I’ve only killed a man in cold blood once.

I mean… I have killed people before, but never without a reason. The reason wasn’t always the most compelling or vindicating, but a cause is a cause. That reason could be as simple as me doing my job as a mercenary; sometimes it was what put coin in our pocket, food on our table, or roofs over our heads. Sometimes it was because my life depended on it, or other peoples’ lives depended on it. Sometimes good people needed help, or bad people needed to disappear. But I always needed a justification in the end.

I told Alverd about this habit once and he told me that needing so much soul-searching after every man I killed proved I wanted to believe what I was doing was good. Maybe it was true. Evildoers never have to care about the lives they ruin, right?

If that was the case though, why was Alverd so calm after he killed people?

Was just a byproduct of his knightly training? It could be he was desensitized to that sort of thing. Maybe it was because of the past… No. I was overthinking things. Alverd was complicated, but also incredibly simplistic. Whenever he did something, he did it because people needed his help, or because it was the right thing to do. It made predicting his behavior ridiculously easy.

He never badgered people for payment either, even when it was owed to us. And he always had a coin to spare for some hungry urchin or poor mother trying to feed her child. So I knew he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. It could be that he did it as some kind of protective mechanism, so he didn’t have to deal with his baggage, or maybe he didn’t wish to share the emotional burden with me, since I had plenty to carry on my own shoulders. I didn’t have any idea how it all worked; I’d been his friend since childhood and I still didn’t understand it. I’d have been a fool to doubt it though.

When we had been brought before the King was the first time I had ever seen such conflict in his eyes. Alverd, like all knights, saw the world in black and white, not the gray that most mages did. Although there were all kinds of extraneous rules and conditions set upon it, I believed he was honor-bound to avenge his fellow knights… including our friend, Laura.

Laura. The image of her in my nightmare surfaced in my mind again. I pushed it away, reaching for the happier memories I kept close to my heart. Professor Farnus, my instructor, had taken me to a bakery when I was four to pick up food for the other children in his magic school. While I was there, I saw two children, maybe a few years older than me, talking in a corner. I wandered over to see what they were talking about.

The boy, Alverd, invited me to join them. I was reluctant at first, fully expecting some kind of mockery or attack, but I took a seat at their table anyway. The girl, Laura, said her parents owned the bakery and that they regularly donated food to the orphanage/magic school Farnus ran. She looked at me with stars in her eyes.

“I’ve never met a mage trainee like this! Most of them don’t really talk much. You have to tell me all about the school! Can you teach me any magic?” She talked a mile a minute. It was overwhelming at first.

I loosened up over time, however. After an hour, I practically became best friends with the two. Laura was vibrant and a bit of a tease. She loved poking fun at young Alverd who, even back then, was still the same: stoic, unfazed, and patient. After instruction was over, I found myself neglecting my studies just to spend time with the first two people who I called friends, and who regarded me as a friend in return.

At least, until the damn Ishmarians had come. Fire everywhere. Screams of pain and agony. Pools of blood and volleys of arrows. Nothing but madness and insanity in every direction while stones fell, men burned, and children cried for parents who would never come to save them. The only bright spot in my life had been torched with dragon fire, like so many other places and people. I’ll never forget what the capital city, Irinholm, looked like as I fled with Alverd, a dying Laura in his arms.

Did he really think that revenge was pointless? Personally, I didn’t care. I wanted revenge enough to kill for all the people we’d lost. The only thing stopping me was… I didn’t know. Something nagged at me. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Some vague reason was stopping me from calling up a thunderbolt and performing some badly needed regicide. It was irritating, like a relentless mosquito on a humid summer day. Alverd telling me that I should know why wasn’t helping things in the slightest. I’d figure it out eventually, but it would bother me until then, like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

Both Alverd and Marcus drew their swords, facing each other no more than twenty paces away. A man dressed in smart but humble clothes, obviously a servant, stepped between the two combatants. He raised his right arm, and looked at both Alverd and Marcus.

“This duel is to be carried out in the traditional fashion. The first man to disarm the other is the winner. Drawing blood will not stop the match. The duel will commence when the handkerchief hits the ground.”

The “dueling ground” turned out to be a small courtyard just outside where the Ball was taking place, essentially a viewing platform so that the court could adjourn from the throne room to look over the city below. It had been designed to be spacious, so that people could view the stars above. Torches had been placed in a crude circle that formed the boundaries of the fighting area. Just beyond, the crowd flocked to see the spectacle about to take place.

The Ishmarian nobles thought the deck was seriously stacked against Alverd on this one. He was still wearing that ridiculous monkey suit while Marcus was wearing his full armor. Some idiot had even started a pool that was quickly filling up with the odds against Alverd going almost thirty to one. I put all the money I had (thirty nine gold pieces, my emergency stash from my pack) on Alverd. The noble running the gamble laughed at me, but the joke was on him. I was no stranger to combat, so I knew full well that Alverd had more than a fighting chance.

The servant procured a white cloth from his pocket and held it high. The nobles and onlookers in the courtyard became quiet as the man let go of the handkerchief. He quickly ran out of the makeshift arena as the cloth gingerly floated down like a butterfly. I saw both Alverd and Marcus tighten their grips on their swords. I saw the polished steel of Alverd’s knightsword, its long, symmetrical blade catching the light from the torches. Marcus twirled his scimitar, its wickedly curved edge mirroring the smug smile on its wielder’s face.

The instant the cloth hit the ground, both swordsmen blurred forward.