The journey back to the Eastern Marches took three days of hard riding. They'd given Kaelen a broken-down nag and minimal supplies - enough to meet the letter of exile law, nothing more. The heretic's brand on his shoulder burned constantly, a reminder that would never fade.
He avoided settlements, keeping to forest paths and hunters' trails. The few travellers he encountered gave him wide berth, recognizing the mark of condemnation even from a distance. Word would spread quickly: Kaelen Dawnblade, the fallen knight, wandered the roads as living warning against defying the Church.
The Dawnblade estate appeared on the fourth dawn, or what remained of it. Smoke no longer rose from the ruins, but the acrid smell lingered. The great hall where his father had hosted countless feasts stood as blackened timber and collapsed stone. The tower where he'd learned swordplay with Aldric was a broken fang against the sky.
Kaelen dismounted at the gates - twisted metal that no longer barred anything. His family's heraldry, the silver sword crossed with dawn's first ray, lay shattered in the dirt. He picked up a piece, running fingers over familiar lines. His great-grandfather had designed that sigil after the Battle of Morgen's Field. Now it was just broken metal.
The main courtyard held worse horrors. Bodies still lay where they'd fallen, household staff who'd served the Dawnblades for generations. The autumn air had preserved them somewhat, but carrion birds had been at work. He recognized faces despite the damage: Thomas the stable master, who'd taught him to ride. Marie the cook, who'd snuck him pastries. Guards who'd stood watch through countless peaceful nights.
None had been armed. This wasn't battle but slaughter.
Inside the manor, systematic destruction replaced random violence. Every portrait slashed, every tapestry burned, every piece of furniture methodically broken. The Inquisitors had been thorough, erasing not just life but legacy. Three centuries of history reduced to ash and splinters.
But they'd been too thorough. Their determination to destroy everything revealed their fear that something might remain. Something that could prove the truth.
Kaelen searched methodically, remembering his father's habits. Lord Marcus had been a careful man who kept copies of important documents. Not in the obvious places, the study was gutted, the strongroom emptied. Somewhere else. Somewhere a son would know but strangers wouldn't.
The family crypt had been desecrated, tombs broken open in search of hidden treasures or dark artifacts. They'd even scattered the bones, mixing Dawnblade ancestors in macabre display. The insult burned, but Kaelen pushed past it. His father wouldn't hide anything here - too obvious, too sacred.
The wine cellar provided better prospects. Bottles lay smashed, their contents staining ancient stones purple-black. But behind the furthest rack, Kaelen found what he sought: a section of wall that looked solid but felt hollow. His fingers found the catch his father had shown him years ago, when he'd come of age to know family secrets.
The hidden niche held an iron box, unmarked and unremarkable. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay a leather journal. His father's hand, careful and precise, filled pages with dates, observations, transactions. Not the dramatic evidence of heresy the Council had manufactured, but something more dangerous: truth.
The entries went back years, documenting the Church's increasing demands. Tithes raised without explanation. New taxes justified by phantom threats. Young men conscripted for holy wars that never quite materialized. And underneath it all, a pattern. The eastern lords hadn't been randomly selected for destruction. They'd been the ones who'd questioned, who'd demanded accountability, who'd suggested that perhaps the Light's servants had grown too fond of earthly power.
One entry stood out, dated three months ago:
Met with Lords Blackmoor and Ravencrest as planned. They share my concerns about the new Doctrinal Amendments. The clause granting the Council emergency powers 'in times of spiritual crisis' is particularly troubling, as they alone determine when such crisis exists. Suggested we petition the High Assembly for clarification. Blackmoor fears this might be seen as defiance. He may be right. The new Grand Inquisitor has little tolerance for questions.
Note: Young Viktor Blackwood attended. Sharp mind, asks dangerous questions. Warned him to be careful. The Inquisition has eyes everywhere these days.
So, Viktor had been marked before marrying Lyanna. The whole family had been under suspicion, their destruction planned with cold efficiency. The marriage hadn't brought danger to Lyanna; she'd been doomed already, guilty of the crime of being a Dawnblade.
Kaelen tucked the journal inside his shirt. It proved nothing that would matter to the Council, but it confirmed what he'd suspected. This had never been about heresy or shadow cults. It was about power, control, and silencing opposition by any means necessary.
A glint of colour caught his eye: something bright against the cellar's gloom. In the corner where he'd often hidden as a child, playing the games all children play, lay a small wooden horse. Marcus's toy, the one he'd carved for his nephew last winter.
The memory hit like a physical blow. Marcus stumbling through snow, determined to see Uncle Kaelen. His delighted squeals when presented with the toy. The way he'd clutched it, declaring it the "best horse in the whole world" with three-year-old certainty.
Now that child lay dead, murdered by those who claimed to serve the Light. The toy remained, paint still bright, waiting for hands that would never hold it again.
Kaelen picked up the horse, noting how small it was. How had Marcus made it seem so large? Everything about him had been larger than life - his laughter, his curiosity, his absolute trust that the world was good and uncles would always keep him safe.
"I failed you," Kaelen whispered to the toy. "I'm sorry."
The horse stared back with painted eyes, accusing in its silence.
A sound from above. Footsteps on broken glass. Kaelen tensed, hand moving to the knife he'd been given. Looters, perhaps, come to pick over the ruins. Or worse, Inquisitors returning to ensure their work was complete.
