The instant the Church official comprehended the letter's damning contents, he lunged, fingers splayed like an eagle's talons, a desperate, furious attempt to seize the incriminating parchment.
Lothlan's wrist flicked, a movement so swift it was almost a blur. The letter, with a soft *whoosh*, was snatched back from the official's grasp. With another light, almost contemptuous tap of his fingertips, the paper settled, with an almost insolent neatness, back into his palm.
The composed, almost beatific smile returned to Lothlan's lips, as if the preceding, heart-stopping moment of naked, blade-point tension had never occurred.
"Mr. Mayor," he said, turning his head, his voice now laced with a deliberate, almost roguish, lackadaisical drawl, "what, pray tell, is your assessment of this… intriguing… matter?"
The mayor's face was a mask of purest, ashen terror. Beads of sweat, like miniature, glistening pearls, rolled down his forehead. His eyes, wide and panicked, darted frantically between the Church official and the knight, a trapped animal seeking an impossible escape. On one hand, the unassailable, monolithic power of the Church. On the other, these formidable, unpredictable White Dragon Knights. And then there was his own precarious position, his sworn duty as mayor. Offending either faction was unthinkable; the consequences, dire. Yet, the accusation of child trafficking… it was a crime of such monstrous proportions. If he feigned ignorance, if he remained silent, the simmering rage of the townspeople would, sooner or later, inevitably, devastatingly, boil over and consume him.
"I… I am certain…" he stammered, swallowing convulsively, his voice still thick with an ingrained, sycophantic deference, "that the Holy Church will, of course, be able to provide a perfectly… reasonable explanation. And that the children will be returned, unharmed, to their loving families. There must be… there simply *must* be… some unfortunate misunderstanding in all of this."
The Church emissary's face was a thundercloud, dark and furious, his lips working, twitching, as if struggling to form words. But he knew. He had lost. Any further protest, any denial, would be futile. He merely seared Lothlan's smiling, unruffled face into his memory, a silent vow of future retribution.
As Silas slipped, unseen, down the servants' stairs, he spotted Mao Hai huddled in a shadowed corner of the main hall. The old merchant was wringing his hands, his gaze fixed with a desperate, almost childlike eagerness on the seething, ecstatic throng of people still clamoring outside the main doors. There were simply too many of them; he was clearly, wisely, waiting for the crowd to thin before attempting to brave the exit.
"Mao Hai," Silas called, his voice a low, urgent whisper.
Mao Hai whirled, his eyes widening in startled recognition. The next instant, he had rushed forward, enfolding Silas in a surprisingly strong, almost suffocating embrace, his arms inadvertently pressing hard against Silas's still-tender, bandaged wounds. "Thank the gods! You're alive! If anything… anything had happened to you… I would never have forgiven myself—"
"Alright, alright," Silas grunted, wincing as he gently but firmly disengaged himself from the old man's grasp, pointing a reproving finger at his own blood-soaked bandages. "First, perhaps you'd care to explain what possessed you to go gallivanting off to the Purity Army's camp all by your lonesome. Push any harder, old man, and I might just expire on the spot, right here for your viewing pleasure."
Mao Hai, sheepish, released his hold, then a look of dawning confusion spread across his face. "Wait a moment. How did *you* know I went to the Purity Army camp?"
Silas offered no answer, merely took Mao Hai's arm, steering him towards a less conspicuous side door. The guards stationed there, recognizing Silas from his earlier, dramatic entrance, and perhaps Lothlan by association, wisely, deferentially, stepped aside. The two of them slipped out, hugging the shadows of the wall, circling around to a narrow, refuse-strewn alleyway that ran alongside the main entrance. Mao Hai's gaze, full of a worried, paternal concern, was fixed on Silas's bloodstained tunic. Without a word, he grabbed Silas's arm again. "Your wounds… they've clearly worsened. They must be attended to at once! The town physician… I know him well—"
*Creak…* The heavy main doors of the town hall suddenly, dramatically, swung open.
