Five spears point themselves at Kyros’s throat before he can even utter a single word.

“Not a step further, gate guard!”

Kyros swallows, feeling sharp steel graze against his Adam’s apple. “With due respect, Lord Commander,” he says, looking straight ahead, past all the knights standing in his way. “This is simply unjust. What has Cathra done to warrant such unfair treatment? What bases do you have to suspend her duties and put her through this joke of a hearing? Is this how the guardians of the greatest city in the realm of men carry out justice? Putting to death our own with naught but a sliver of proof?” At the back of his mind, Kyros is vaguely aware that he is facing an entire squad of heavily armed and very shouty knights, but he doesn’t stop, because if he does, he knows he may not have the courage to start again.

“Cathra is by far the most responsible, bravest, and strongest captain in all the four gates, in all of Kesrock history,” he goes on, voice rising with emotion. “If she hadn’t stepped in that day, Sir Jernal would’ve butchered the situation for all of us. Lord Commander, you said this outsider could’ve been a Blood Devil, but you have no proof of that. If she really is of royal blood, though, and if Sir Jernal had his way with her, the entire city could already be done for!”

One of the knights thrusts his spear forward, nicking the skin against Kyros’s neck. “Silence, scoundrel!” the knight screams, “just who do you think you’re talking to? I’ll have that tongue out and skewered with another word!” But it is he who is skewered, as Cathra bursts free from her captors and shoots forward like a loaded spring, her chains floundering behind her. With a crash, she shoulders into the knight’s back, sending him sprawling to Kyros’s feet.

“Stand down, all of you!” The Lord Commander’s voice explodes over the noise before it can turn into chaos. “Let the boy talk!”

The knights retreat, putting a few feet of distance between them and Kyros. “Damn wench,” the knight on the ground spits, shoving Cathra away from him as he struggles to his feet. Kyros moves to protect Cathra, but the knight retreats, joining his comrades.

“That was stupid,” Kyros whispers as he helps Cathra up. “They could’ve killed you.” With her ankles still bound, Cathra wobbles, and has to lean into Kyros for balance.

Her skin is soft beneath her dress, and Kyros feels a different kind of heat spreading to his face.

“You’re the stupid one,” she hisses, her eyes flashing, and wet, as she glares at him. “If anyone will die here tonight, it’s you.”

Kyros feels a hand to his neck, and his fingers come back red. I should stop it, he thinks. But not now. He takes a step forward.

“What are you doing?” Cathra pulls on his shirt, yanking him back.

"It's alright." Kyros reaches behind him and gently pries Cathra’s fingers loose. She lets go, the chains around her wrists making it difficult for her to hold on. She looks so trapped, bound like this, that it takes all of Kyros’s willpower to not scoop her up and race out of this pretentious room, away from all this nonsense. He gives her hands a squeeze before letting them drop.

Everything will be okay, he tries to send the words with his eyes, though obviously, Cathra does not give any indication she’s received the telepathic message. She continues to look at him with so much worry that Kyros wonders if she’s ever looked at anyone else like this before, and it is only with incredible effort that he turns to face the man on the throne.

“I understand the situation, Lord Commander,” he says. “Believe me, I do. The reports of our Blood Devil attacks have no doubt reached the Church, and I imagine they’re just itching to send ‘help’ over. But that does not warrant such aggressive and downright unfair treatment of our own.”

Another step brings Kyros to the base of the first step of the Lord Commander’s platform, and once again in the kill zone of the many knights guarding it. He looks up, locks with the Lord Commander’s gaze, which seems to be just the slightest bit warmer. Curious, even.

“I would like to propose a deal, my lord. A wager, if I may be so bold.”

The Lord Commander’s bald head shines from the glow of lantern light, but his face remains masked in shadow.

“Speak your mind, knight. Let me hear this wager.”

Kyros clears his throat, feeling it very hard to. “If we can prove to you that the outsider Cathra had let in is either the Princess, or a harmless nobody, then it would not only mean that you falsely accused one of your best captains with a crime punishable by death, but you’ve also greatly tarnished her reputation.”

The Lord Commander has grown very still, molding into the stone he sits on. “That is, not untrue.”

“The only recourse acceptable then, would be compensation for her loss.” Kyros pauses. Sweat has started to trickle down his back, but he forces himself to keep going. “Perhaps some silver, or maybe even a promotion?”

The suggestion hangs in the air, hovering like a butterfly without a branch to land on. Kyros knows the absurdity of his proposal. Cathra is already captain of one of the gates. The next promotion for her can only be the rank of Second Commander. She will be the Lord Commander’s right hand, and only one more promotion away from sitting on the highest seat of the Kesrockian Knights herself.

The Lord Commander ponders for a moment, the gold specks in his eyes shining. “You assume the accusations are falsely made, and there is no proof.”

“Well, yes,” says Kyros. “I see no way of there being any kind of proof to back up such ludicrous accusations.”

“And if there are?”

“Then I will face the same punishment as my captain, death or exile.” Behind him, Kyros can hear a sharp intake of breath from Cathra, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead, at the Lord Commander.

There is no occasion in which the leader of the Kesrockian Knights has been known to smile. There is only the threat of it, and usually, that is enough. Looking down from his throne, like an avalanche about to fall, the corners of the Lord Commander’s lips twitch with that threat.

“How interesting. I either punish both of you, or reward one of you.”

Kyros nods. “That’s the idea.”

“You are assuming this girl is still in Kesrock.”

