Connor's grip on Nora's ankle tightened as he dragged her through the woods. "Your mother smelled like burnt sugar and steel grease," he muttered. "Her hands were worn from counting coins. I was seventeen—foolish and thought mercenary work made me a man."
Flashback:
Ilaria's caravan creaked through the Ashen Wastes, the air filled with sulfuric smoke. Connor—acne-scarred, too thin for his armor—flinched when she tossed him a waterskin.
"Drink," she ordered, her silver hair catching the wind. "You're shaking."
He hated her instantly. Hated how she bargained with bandits using wit instead of swords. Hated that she noticed his armor hung loose on his shoulders. Hated her laugh when he tripped over his own sword.
She was fair nonetheless, treating all the mercenaries like a band of unruly siblings.
When Harkin's cough worsened, she tucked her wool scarf around his neck. "Borrow this," she said, already turning to check Jorin's bandaged hand. "Try not to bleed on it."
Connor watched, jaw clenched, as she knelt beside him next. Her fingers brushed his bruised knuckles as she smeared salve over his cracked skin. "You swing like a drunkard," she chided, but her voice held a touch of honey. "Do they not teach balance in whatever backwater spawned you?"
He memorized her touch. Her warmth lingered on his skin even now.
When night fell, and the others snored, Ilaria sat on a broken barrel, sewing torn sacks by the firelight. She hummed as she worked—lullabies that made Connor's chest ache for reasons he couldn't name. Her voice softened the dark, wrapping around him like smoke:
Hush now, storm child, lay down your spite.
The moon's a cradle; the stars will keep watch tonight.
Hush now, storm-child, let shadows wane.
The world's a canvas; dreams shall break the chain.
Winds may whisper, the echoes fade.
But calm will find you where fears are laid.
Hush now, storm-child, the night is long.
But hope is woven through Twilight's song.
The clouds will scatter; the dawn will rise.
And peace will greet you with tender skies.
One evening, he found her staring at a miniature portrait, her shoulders trembling. She wasn't crying—she was furious.
"Who's that?" he asked.
"No one." She stirred the embers. "A ghost."
She slapped a honey cake into his palm before heading to her tent. "Eat. You're as gray as the stone."
Later, Connor fished the burned frame from the ashes. The inscription survived: For my beloved… May your path be brighter than mine… —L.
At first light, Ilaria baked by the fire, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. Connor lingered nearby, counting the walnuts she pressed into his honey cake. Three. Always three.
Tomas gagged on his portion. "Tastes like tree bark!"
Ilaria smirked. "Ironweed. Good for your bones."
—
Halfway to the capital, the bandits caught up, their arrows blotting out the sun. Tomas fell first—an arrow to his eye as he laughed at some forgotten joke. Jorin took three to the gut before collapsing into Dan, their blood mingling in the dirt.
Connor fought like a mad dog until—Clang!—his blade shattered against a bandit's helmet. The shard bounced back into his cheek. He tasted iron and felt blood pooling beneath his torn armor.
Ilaria screamed orders: "Shields! Protect the carts!"
But the mercenaries were butchers' meat now.
Ilaria stepped into the clearing, hands raised. "Take the merchandise and let us go," she said.
The bandit captain leered, yellowed teeth glinting. "Pretty words from a pretty mouth. Drop the dress. Let's see the merchandise—then maybe I'll let your dogs loose."
Connor's heart skipped. No. No. No.
Ilaria's fingers moved to her belt, a tear sliding down her cheek. The mercenaries stirred—Harkin surged forward, wheezing, "Don't you fucking dare—"
A crossbow bolt silenced him.
"Stop!" Ilaria ripped her tunic open, buttons scattering like hail. "Take it! Take all of it!"
Connor's world fractured. He went feral.
The broken sword found Jordan's throat first—the man was already half-dead—but Connor saw only Ilaria's exposed collarbone and the captain's filthy hand reaching for her.
Dan died gurgling, "Trai—" before the blade silenced him.
A dagger through Beau's good eye, a rock smashed into Bailey's gaping mouth.
Ilaria screamed. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
He grabbed her wrist, yanking her back. "Saving you!"
The bandits watched, amused, as the boy slaughtered his own.
When it was done, Connor stood panting over the corpses, Ilaria's scarf knotted around his bleeding fist. "See?" he rasped, gesturing to the butchered mercenaries. "No need to whore yourself. They're free now."
Ilaria stumbled away, her torn tunic flapping in the wind. "You're mad."
He advanced, eyes wild. "They were weak. Letting you degrade yourself—"
"They were loyal!"
"LOYAL?!" Spit flew from his lips. "You think Harkin cared? Jorin? They'd have let you spread your legs for thugs to save their own rotting skins!"
Ilaria pulled out her dagger. "Stay back."
He laughed—a broken, wounded sound. "After I saved you?"
"You didn't save me," she whispered.
The bandits moved in.
Connor spun with his broken sword. "She's MINE!" he bellowed, charging at them.
They let him come.
A boot to the gut dropped him. The captain crouched, gripping his hair. "A mad dog bores me," he sighed, pressing a blade to Connor's throat. "But the girl… oh, we'll make her sing."
Ilaria's dagger flashed.
Connor's heart skipped—She's fighting for me!—until the blade sank into his own shoulder. She tackled him to the side, away from the captain's grip.
"Fall," she hissed.
He didn't.
Connor's hand closed over hers, driving the dagger deeper into his flesh. "You… don't… owe them…" Blood bubbled from his lips.
Ilaria recoiled. "Stop!"
He fell against her, the dagger hilt protruding from his collarbone. "I'll… protect you… run…"
With a guttural roar, Connor tore the blade free and slashed his own throat.
—
Light appeared. Connor's fingers shifted to his throat. No wound, no scar—just smooth skin beneath the crusted bloodstains. Rot covered the ambush site, bodies bloated under the sun, both bandits and mercenaries alike. Jorin's corpse gazed skyward, maggots writhing from his gaping mouth. Ilaria's dagger lay nearby, its blade still stained with his blood. The captain's body was a ruin—shredded, unrecognizable.
She saved me.
He scoured the corpses three times. No trace of her. Not even a scrap of her scarf.
Desperate, he searched all over Frostgale for her. The bandit hideout, a smoldering ruin, lay barren, devoid of life. No survivors.
Her hometown was abandoned. Not a whisper of her name was left behind.
He ambushed trade routes and found a stolen dagger—her dagger—he demanded answers with his blade at the merchants' throats. But every reply was a hollow "no," a shake of the head, a plea to be spared.
He scoured brothels, chasing the echo of her laughter. It haunted his dreams, but he found nothing—only hollow stares and women who spat in his face.
The obsession consumed him. He drank himself blind, screaming her name at strangers in taverns. Once, he gutted a woman in a lavender dress for laughing the wrong way.
Then, the Dawn's recruiters found him sleeping among rats. They offered armor that fit, a sword that didn't rust, and orders to burn rebel towns. He took the armor—but Ilaria's daggers rested on his waist.
She'll see, he thought, tossing a townsfolk into the flames. She'll know I'm strong now.
—
The estate's garden is covered in peonies, perfume, and privilege. Ilaria sat on a marble bench, sunlight catching the silver in her hair. A child rested in her lap—a girl with her mother's stubborn chin and silver hair.
Connor's armor creaked as he stepped into the light. "Ilaria."
She glanced up, serene as a stranger. "Yes?"
He fell to his knees, battle-scarred hands sinking into the privileged petals. "It's me."
Her brow knitted together. "Who?"