The cabin smelled of salt and lamp oil.
The air was heavy, thick with confinement and the constant sway of the ship over the night tide. Arthen lay reclined on the main bunk, his torso wrapped in bandages from chest to waist. The white cloth was already stained in several places, where blood had stubbornly seeped through despite the healing magic.
His sword rested against the wall within arm’s reach, as if even wounded he could not afford to remain unarmed.
Brann and Rhea sat across from him in silence, carrying the rigid posture of people who still hadn’t processed what had happened. The ship rocked gently. The creaking of wood marked the pulse of the night.
Arthen observed them with a calm expression.
There was no reproach in his gaze. No hardness.
Only an uncomfortable clarity, almost clinical.
“Thank you for telling me everything.”
Brann didn’t respond.
Rhea held his gaze without flinching.
Arthen rested his head back against the wood.
“Ilian… Death… is someone dangerous. More than even I anticipated.”
He paused briefly, weighing his words.
“And now we know he doesn’t act alone.”
Rhea’s jaw tightened.
“He doesn’t work for her.”
Arthen shook his head gently.
“It doesn’t matter what you call it. What matters is that he intervened to protect a greater demon against the League.”
The rocking of the ship deepened the silence.
The sentence hung in the air like a verdict.
“That changes everything.”
Brann spoke for the first time, his voice low but contained.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
Arthen looked at him with something close to compassion.
“It’s always what it looks like when there’s blood on the sand.”
He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, breathing deeply to contain the pain.
“I will notify Lyranth. I will report that he is heading north. If he intends to cross the Bridge of Heroes, someone must be prepared.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Rhea lowered her eyes.
The Bridge of Heroes was not only a passage.
It was a border.
Control.
A political declaration.
Arthen continued.
“I will not order a hunt.”
Both of them looked up at the same time.
“But he will be watched.”
The word carried more weight than any open threat.
Brann nodded slowly.
Rhea stood.
“Thank you for your honesty.”
Arthen waved a faint hand.
When they had already reached the door, his voice stopped them again.
“Ah.”
He didn’t look at them this time.
“I regret to inform you that your League license is temporarily suspended.”
The silence was absolute.
“Until further notice.”
Brann closed his eyes for a moment.
Rhea said nothing.
They left.
The deck was almost empty.
The dark sea reflected scattered starlight like a shattered mirror. They descended the gangplank onto the damp sand without speaking.
The wind was softer now.
Almost respectful.
Port Mist looked smaller than ever, as if the recent violence had shrunk its borders.
They walked along the beach away from the pier. The tide left thin foam across the sand, drawing fragile lines the water erased effortlessly.
Rhea spoke first.
“I’m returning to Valamir.”
Brann looked at her.
“To the League?”
“No. To Severin.”
The name hung between them, heavier than the wind.
“Someone has to see him. Find out what they know. What they’re planning.”
Brann nodded.
“I’ll stay here a little longer. My family has already been too close to the fire.”
Rhea didn’t argue.
They kept walking.
They weren’t angry.
They weren’t betrayed.
They were displaced.
Ilian had chosen something they didn’t understand.
And that incomprehension hurt more than Arthen’s wound.
The sea advanced and retreated once more.
The night was beautiful.
Too beautiful for what had just happened.
Everything felt sad.
Melancholic.
As if something they still didn’t know how to name had ended.
Not far from the village, where sand began turning to rock, the white Church tent was still lit.
Torches burned with steady flames, protected from the wind by thick circles of canvas.
From the outside it looked like an improvised sanctuary.
Inside it smelled of fresh blood and medicinal oils.
Enoch breathed with difficulty.
The healers had sealed his wounds.
The flesh had closed.
The bleeding had stopped.
But the arm was gone.
The leg was gone.
Beneath the blankets, the absence was obvious.
The most feared inquisitor in the south now lay reduced to torso and will.
The tent opened without sound.
The Crow entered.
The dark mask absorbed the light. His steps left no trace across the sand covered by ritual carpets.
He approached the bed without hurry.
The healers looked up.
The Crow made a small gesture with his hand.
It was not an order.
It was permission to leave.
They did not argue.
The tent fell silent.
The Crow sat beside the bed and observed the mutilated body with something that, from afar, might resemble compassion.
“Enoch…” he murmured.
“My friend. My son.”
The inquisitor opened his eyes with effort.
“My lord… Almighty…”
He tried to bow his head.
He couldn’t.
“I have failed you… I am so sorry…”
The Crow placed a gloved hand on his forehead.
“No.”
A pause.
“The one who failed us… is the High Priest.”
His voice lowered.
Thicker.
“He hid the existence of Ilian. Death.”
Enoch struggled to breathe.
“Then… he was real…”
“We always knew,” the Crow replied.
“You and I.”
Enoch coughed weak blood.
“What will we do… my lord?”
The Crow pulled out a short black dagger, plain and unadorned. He held it a moment, weighing it.
“The One does not tolerate weakness.”
The blade went straight into Enoch’s heart.
The scream was brief.
The body stiffened once and fell still.
The Crow kept his hand on the chest a few seconds longer, ensuring the heartbeat was gone.
Then he withdrew the dagger with precise calm and stood.
He left the tent without looking back.
The night wind struck his cloak.
He lifted his face toward the stars.
“It is time for the One to walk the earth.”
The stars did not answer.
But something in the air changed.
Not a storm.
A direction.