“If she isn't,” Kyros replies, his voice faltering for a second. “If that’s the case…" An idea comes to him, so insane it makes his legs shake. But there is no time to think of something else. “Then we’ll just have to bring you the head of the real Blood Devil, to prove they are not the same creature.”

The silence in the room is so thick Kyros can hear his own heart drumming inside his chest, flighty and unstable, like a bird taking to the air. The noise is only broken by the sliding of steel over mail as the Lord Commander stands from his throne, and with deliberate slowness, dons the wolf-jaw helm over his head.

Through the slits between steel fangs, Kyros glimpses a spark of something akin to real emotion passing over the Lord Commander’s eyes, and it is such an unexpected thing that he almost misses the Lord Commander’s reply, if the following silence is not echoing it back to him a hundred times.

“I look forward to seeing your proof, Kyros Argonston.”

After the young knight and his captain leave the hall, the latter having been temporarily released from her chains, Lord Commander Aargon Narage descends the stairs of his throne, and at the bottom, he orders one of his many knights to, “Send one of our strongest ravens to Ragnarock Castle.”

The knight salutes. “What will the message be, my lord?”

“I will write it.”

“As you wish, my lord.” The knight scurries out of the Sovereign Hall, and within moments, three squires are rushing back with him, a raven and a lectern carried between them.

Aargon takes the raven out of its cage and carefully inspects it, checking the clarity in its black eyes, the smoothness of its dark wings, and the taunt muscles beneath its feathers. As he looks, the raven stares back at him, confident, but obedient.

Satisfied, Aargon beckons with a stiff swipe of his hand, and the raven is taken to one side while the lectern is brought before him. A blank parchment is laid out across it, and two young squires stand ready with quill, ink, and a tiny bamboo canister at the ready.

Aargon takes the quill from one of the boys, dips it in the inkpot held by another, and flourishes across the paper a single line,

Your Majesty,

Sighting of another Fated One, in Kesrock city.

Aargon dates it and signs at the bottom of the message. When everything is dry, he rolls up the paper and tucks it into the hollow bit of bamboo. It’s only a quarter the thickness of his pinkie finger.

With a gesture, another knight comes over, but just as Aargon holds out the little cylindrical container for the knight to take away, a snapshot slices across his eyes, making him freeze.

Has it been six years already, since I’ve last done this?

“My lord?” Aargon knows that the knight is looking at him, at the message hovering in the space between them. “Sir?” But the memory comes regardless, rearing its ugly head out from the depths of his subconscious.

It was 1244, and Aargon was stationed in the far south over the Silver Ridges, fending off a yaojin invasion from the sea, the aftermath of which was horrid. Thinking back, it couldn’t have been just luck that brought the healer and his woman out from the nearby village to help. But Aargon never believed in fate.

The healer offered his services to the wounded soldiers, free of charge, and Aargon agreed, thinking he was only using this opportunity to gain experience.

It was only after witnessing the miraculous level of the healer's work that Aargon finally recognized the renowned adventurer, Lawheim Tachigonmery. But the woman who was with him, though, was foreign; a stranger, and she looked it.

Tall and fair, she had the most fetching smile Aargon had ever seen. And whenever she spoke, it was like her words could chase the gloominess of even death away. Aargon saw how the eyes of his soldiers followed the woman’s every move, and how, whenever she called the healer her ‘darling,’ it made everyone practically green with envy.

“We’re getting married soon,” the woman told Aargon as they stood in the meager shade of a scorched tree, watching the healer work. Her voice had this lyrical tone to it, like an instrument Aargon had never heard before, and wished he could keep listening to for the rest of his days. “As soon as we get back home, I’m going to propose to him.”

Aargon doesn’t remember what his reply was, but he remembers the woman’s clearly, as if she spoke it yesterday.

“It’s unorthodox, perhaps, but love doesn’t have to wait for opportunities. I love him, and that will not change tomorrow, or the day after, or in ten years.” Her smile softened her face. “I want to make a promise to him that I will stay with him for the rest of our lives, and in my mind, I see no reason to delay such a promise.”

The woman looked up at Aargon then. She had bound her hair in a plain scarf and her cheeks were dark with the ashes that caked the air, but she could do little to hide those out-worldly blue eyes of hers. Those eyes which didn't see people, so much as see through them.

They haunted Aargon's dreams, those beautiful blue eyes, for many days; starting that same autumn afternoon when he sent the King the message, reporting the sighting. Then they continued to haunt his nightmares for months, then years, after he returned to that woman’s village to pay thanks, only to learn she was dead.

Aargon can still almost smell the sour stench of alcohol that clung to the healer’s breath and clothing, and even now he sees, all too clearly, the man’s empty eyes, hollowed by an endless snowstorm of grief.

“How?” was all Aargon could ask, as he stood dumbly at the entrance to that gorgeous oak-wood house, a basket of bread clutched in his unsteady hands. “How?”

“Murdered,” came the healer’s only reply. “She was murdered.”

There were so many questions Aargon wanted to ask then, but he couldn’t remember how words worked. And when he finally did think of something, the door had long closed in his face.

Aargon snaps out of his trance with a jolt, startling the knight hovering in front of him.

“Are you alright, Lord Commander?” asks the knight with genuine concern. “Shall I get a healer?”

Aargon waves a hand as if clearing away flies from his face. “No. There is no need.”

“As my lord wishes,” the knight replies, but makes no move to leave. It strikes Aargon as incredibly odd, until he remembers why. He holds out the bamboo canister that’s still in his hand. “For humanity.”

It is a mantra, a reminder of a knight’s duties, and a promise to the realm they have all sworn to protect.

The knight bows and takes the message. “For humanity.”