A thousand men and women bustled around the camp with euphoric calmness. Each fire burned with joy, lighting the smirking faces of a dozen or more as they laughed and bantered, their pots and cauldrons steaming with savory, mouth watering scents. Drunk on victory, the soldiers of Drygallis celebrated as if this day were to be their last. Funny, that. The day before they had thought it would be their last, but only now did they celebrate, what with the danger so far in the past.

Bones creaking and bruised flesh aching, Alden sat upright in his cot, fighting against the pain in his shoulder as made a stack of pillows to lay against. Phantom pains shot through the nonexistence of his other arm. A burning sensation, it was if his arm had been shoved into a fire.

He would have to bear with it for a few more days, at least. The healers had been useless, giving dark looks and sullen apologies as they healed his flesh and restored his blood with their magic. Regenerating his arm, they said, was an impossibility, even for the best doctors in the world. Nonsense, Alden thought. Not a one of them had an Intelligence stat over 70, and had healed Alden more slowly than he could have healed himself, if he’d been awake to do it. Even now he sat aching and littered with purple bruises, things he could have healed without a problem.

And just because they couldn’t help didn’t mean no one could. Doctor Elmswood would certainly know how to go about restoring his arm, even if the doctor couldn’t do it himself.

Their irksome cynicism had put him in a foul mood, worse than the pain had done, and even as all around him celebrated Alden could not muster a sliver of joy.

He should have been happy by all accounts. He had grown from the battle, having advanced three levels and increased his magical Skills. He had even been bestowed a Title, Knight Slayer, which provided a permanent 15 points to his Strength. He was better off now than he was before, by all accounts. Except for the arm.

That wasn’t even to mention the battle itself. Seven thousand had won out against ten thousand, and his slaying of the nameless knight had been Hilvan’s undoing. The barrier which prevented magic from crossing the battlefield had fallen after the knight’s death; Hilva’s soldiers had been demoralized by the knights death, which had interrupted the focus of their mages. They wavered just long enough for a powerful spell to make it through their barrier, decimating the core of their fighting force. It was a slaughter after that.

Yet rage lingered in his heart and corrupted any joy he should have felt. The loss of his arm was infuriating, but what ate at him was his own weakness and ineptitude. Most of all he resented his own stupidity. The power he wielded could create superpowers, magical artifacts, and more, and yet he’d wasted it on being able to learn skills quickly. He could have given himself impenetrable skin, the strength of a hundred men, incomparable magic power. So many options that would have saved his arm.

Not that it mattered now. What was done was done, though his anger persisted regardless.

With shaky limbs Alden stood from his cot. His vision blurred as blood rushed to his head, forcing him to grab hold of his bed to steady himself. Once the sensation subsided he walked slowly, carefully, minding every step. His balance was off; whether it was the missing arm or something else entirely he couldn’t be certain.

Every soldier that recognized him stopped to congratulate him, offering well meaning words. Faking a smile, he accepted them and moved on as quickly as possible, giving an excuse about pain each time.

The pain was real enough. The army healers weren’t worth the clothes they wore, and every step seemed to jostle a broken bone here or there. His ribs ached especially; each breath was a struggle, ragged and slow and painful enough to put tears in his eyes. He thought about healing them himself, but opted against it. They were a lesson to never be so foolish again.

Outside the Baron’s tent he found Peren, huddled together with a group of other knights. Upon spotting Alden he dismissed them.

“Sir Peren,” Alden said.

“Alden. What have you come for?”

“Ah, temporary leave, sir,” he said, waving his stump arm in the air. “I’d like to go back to Addens and speak with Doctor Elmswood, should the Baron permit it.”

Peren regarded him disdainfully, his gaze cold as a blizzard. “That won’t be possible at the moment. Baron Kent is indisposed, and none are to disturb him.”

Alden’s shoulders slumped. Nothing seemed to be going his way. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. Get some rest. Injured or not, I may have need of you soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Saluting, he turned and left.

Settling back into his cot, Alden had little time to rest before he was bothered.

Frenna arrived with a knight on either side, all in plate armor and the two accompanying her trying their best to seem even half as intimidating as the woman they followed. Alden stood painfully, the joints of his knees cracking audibly, and saluted.

“Head to the Baron’s tent and stay there until either I or Peren gets there,” she said curtly. “Understood?”

“I was told the Baron wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“You won’t be disturbing him, trust me. Now go.”

