Rodric
Inside the Red Forest, near the villages of Ironfield, beneath a tree, Rodric was sitting. The tree was old—its bark rough and dark, its branches spreading wide like protective arms. Rodric sat with his back against the trunk, unlacing his boots slowly. His fingers worked the leather with the patience of exhaustion—pulling the laces free one by one, each movement deliberate, each movement costing him something. When the boots finally came off, he let out a long breath—not a sigh of relief, but something deeper, something closer to surrender. His chest fell. His shoulders dropped.
He looked at his feet. They were swollen—the skin stretched tight and red, the ankles puffed like overripe fruit. He rotated them slowly, wincing with each turn. His jaw tightened. His breath hissed through his teeth. The pain was sharp, but he was too tired to care. He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. The forest was quiet—peaceful in a way that felt almost wrong, almost suspicious. But he was too tired to be suspicious. He slept.
Hours passed. The sun moved across the sky, filtering through the red leaves in shifting patterns. When Rodric woke, the light had changed. He moved his feet again—rotating them, flexing them, testing them. They still hurt, but less. He could walk. He had to walk. He pushed himself up—his hand pressing against the tree trunk, his arms trembling with the effort. He stood.
He took one step forward. Then another.
The moment he stepped out of the tree's shadow—a sound cut through the silence. Sharp. Fast. Violent.
An arrow.
He looked down. It was embedded in his foot—the shaft quivering, the fletching bright against his skin. He fell. His body hit the ground hard—dust rising around him in a cloud. He grabbed his foot with both hands, his fingers wrapping around the shaft. But he did not scream. He only growled—a low, guttural sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His breath came hard and fast through his teeth. His face twisted—not with pain alone, but with something closer to fury.
Then came the sound of running footsteps. A man appeared—sprinting toward him. He dropped to his knees beside Rodric, his face twisted with panic. His hands hovered uselessly over the wound.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you!"
Rodric said nothing. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were squeezed shut.
The man bent lower—his breath hot and fast, his hands still hovering.
"Come on—let me help you up. We must stop the bleeding. Come—the house is close."
The man grabbed Rodric by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Rodric leaned on him heavily—his injured foot held off the ground, his breath still coming hard through his teeth. They moved slowly, painfully, toward a small house at the edge of the forest.
Inside, a woman was waiting. Her hands were wet from washing, her hair tied back. She saw them—saw the arrow, saw the blood—and her face went pale she said. "What happened?!"
The man was already lowering Rodric onto a chair. His voice came out in short, broken pieces. "I shot him. By accident. I thought he was a deer. Help me."
The woman moved quickly. She brought cloths, water, a small knife. Rodric sat in the chair—his foot extended, his body rigid with pain. Sweat rolled down his face—beading on his forehead, tracing lines down his cheeks. But he did not speak. He did not groan. He only sat—his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance, his breath slow and controlled.
Across from him, in another chair, sat an old man. He was ancient—his skin like dried leather, his eyes pale and cold. He did not blink. He did not move. He only watched. Rodric felt his gaze like a weight—but he did not look at him. He kept his eyes forward.
Then his vision blurred. The edges of the room began to darken. He felt himself slipping—falling. And then he was gone.
While Rodric was unconscious, the man and his wife worked. They pulled the arrow free—slowly, carefully. They cleaned the wound with water and herbs. They stitched the skin closed with a needle and thread—their hands steady, their movements practiced. Then they wrapped it in clean cloth. When they were finished, they sat back—exhausted.
After a while, Rodric's eyes opened.
He looked at the old man first. Then at the other man. Then around the room. His voice came out rough—dry. "What happened? Where am I?"
He tried to rise—but his foot screamed in protest. He fell back into the chair. His jaw tightened.
The man leaned forward—his hands clasped between his knees.
"I shot you. It was a mistake. I was hunting. You appeared. I thought you were prey. I loosed my arrow."