A tsunami of cheers, a deafening, visceral roar of adulation, erupted from the assembled crowd. Lothlan, a figure of radiant, almost blinding white, strode out first, a conquering hero returned. Trailing in his wake were the Church emissary, his face a rigid, frozen mask of barely suppressed fury, and the mayor, his smile a strained, unconvincing rictus of forced joviality. Sunlight, brilliant and unforgiving, glinted off Lothlan's polished white armor, making Silas squint. He had, Silas noted with a flicker of grim amusement, replaced his helmet, effectively concealing his now-famous eggplant-hued nose. He raised a gauntleted hand, a regal gesture, calling for silence.
"Good people of Sordin!" Lothlan's voice, clear and commanding, boomed across the square. "The Purity Army, those vile despoilers of your peace, have been utterly, decisively, annihilated! And this glorious victory—" he turned, with a flourish, gesturing magnanimously towards the stony-faced Church emissary, "—is owed entirely to the unerring guidance and divine protection of the Holy Church! It was *they* who, from afar, issued the sacred directives. It was *they* who, with unwavering resolve, insisted that justice be served, that you, the devout and faithful, receive a full and satisfactory accounting!"
A collective gasp of awe, of dawning, reverent understanding, swept through the crowd. The Church emissary, after a momentary, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise, drew himself up to his full height, the sinister, predatory cast of his features instantly, miraculously, transforming into an expression of profound, benevolent compassion. He stepped forward, his hands extended in a gesture of universal blessing, as if he were, indeed, a conduit of divine grace.
Lothlan continued, his voice ringing with conviction, "As for your abducted children… you need not fear! The great and merciful Church was, from the very outset, fully apprised of their unfortunate plight. They are, even as we speak, receiving the finest care and treatment at a secure Church facility, and will, I assure you, be returned to your loving arms in the very near future!"
"Long live the Church! Long live the White Dragon Knights!" Old Tom, his voice a raw, broken howl of pure, unadulterated joy, collapsed to his knees, murky, grateful tears streaming down his weathered face. Other townspeople surged forward, their voices joining his in a thunderous chorus of adulation. Some, in their ecstatic fervor, even lit celebratory torches, sparks, like miniature, joyful fireworks, arcing and sputtering in the afternoon sun.
The Church emissary stood at the very forefront of the impromptu stage, basking in the warm, intoxicating glow of the crowd's adoration. Even the silver inquisitor's insignia on his somber robe seemed, in that moment, to gleam with an almost unholy, borrowed sanctity. Lothlan's gaze, however, sharp and penetrating, passed over the clamoring, adoring throngs, locking, with an unnerving, unerring precision, onto Silas, who still lurked at the shadowed entrance of the nearby alleyway.
He inclined his head, a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod. Acknowledgment. Perhaps even… a silent challenge?
Silas twitched the corner of his own mouth, a wry, almost cynical half-smile—his only reply. Then, he grabbed the still-gaping, bewildered Mao Hai by the arm and, without a backward glance, turned and melted back into the shifting, anonymous depths of the crowd.
The clinic, predictably, still reeked of pungent, eye-watering medicinal potions.
"You again?" The wizened apothecary pinched his nose, his expression a mixture of resignation and long-suffering exasperation, as he deftly, if unceremoniously, plied his needle and thread through Silas's torn flesh. "Are you two related, by some misfortune? Mao Hai, you simply *must* prevail upon this… *nephew*… of yours to exercise a modicum of self-preservation. Just smell him! Has he been dallying in a dung pit, by some chance?"
"No. I haven't," Silas gritted out through clenched teeth, fighting back a groan as the needle bit deep.
"We're… from the same village, you see," Mao Hai interjected, his voice a stream of anxious, placating chatter. "He… he came here seeking refuge with me. Hehe. Little did I imagine so many… *unforeseen events*… would transpire." He turned to Silas, his tone now earnestly solicitous. "The wound mustn't get wet, mind you… And remember to change the dressing regularly… Perhaps… perhaps you should consider moving into town? For a while, at least?"