He climbed the cellar stairs carefully, avoiding the ones that creaked. The footsteps continued, moving through what had been the great hall. Multiple sets, conversing in low voices. Not looters then; they'd be quieter, more furtive.
"...told you there's nothing left," one voice said. "They picked it clean weeks ago."
"Orders are orders," another replied. "Check everything again. The Grand Inquisitor wants to be certain."
Inquisitors. Come to verify their destruction was absolute. Kaelen considered his options. The sensible choice was to hide, wait for them to leave. But sensible choices had gotten his family killed while he played the obedient knight.
He emerged from the cellar silent as shadow, knife ready. Three men in the great hall, wearing the white tunics of junior inquisitors. Young, probably on their first assignment. They poked through rubble with the bored air of those completing tedious duty.
"Waste of time," the first one muttered. "Everyone knows the Dawnblades are finished. The knight's exiled, the lord's dead, the rest scattered or killed. What are we supposed to find?"
"Evidence," the second said mockingly. "Dark artifacts. Shadow cult paraphernalia. Whatever justifies what happened here."
"You question the Council's judgment?" The third sounded scandalized.
"I question whether we needed to kill the kitchen staff," the second replied. "That old woman they cut down in the courtyard. What heresy was she spreading? Secret recipes?"
Dissension in the ranks. Interesting. Not all who served the Inquisition were blind fanatics. Some still had consciences, troubled by what they'd seen.
Kaelen could have slipped away unnoticed. Should have. But the rage that had been building since Marcus's death demanded outlet. These men might not have wielded the blade, but they served those who had. They wore the uniform that had become synonymous with murdered children.
He moved before conscious thought completed. The first inquisitor died without a sound, knife finding the gap between neck and collar. The body dropped, arterial spray-painting broken stones.
The others spun, reaching for weapons. Too slow. The second managed half a cry before steel pierced his throat. He fell gurgling, hands clawing at the wound.
The third backed against the wall, sword clearing its sheath. "Heretic! Murderer!"
"Yes," Kaelen agreed, advancing steadily. "Both those things. Thanks to you."
The young inquisitor attacked with more courage than skill. Trained for ceremony and intimidation, not actual combat. Kaelen avoided the clumsy thrust, got inside the guard, drove his knife up under the ribs. The angle was perfect, finding the heart with surgical precision.
"Please," the dying man gasped. "I have... family..."
"So did I."
Kaelen held the inquisitor's gaze as life faded. Watched the exact moment when existence became extinction. Felt... nothing. No satisfaction, no regret. Just cold acknowledgment of necessity.
Three bodies now decorated his family's hall. Three fewer servants of corruption in the world. It wouldn't bring back Marcus or his father, wouldn't free Lyanna from her captivity. But it was a start.
He searched the corpses efficiently. Coins, travel papers, a dispatch marked with official seals. Orders to "verify complete destruction of heretical materials at the Dawnblade estate." Signed by Sub-Inquisitor Roderick. Another name for the list growing in Kaelen's mind.
The third inquisitor had carried something else: a small notebook filled with personal observations. Reading it revealed a young man struggling with doubts, recording atrocities that troubled his conscience. The kitchen staff he'd mentioned. Children killed in other raids. The systematic nature of the eastern purge.
The final entry was dated yesterday: Beginning to wonder if we serve the Light or merely those who claim to speak for it. Brother Marcus says such thoughts are heretical. But if protecting the faith requires us to murder innocents, what faith are we protecting?
Brother Marcus. Different from Kaelen's Marcus, but the name still twisted like a blade. This inquisitor had been questioning, on the verge of seeing truth. Now he'd never get the chance.
"You chose your side," Kaelen told the corpse. "Choose better in the next life."
He left the bodies where they lay. Let the Council find their servants slaughtered in the ruins they'd created. Let them wonder who had done it, whether the heretic knight had truly accepted exile or had become something more dangerous.
Outside, he retrieved the horse from the cellar, tucking it carefully in his pouch alongside his father's journal. Physical tokens of what he'd lost, what he fought for. The brand on his shoulder burned as he mounted the broken-down nag, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his chest.
The estate fell behind him, smoke beginning to rise from the great hall where he'd set fires to consume the bodies. By the time anyone investigated, evidence would be ash. They'd know only that their people had died badly.
At the estate's border, where ancient markers separated Dawnblade lands from the wider world, Kaelen paused. Tradition demanded he look back, acknowledge what he left behind. But that tradition belonged to the knight, and the knight was dead.
The man who rode on never looked back. Behind lay only ashes and failure. Ahead waited something else. Not redemption, that was for those who still believed in such concepts. But perhaps purpose. Perhaps power. Perhaps the means to make the guilty pay in kind for their crimes.
The toy horse in his pouch seemed to pulse with each hoofbeat. Marcus's laughter echoed in memory, growing fainter with distance but never quite fading. It would never fade. Kaelen would carry it forever, along with the screams of the dying and the weight of promises broken.
The eastern provinces stretched before him, seething with the same anger that burned in his chest. If the Council had created a heretic through their cruelty, perhaps he could create an army from their oppression. Not of knights or nobles, but of the broken and betrayed. Those who'd learned, as he had, that the Light's justice was a lie and only darkness offered truth.
The thought should have horrified the man he'd been. Now it only felt like destiny.
As the Dawnblade estate vanished behind hills, the last noble son of that ancient line disappeared with it. What rode toward uncertain future was something else: harder, darker, emptied of illusions. The Council had wanted a monster to justify their atrocities.
They were about to get one.