He shook his head—his eyes full of regret. His fingers twisted together.
"My God... what was I thinking? I could have killed you."
Rodric's hand rose—weak, trembling.
"Water. Give me water."
The man turned to his wife. His chin jerked toward the kitchen.
"Get him water."
She brought a cup. Rodric took it with trembling hands and drank. He drank until the cup was empty—then lowered it to his lap. He breathed. He was silent for a moment. Then he turned and looked at the old man.
Rodric's brow furrowed. "Why is he looking at me like that?"
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The man's head tilted toward the old man—then back to Rodric.
"Nothing specific. He looks like that all day. Has for months."
Rodric's eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
The man shrugged—his shoulders rising and falling.
"We don't know. We tried to treat him. Nothing works."
The man rose from his chair—his knees cracking. He extended a hand toward Rodric.
"Come. I'll help you. We've prepared something for you to eat. Consider it our way of saying sorry."
He helped Rodric up and guided him to the table. He sat him down—then sat across from him. The woman placed food on the table—bread, meat, a jug of water.
Rodric picked up the fork and knife. He began cutting the meat slowly—deliberately. The man watched him—his eyes moving from Rodric's hands to his face to the line on his neck. Then he spoke.
"That line on your neck... is that—"
Rodric's knife paused. His eyes lifted—cold, steady.
"Yes. It's exactly what you think it is."
The man's head tilted.
"Shame? Or bastard?"
Rodric said, "No. Slave."
He paused—the knife still in his hand. His fingers adjusted their grip.
"Why? Will it change how you treat me?"
The man shook his head—slow, deliberate.
"No. It doesn't really matter who you are. I caused you an injury—so I'll try to make it right. Slave or bastard—it doesn't matter. Humans are humans. No matter how different the names may be."
Rodric's lips curved—the golden smile appearing slowly, deliberately, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.
"So you see me as human?"
The man met his eyes—steady.
"If I did not—you would be tonight's hunt. I do not hunt men. Mostly animals. Rabbits. Sometimes deer."
Rodric's eyes dropped to the meat on his plate. His fork turned it over—once, twice.
"This meat I'm eating now—is it from your hunt?"
The man looked at the plate—then back at Rodric.
"Yes. It's wild boar. Wild and savage—even they exist in abundance in these forests."
Rodric chewed slowly—his jaw working. His eyes remained on the man's face.
"I know something about hunting. Not much. Just the basics."
The man leaned forward—curious. His elbows rested on the table.
"What exactly do you know? Tell me. Everyone has a different way of hunting."
Rodric stopped chewing. He held the knife and fork in his hands—the knife in his right, the fork in his left. His fingers tightened around them. Then he looked at the man—directly into his eyes.
"A hunter must open his eyes. And not blink. Until the prey falls."
He paused. His voice dropped—lower now, quieter.
"The second thing. The most important thing. He must keep his tool in hand. And sharp enough to bring down the prey."
The man looked at Rodric. Something felt strange. His eyes dropped to Rodric's hands—to the knife and fork gripping with practiced precision. Then he raised his eyes to Rodric's face.
And Rodric was laughing. Soft, quiet laughs—his shoulders shaking gently, his golden teeth catching the light.
Before the man could say anything—Rodric drove the knife into his throat.
The man's eyes went wide. Blood poured from his mouth—spilling over his lips, down his chin, onto the table. His hands rose—clutching at the air, at the knife, at nothing. Then he slid from his chair—collapsing onto the floor.
The wife—who had been standing by the counter—moved. She ran past Rodric and into a room, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed through the house.
Rodric left the knife in the man's throat. He rose—limping heavily—and followed her. He tried the door. Locked. He pushed. He hit it. Again and again. His shoulder slammed against the wood. Finally—it gave way.
Inside, the woman was crawling beside the bed. She looked up at him—her face twisted with terror.
"Why are you doing this?! We treated you! We helped you! Why?!"
