before?"
He already feared the answer. During his restless sleep, the weight of his nightmares had often made him lash out unconsciously. Perhaps he had startled her, perhaps worse.
But Lyara's eyes widened in surprise, and her voice—choked though it was—answered quickly:
"No! It wasn't you… it's never been you."
Rael looked at her for a long moment, still holding her hand with a gentleness that belied the strength beneath. But Lyara soon pulled away, avoiding his gaze, rising to her feet.
"I'm sorry… I just… I need to go."
Before he could say anything, she had already turned and was running back toward the path that led to the village. The hurried rhythm of her steps and the fluttering scarf caught by the wind were all that remained for him to watch.
Rael did not follow, though he easily could have. He simply sat there, beneath the shade of the tree, watching her vanish into the woods. The girl's bruised face now lingered in his memory as vividly as the nightmares that plagued his every night.
Vengeance.
The sword whispered in his ear.