Silas, having endured the final, agonizing stitch, swayed precariously as he rose to his feet. Blood loss, coupled with a burgeoning fever, made his vision momentarily darken, the small, cluttered room swimming before his eyes. But he waved away Mao Hai's well-intentioned offer with a curt, dismissive gesture. "I'm leaving."
"Leaving? But where will you go? At the very least, stay for a meal. Today is a day for celebration, after all! Hey! Don't just walk out—"
Silas pushed open the clinic's rough wooden door without a backward glance. He had long, long ago grown accustomed to solitude. He had once… once, he had had many companions. But now…
Meritamon. No. 3. No. 8. Their smiling, beloved faces flickered, unbidden, before his mind's eye, the precious, stolen days they had shared feeling as vivid, as immediate, as if they had happened only yesterday. He shook his head, a sharp, violent movement, forcibly banishing their cherished images from his thoughts. A bitter, self-mocking smile twisted his lips. Perhaps… perhaps if one never truly possessed anything, one could never truly experience the agonizing, eviscerating pain of its loss.
The setting sun, a bleeding wound on the western horizon, stretched his solitary shadow long before him, a dark, silent finger pointing inexorably towards the brooding, silent forest.
The tattered tent was still pitched beneath the familiar, crooked-necked tree. But tonight, something was… different.
Scamp was rolling ecstatically on the ground, a prized strip of dried meat clutched triumphantly in his jaws, tossing it into the air and catching it with a playful, joyous exuberance. And on the rough-hewn tree stump that should have been empty, a figure in gleaming silver armor sat, a quiet, contemplative sentinel.
Lothlan had removed his helmet. His still-swollen, egregiously misshapen nose—now a rather spectacular shade of purplish-red—seemed to almost glow in the warm, dying embers of the sunset. His dark hair, freed from the confines of the helmet, was stirred into a gentle disarray by the cool evening breeze. He was casually tossing an apple from hand to hand, occasionally making soft, playful feints towards Scamp. As he registered Silas's approach, he looked up, a slow, knowing smile touching his lips.
"Nose feeling any better?" Silas asked, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, as he stopped a good three meters away, arms crossed over his chest.
Lothlan gingerly touched his discolored, tender nasal bridge. "Thanks to your… *attentions*… it's on the mend. And you? You, my friend, do not look particularly… hale."
Scamp, with a distinct lack of tact or timing, bounded over, nuzzling enthusiastically against Silas's leg, his tail a veritable windmill of unrestrained canine affection. Silas aimed a half-hearted, admonishing kick in the wolf's direction. "Traitor."
"Come with me," Lothlan said, his voice suddenly serious, the earlier levity gone. "I have a physician in my retinue, a master of his craft. Your… minor injuries… he can have them fully healed within a fortnight."
Silas remained silent for a long moment. "And if I say no?"
"I—" Lothlan paused, then continued, his voice now carrying a surprising sincerity, "I will, of course, respect your choice. But I need you to understand. I am not seeking a mere underling, a common soldier." He rose to his feet, the core of the apple he'd been eating arcing gracefully through the air to land squarely in the waiting jaws of a smaller, more timid wolf that had been lurking nearby. "I am seeking a comrade-in-arms. A kindred spirit. Someone…" Lothlan paused again, as if searching for the precise, elusive word, "…someone who shares my ideals."
The night wind whispered through the high branches, a mournful, sighing counterpoint to the long, ululating howls of the wolf pack in the distant, unseen depths of the forest.
Silas's face was a mask of shadow, obscured by the deepening twilight. His voice, when he finally spoke, seemed to emanate from some distant, unreachable place: "And what, pray tell, do you imagine my ideals to be?"
"To change this world," Lothlan said, his gaze locking with Silas's, unwavering, intense, as if the future, in all its intricate, predetermined detail, were already laid bare before him. "You will change this world. With me."