“Why are you so dead set on being a bandit anyways? You’re barely a few years older than Slyvia, you’re basically still a kid yourself. You can go anywhere you want to go, be anything you want to be. The world’s your playground. I know you said Candle in the Dark is where all your friends are but why don’t you take your own advice and start fresh somewhere else?”

I’ve thought about it. I’ve seen a lot and learned even more since I left Augustine’s farm. This kingdom is way too busy dealing with its own problems to pay any attention to an insignificant, little fuck like me. Aldore, the boy in the cave, and even Rodric back in Ocean’s Rest; I have no doubt that I can just… disappear and start anew elsewhere. But…

“Midriver is the perfect place for me. I can’t be satisfied with living an ordinary, boring life. No, I want to be rich, I want to be powerful, I want to be able to determine my own life with my own two hands. I told my friend Wraine one night a long time ago that I wanted to be a king. There’s no way that someone like me, someone with lowborn blood running through his veins, could ever become something substantial the common, accepted way. Then I thought, “If I can’t be a king,” why don’t I become a bandit king?”

There’s an incredulous expression on Hawthorne’s face as he listens to me spewing out all the embarrassing shit I’ve kept bottled up this entire time. I can feel my face heating up as the silence lingers and I have to break eye contact, opting to stare into the fire instead because I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been dwelling on these thoughts, these ideas for months now ever since I joined Candle but actually voicing them out loud is… more uncomfortable than I imagined. I sound like a kid telling his parents he’d grow up one day to be an adventurer and that he’d become rich and famous by slaying a dragon.

Fuck, I’ve spent so much time and tried so hard to grow up all this time only to realize that small part of myself that I wanted gone is still there, always reminding me of my old, weak self. I took to Bertrand’s teachings like a lifeline because I thought I needed to become a callous, heartless murderer to survive. I thought the more people I tortured, the more people I killed, and the less I let it affect me, the more I would change and I could leave the parts of myself I hated behind. But maybe that’s all wrong in the first place. All of it is a part of me, even the parts I don’t like.

Hawthorne breaks out into laughter and I have to bury my head in my arms to hide my shame. Godsdamnit. After he calms down, he says, “You know, I had you pegged as being mature for your age. You didn’t bat an eye when you were cleaning up the rest of Corbin’s crew. Even when I got up here and saw what you did to the place, you looked more disinterested than anything else. I know I just said you were still a kid a few minutes ago but I didn’t really mean it.

“It’s just from everything I’ve seen you do and say, I didn’t really see you as a kid. Looks like I was wrong. You are still a kid, despite everything else. It’s good to know you aren’t some crazed psychopath at least.”

The both of us have a laugh at that. Once we calmed down a bit, he asked, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. What happened to your face?”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks like you rubbed a piece of charcoal all over your face. Your eyebrows looked scorched too.”

Confused, I rubbed both of my eyebrows with my fingers and when I pulled them back to get a look, the burnt remains of my eyebrows covered my fingers. Ohh, Gavin you massive son of a bitch. Growling, I searched my pack for a piece of cloth and gave my face a few wipes, the cloth coming back filthy. Looking towards Hawthorne, I ask, “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad. Your eyebrows are a bit thinner than before but at least they’re not singed off completely.”

Sighing in relief, I start messing around with the things I found in Gavin’s shack. Unsurprisingly, the shoulder guard fits me pretty well considering Gavin and I have similar builds. It might be a bit annoying to have to constantly equip and unequip it, but it’s better than nothing and it’s only one leather strap that I have to fasten. The crossbow is more interesting to me because it looks completely different than the one Wraine and I bought from Nestor. For instance, this crossbow is bigger than the last one I had and it looks like it’s made from some type of maplewood. But those aren’t what makes it stand out to me.

At the very tip of the crossbow, there’s a sort of metal triangle that juts out, right below the riser. For some reason, I think I’m supposed to put my foot into it. Standing up, I aim the crossbow down and touch the flat end of the triangle to the ground. Putting my foot inside of the triangle, I use both hands to pull the string until it catches onto the latch. Once the crossbow is cocked, I reach down for a bolt and put it into the groove. Aiming at a shack’s door about 65 yards away, I take the shot and sink the bolt deadcenter into the door.

When I land my second bolt only an inch above where the first landed, Hawthorne exclaims, “Holy shit. That was a good shot. You’re a natural with that thing. How long have you been training with a crossbow?”

