The march back to Brackith was one of mournful silence. Joseph Chastain had taken charge of the army, and despite the low morale, his orders were met with no resistance.

He understood now what Ghislain had seen in the marquis. When he had delivered the corpse to him, Joseph had wept for a few minutes before standing up and wiping away his tears. Although his eyes were still red from crying, he called his officers together and delivered the news.

Now, the marquis’ face held no sign of grief. Instead, with his jaw clenched and his eyes as sharp as his sword’s blade, he had a look of determination. The type of man who didn’t fold to grief, but instead is tempered by it, Roel thought.

To his surprise, it was Rados who showed a more obvious reaction to the prince’s death. There was a wide frown on his face as he marched alongside his unit, a group of a few hundred Northern men who all wore chainmail vests. Roel considered starting a conversation with him but quickly gave up on the idea. He was probably the person Rados least wanted to talk to at the moment.

They arrived at Stuhhofen, a large commercial city in Brackith with a population of twenty thousand, earlier than expected. It was evening, but there was still light in the sky, a waning purple. The guards greeted them with jubilance; they had not been informed of the prince’s death. Joseph pulled them aside and quietly talked to them for a moment. When the guards returned to open the city gates for the army, their joyful expressions had become somber ones.

The news was spreading quickly, and it was a tangible spread. At first, the army was met with cheers and excited shouts, but that fanfare died out and turned into a hushed silence as they continued into the city.

When they reached the city square, Joseph stopped the troops, gave a quick speech thanking them for their service, and dismissed the army. In the morning, the soldiers would reconvene and receive their contracted payment, a measly sum in exchange for risking their lives. Until then, they’d find inns and taverns or just camp outside the city if they couldn’t afford it.

Roel decided to stay in the city for a few days. Ordinarily, he’d send a missive to the palace to give them the details and results, but the king had wanted him to give an in-person report for a mission of this scale.

However, Lady Cleo, who he hadn’t seen since the attack on the camp, was probably already on her way back. They wouldn’t need his report right away. Besides, he was exhausted. He found a small inn located at the end of an alleyway, paid for three nights upfront, and fell asleep the moment he relaxed into the straw mattress.

His sleep, though, was restless and he woke up a few hours later, his exhaustion unabated. Unable to fall back asleep, he walked downstairs and was unsurprised to see that the tables were filled with soldiers. They spoke in quiet murmurs, and he didn’t have to eavesdrop to figure out the subject of their conversations.

“They say the heretics are like animals,” someone was saying. Roel saw that it was the soldier who had led the search party, Jehan. “That’s how they got the wolves to appear. They can talk to them, get them to do their bidding.”

That was the power of a good cover-up story. Just give a few specious details and they would run wild with it. And it didn’t seem like anyone had connected him to any of the events.

Some of the men did notice him though and called out to him, but he just turned them down with a small wave. The city was overflowing with soldiers, and it seemed that the only thing left to do was take a stroll outside of town to be alone.

However, as he was leaving, his eyes landed on a solitary figure sitting at the back of the room. The man had a bulky frame with a round face and wide nose, and he sat on a wooden stool, his back up against the wall and his fingers curled around a large glass of wine. It was Mateo, the guard who had first greeted him when he came to the camp.

He had honestly forgotten about the younger soldier, and he felt a strange sense of déjà vu as he walked over to him. “Mateo!” he said loudly over the din of the soldiers.

Mateo slowly looked up at him, and he noticed that the young man’s eyes were hazy as if looking at him through a fog. “Ah, Sir Roel.” He stood up to bow, but Roel stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you, Mateo? It’s good to see that you’re safe. Ah, but where’s your –” He stopped himself, realizing just as he was about to ask.

“It’s as you think,” Mateo said slowly. “He didn’t make it. Gilles.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” He kept quiet and studied the young soldier carefully. There were different ways that one dealt with grief. Some, like Joseph, embraced it quietly but wholeheartedly before carrying on. Others, the unfortunate ones who were unable to forgive themselves, let the grief linger and fester for years without saying a word. What he did and said next would depend on Mateo.

There was a long silence before Mateo said anything. “I can’t cry,” he said, his voice quivering. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I just can’t, and it’s so frustrating.”

“What happened?” he asked gently.

“He went to subjugate the prisoners once we learned that they’d escaped. They–a man with long blonde hair stabbed him through the chest. No one knows where they even got the weapons. My brother, my poor brother.” Mateo blinked several times, but there were no tears. “Why did the Lord let this happen? No, I know it’s not the Lord’s fault. I was supposed to be his older brother. I was supposed to protect him. That’s why I came along.”

“It’s not your fault,” Roel said, knowing full well that the words wouldn’t reach him. When had those words ever helped?

“And the worst part is…” His words became whispers, and Roel had to lean in to hear him. “The worst part is the relief. Oh, Lord, I feel so relieved. I feel so relieved because I kept expecting Gilles to die, and now that he’s dead, it feels like the worst of what I expected to happen has happened, and there’s nothing left for me to fear. I can’t believe I’m saying such a thing. What kind of horrible brother am I to promise to keep my younger brother safe while expecting–no, waiting for him to die?”

“You did what you could, didn’t you?”

Mateo didn’t say anything. Roel stood there for a few more minutes, but it seemed that he had nothing left to say. “I’ll be staying at this inn for at least three more nights,” he told him before he left. “You can talk to me anytime.”

“Thank you, Sir Roel,” he said, but his voice was lifeless and somehow Roel knew that this would be the last time that they would see each other.

Roel left the inn and continued walking until he was far enough from the city that all he saw was the dark dirt path that they had marched on and the quilt of stars unfolding above him. The hypocrisy of trying to comfort someone over a death that he had inadvertently caused hadn’t escaped him, and despite knowing that the guilt would eventually catch up to him, he tried to distract himself by thinking of other things.

In no particular order, his thoughts filled the empty air around him: it was getting cold again, those leaves on the ground looked like sage leaves, the stars weren’t so bright tonight, he was turning twenty-five by the end of the year, how did crickets make their chirping sounds and why did they feel such an egotistic need to make themselves known?

The breeze blew from behind him, and there was a slight but strange earthly smell in the air. “How long have you been following me?” he said as he turned around.

If it hadn’t been for the breeze, it would’ve been almost impossible for him to sense Lady Cleo who was in a dark cloak and far enough away from him to hide the sound of her footsteps. He could barely make out her expression, but she seemed to be startled that he had noticed her.

“I thought you went back to deliver your report,” he said. She bit her lip, her eyes wary. “So? What do you want from me?” he asked, and he was surprised to hear how his voice was strained from anger. “I would like to be alone right now.”

“I saw you,” she finally said.

“What?”

“I saw you prepare the fake corpse,” she said. “You let the prince live.”