Hobbling back to where he had just left, Alden entered the Baron’s giant tent. Empy of life, Alden seated himself on a free chair near the center, a wave of relief coursing through his legs. Dim, the usual lanterns had not been lit, casting the entire space into dark shadow. He lit one, the orange light barely any better, then lit another two to accompany it before seating himself once more.

He wondered where the Baron was, to leave his tent unattended. Planning with the Viscount, most likely. Kent was no longer the highest authority, after all, and the Viscount’s tent had been half again as large as Kent’s.

Still, dark and empty and larger than was sensible for a sleeping quarters, the Baron’s tent felt unusual, as if something lurked in the recesses of its shadows. Alden shivered, despite the warmth of the night.

The wait was long, and by the time Peren and Frenna entered Alden had re-lit one of the lanterns and, finally fed up with his injuries, had healed himself of his broken bones. Though the pain was gone, the hollow feeling where his arm should have been persisted.

“He’s here?” Peren asked.

Frenna gave a ‘hmph’, then said “Like it or not, he’ll be a knight soon enough. And he’s one of the few accounted for when it happened.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to like it, then.”

Alden lifted a cautious hand like a scared schoolboy, glancing between the two. They stopped and looked at him. “Could I have an explanation, or should I stay silent and continue listening to whatever…this is?”

The two knights exchanged furtive glances. Frenna was the first to speak. “The camp’s been put into lockdown. No one in or out.”

“There’s been a murder,” Peren added. “Two, actually. We’ve been looking around blindly for the past half hour, but as you can see it didn’t amount to much.”

“Who were they?” Alden asked. “The victims.”

Brushing past him, Peren approached a silk divider the tent used as a wall. He pulled at it, the edges tearing from their wooden posts, and let it fall away. Behind the silk sheet was quiet darkness. Moving a lantern closer, orange light shone over a grisly scene.

The two men were filthy with blood, splattered head to toe, looks of horror on their dead pale faces. Their throats had been cut, deep red lines extending all the way around. One of the heads had almost been fully decapitated, a slim sliver of flesh being the only thing keeping it attached to the body.

Alden recognized the two men immediately. They were Baron Kent Grovesfield and Viscount Robert Whitmore, and with their deaths all hell was about to break loose.

He took an unconscious step back, feeling numb. Who? How? Was it Mina? A dozen and more questions flashed through his mind. At the forefront of them all, however, was the one that mattered most. Should he tell them?

“What do we do?” he asked instead.

Peren looked between the bodies. He crouched, moving the lantern closer, searching for something.

“For now, keep quiet,” he said. “Their deaths aren’t public knowledge and we can’t afford the soldiers panicking.”

“The knights will be in charge of the investigation, as well as a few trusted soldiers like yourself. In the meantime, Dhatri has full command of the division, so direct any requests or information to him if we aren’t available.”

Alden nodded along, barely listening. They didn’t suspect him, at least. He’d be dead if they did, or else captured. That was a good sign.

Less good was that he didn’t know Mina’s intentions when she requested the Baron’s death, something he’d puzzled over since their discussion. He’d suspected he was to be a scapegoat, at first, any easy target to push the full blame onto after the deed was done. Then he’d begun to suspect that it was the Baroness’s ploy, some test of loyalty or some such, but when days passed and his head still sat squarely on his shoulders he’d dismissed it.

And, of course, there was always the possibility that she had been completely honest from the beginning.

The other question, then, was who did it? Had Mina selected another assailant as a backup option? It made sense. But it wasn’t the only option. Nobles had many enemies, and it was not outside of possibility that another had wanted them dead.

In either case, what was clear was that Alden had to separate himself from the situation. Cold sweat kissed his nape, and the tent felt chillier with each passing moment. He had seen a hundred dead bodies during the battle, each freshly killed, yet somehow the horror of their deaths were different. They had known that death could come for them, then. Time to prepare. But looking at the two blood splattered corpses before him sent a shiver of fear through him.

They would have been well guarded when it happened, a knight or two at least close by. And still they had been killed, silently and without much evidence. Even now, looking at Peren and Frenna stare at the two dead nobles, he could tell it had shaken them, too. He hadn’t noticed it before.

It made him feel all the colder.

“Is there anything specific you need from me?” he asked, hoping there was not.

“Keep an eye out for anything strange,” Peren said. “And tell no one.”

“You still need to be active, though. Even if there’s a murderer running about, the camp needs things done,” Frenna said. “For now, rest. Tomorrow go to the healer’s tent and help out. I’ll check on you around midday.”

Saluting, he left them, feet barely touching the ground as he jogged away. Shit, he thought. Shit shit shit shit.