“Nah, everyone can do this. I mean, I was able to use a crossbow to shoot down a whole squad a while back with less than a night’s worth of practice.”

“Mm, that doesn’t sound quite right. I mean crossbows are infinitely easier to use than bows, but they still need a bit of practice to achieve that level of aim. Believe me, I’ve been to our border plenty of times and they still have practice sessions with crossbows albeit less frequently than sessions with bows. You might just be naturally gifted with ranged weapons.”

Hmm, he might be right. I never really thought about it because after Wraine and I ambushed Alister’s group and ditched our crossbow back then, it didn’t ever cross my mind again. How come I can use a crossbow like it was second nature to me? This also brings into question my sword skills.

When I picked up a sword back on the Basteb peninsula, I didn’t feel anything special about it whatsoever. It wasn’t until Bertrand started training me that I felt really comfortable with a sword in my hand. Why was that? Glancing over at the oak bow still on the ground, I put down the crossbow and walked over to it, picking up the regular bow.

The weight feels good in my hands. Grabbing an arrow from the quiver, I nock the arrow against the bow and aim at the door 65 yards away with the two crossbow bolts embedded in it. Taking aim, something feels off. Adjusting the way I’m holding the bow so that it’s not exactly horizontal but not far off from it, this position feels… familiar somehow. Taking aim once again, I loose the arrow and it lands an inch below the two bolts.

Hawthorne bursts out seeing that shot, “Whoa! Alright, if you’re that good with both the crossbow and the bow, why are you using a sword?”

“... Not sure.”

I’m not sure about anything anymore. I remember very clearly during Candle’s war with Midriver’s Finest, I couldn’t land an arrow to save my life when Bertrand gave me a prime shooting spot. What’s happened to me? Do my dreams have something to do with all this? Why the fuck did I start having them in the first place? This is upsetting because it doesn’t feel like I’m in control of whatever’s happening to me.

Before I can dwell on my conundrum any further, the brothers and the rest of the survivors get back to the campfire, their arms filled with their findings. There’s sacks of food from the citadel’s residents’ homes, various knick knacks they think they’ll be needing for their journey back, and various valuables that look shiny. Seeing Jonathan haphazardly carrying his spear in his armpit while juggling all the things in his arms, I get an idea. Calling out to him, I say, “Hey Jonathan, let me see that spear of yours for a second.”

Seeing how his hands are a bit full with all his loot, I grab the spear and slide it out from under his armpit. Taking a few steps away from the rest of the group, I practice some jabs, thrusts, slashes, and sweeps. Fuck me these moves feel natural as well. It’s like I’ve been practicing with a spear my whole life. Damn, if I had a spear during our valley ambush, I would’ve tore through those Vipers like a hot knife through butter.

Fuck this is a lot to process. I almost want to go to sleep tonight without a dose of Schon just to see what happens. Almost. Sitting back down by the campfire, I lay Jonathan’s spear down next to him and Jonas hands me a roll of bread. There isn’t any water in the citadel that’s safe to drink but there’s a stream right outside that we can stop by tomorrow.

While everyone’s having dinner around the fire, we talk about what we’ll be doing tomorrow. The Fold’s stable has plenty of horses that we can take to ride our way out of these woods. Although, none of us are incredibly confident we can easily find our way out. Hawthorne’s a bit more easygoing about it saying as long as we can get to a main road, we can manage. The only real obstacle that stands in our way is the Vipers.

We lost way too many people during our fight with the Savior and even now, there’s no way we can set up a shieldwall sturdy enough to withstand a Vipers’ charge. I still can’t believe that inbred fucker somehow regained his powers tonight. But I feel like I’ve learned enough about their patrol routes from my experience riding with Gavin’s team that I might be able to safely navigate around them. Though their routes might be erratic with them pretty much losing their whole force. Sigh, it’s going to be hard either way.

Once everyone’s eaten their fill, we start turning in for the night. Perhaps I gravitated towards my shack because it was getting late and I instinctually wanted to sleep someplace familiar. Everyone else picks a shack nearby and heads inside for the night. Feeling an urge to piss, I walk back outside and visit the communal outhouse.

After relieving myself, I start heading back towards my shack when I hear a rustle behind me. Taking out both my axes, I spin around with them raised high. It’s a bit dark over here since the citadel’s fires have started to die down for the night but I could barely make out two dark figures crouched down in front of me, adjacent to the outhouse. I start cautiously approaching them with my axes when I hear one of them call out, “Brother Isaac? Is that you?”

Uh oh.