Rodric watched her—his eyes flat, his face calm.
"No grudge. You did what you could. But it has been a long journey." He stepped closer—limping. "And you have here a beautiful house. I will take it. Until the war ends."
He stepped closer. His face was calm.
"Don't make this hard on you."
Then he lunged at her. He drove the fork into her—again, again, again. Over the bed. The white sheets turned red.
Rodric stepped out of the room. He breathed. He looked at the man on the floor—at the blood spreading around him.
He said quietly, "It was a bad hunting day for you, buddy."
He raised his head. The old man was still watching him. Still not blinking.
Rodric's head tilted.
"What?"
He looked at the body—then back at the old man.
"Do you think I'll kill you too?"
He shook his head.
"No. I won't. Just sit there and don't move. I'm tired. And all of this is just so I can get some rest." He paused. "Close your eyes if you can."
Then he heard a sound.
A sound from the room. A sound that did not match the scene—too soft, too small. Rodric's expression shifted. The tiredness fell away—replaced by something sharper. He turned and limped back toward the room.
He searched with his eyes and ears. The sound came again. From a wardrobe. He approached it slowly—his hand on the handle. He opened it.
Inside was a child. A boy, no older than five. He was holding a clown doll—clutching it to his chest. His face was painted like a real clown—the smile drawn in red, the eyes ringed in black.
Rodric looked at him. His face twisted with frustration.
"Why do children keep getting in my way and testing my patience?"
He said to the boy, "Look at me."
The child's eyes were squeezed shut. He did not want to open them.
Rodric's voice dropped.
"Look. Or you'll die. Just like that."
The boy opened his eyes. He looked at Rodric.
Rodric said, "Do you want to live?"
The boy said, "Yes."
Rodric said, "You want to live after seeing your whole family slaughtered? I didn't think children had selfishness too. But don't worry—let's play a game. Hide and seek. I'll close my eyes and count to ten. I want you to run and not stop. If I find you after I open my eyes—you'll join them. Like one happy family."
Rodric closed his eyes. He began to count.
The boy—clutching his clown—ran out of the wardrobe. He ran out of the room. He ran out of the house.
Rodric stood in front of the house—watching the child run without stopping. Then he went back inside. He looked at the old man.
He said, "Just you and me now, old man. I hope we do well."
Layla
In Izzadar, in its high library, Layla was reading a book. The library was tall and narrow—its shelves reaching toward the ceiling, its windows letting in thin shafts of light. Dust motes floated in the air. She sat at a wooden table—a book open before her. She was trying to gain some knowledge—of history, of wars—so she could be useful in some way.
She turned the pages with focus. She read about betrayals and treacheries in silence.
But not much time passed before she was interrupted.
A servant entered—the old woman, Eileen. She was walking with difficulty—her steps slow, her hand pressed to the wall for support. She spoke as if begging for help.
"My lady—come. Klara."
Layla rose. She stood straight.
"What happened?"
Eileen said, "Come quickly. We must stop him."
Layla followed Eileen—her steps quick, her voice uncertain.
"What are you talking about?"
Eileen was silent. Tense. She walked fast—her old body moving with surprising urgency. Layla walked behind her—not knowing where she was going.
They stopped before a door. Sereine's door.
Eileen said, "Do something, my lady."
Layla was confused. She approached the door and knocked. No answer.
She grabbed the handle. The door was open.
She opened it.
She froze.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. Her hand remained frozen on the handle.
Inside, Meriel was on top of Sereine. On her bed. She was screaming. Meriel looked at Layla. He was shocked too. He looked at Sereine beneath him—and the shock made him rise quickly. He stood—confused, as confused as Layla.
Eileen entered quickly. She helped Sereine up. They left together—passing by Layla.
Sereine looked broken.
Layla smelled something familiar as Sereine passed.
Then they were gone.
Layla remained there. Standing. With Meriel. She said nothing. She only looked at him.
He seemed to be trying to understand.