Mikhael swallowed hard.

  "For the greater good," he whispered to himself.

  Then he turned to Valentina. "Are you alright, Lady Valentina?" he asked.

  Valentina, for once, did not sneer. She only gave a quiet, "Yes."

  Their moment did not last.

  Three more attackers surged from the alley. The guard who had cleaved the archer before reappeared, his armor's seals still glowing. He met the first attacker in a blur and struck him down, cutting him cleanly across the neck.

  The second raised his blade, but the guard parried and drove his sword through the man, the steel bursting out the other side.

  The last attacker hesitated, his resolve cracking. He turned to run. The guard gave him a moment, as if offering a bad start. Then he moved. The distance vanished in a heartbeat. The sword entered clean through the back.

  The battle ended the way it began.

  The guard rushed back to Valentina. "Are you all right, my lady?"

  "Your incompetence could have gotten my son killed," Valentina snapped. The cold control in her voice cracked, rage bleeding through. "I should have nothing short of your head for this."

  "My lady," the guard stammered, lowering his gaze, "if those are your wishes, I will do as commanded."

  Valentina stared at him, weighing the choice. Then her voice cooled again.

  "Get us to the manor. Your fate will be decided later."

  "Yes, my lady," the soldier said, a shaky smile threatening to rise to his face but wisely kept in check.

  "And you," she turned sharply toward the driver still crouched near the wheel, "get out from behind there and take me home."

  As he scrambled back to his seat, three town soldiers came sprinting around the corner. When they saw her, they dropped to one knee.

  "My lady," one of them gasped, "forgive us, we came as soon as we were alerted."

  Valentina wanted to strike him. To put her heel through his face. But the crowd was gathering now. Eyes were watching. So instead, she offered venom in words.

  "You were as useless as ever."

  The soldier opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  "Find out who these desert-dwelling rats were, how they got in, and then tell your superior to report to my husband."

  "Yes, my lady. We will do our best—"

  "No. I do not need your best. I need results."

  "Of course, my lady," he muttered.

  Valentina turned her back, done with them, and moved to escort Valentin into the carriage. Her voice was honey now. "It is all right, my darling. Mama has handled everything."

  Valentin did not respond. He followed without speaking, eyes fixed ahead like a boy walking in a dream.

  Mikhael stood still. He looked at the corpse on the ground. His sword still somewhere inside that man's body. Blood that was not his.

  "I have just killed a man. With my own hand. From the moment I swore vengeance on these people, I have done nothing to make it right. No. No. Why should I blame myself?"

  His gaze shifted to Valentina, then to Valentin.

  "It is not me. I was not born broken. They did this. They are the rot."

  And with that, he turned, walking toward the carriage, not as a servant, but as a blade sheathed in silence.

  The carriage wheels rolled through the gates of the estate just as the sun began its slow descent behind the trees. Not a word had been spoken on the ride back. Valentina sat stiff and silent, staring straight ahead. Valentin beside her, hands clenched in his lap. Mikhael rode up front again, next to the driver. His tunic was stained, his hands clean, but when he looked hard enough, he could still see it. He was a killer now.

  The manor guards opened the main gates without question. No one dared delay them. As the carriage slowed in the courtyard, Valentina stepped down first. A servant hurried toward her and bowed low. She did not acknowledge him. She reached back and took Valentin's hand, guiding him down as if he were made of glass.

  Mikhael stepped down last, unsummoned, unsupervised.

  Romulus, already informed of their return, waited near the manor entrance. His eyes scanned each of them like weights on a scale. When they landed on Valentina's bloodstained gown, they widened. He rushed forward, pulling her into his arms, and for the first time, Mikhael saw her mask crack.

  "We need to speak," she whispered. Only he could hear. Romulus gave a single nod.

  Valentin did not wait. He passed them both without a word, his grimoire still clutched in one hand. He moved like a ghost, up the stairs and into the manor, gone.

  Mikhael lingered a moment at the bottom, unsure if he was meant to follow, unsure if anyone even noticed him. He waited for no cue. No permission. He turned and went to his room.

  There, he sat at his desk and opened his grimoire. It was a thin one, meager in comparison to Romulus's or even Valentin's. He had not been granted their knowledge. Valentin had never shared his. Still, Mikhael had memorized every seal. He could draw them from memory now, line for line. He left the book open and leaned back on his bed, eyes open, mind gnawing at the day. The scenes replayed without mercy.

  He had always known he would have to spill blood. He just had not known what it would feel like. The sword sliding into flesh. The breath escaping a man's lungs. The smell. He had imagined it would feel righteous, poetic even. A storm of vengeance. But all he felt now were chains. He had never felt heavier.

  His gaze drifted to the chessboard. He had gotten better, much better. Good enough to beat Valentin now. But he never did. Not because he could not, because he would not. His role was still that of a brute. A dull blade in service to his betters. He saw the winning moves, clear as day. Then made the weaker ones on purpose. And when he was alone, he would replay the game, just to prove to himself he had been right.

  He wanted to crush him. To humiliate him across the board, to let truth drip from the pieces like blood from a blade. But he repressed it. For now.

  He pushed himself up from the bed, tired from it all, from the thinking, the weight of the day. His legs carried him through the halls to Valentin's room. He knocked, but no voice came from the other side. He opened the door anyway.

  Valentin sat inside, on the floor, back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He did not even glance at Mikhael as he entered.

  Mikhael took the liberty to sit beside him, arms at his sides, legs stretched out across the floor.

  "Today shook you pretty bad, eh?" Mikhael broke the silence.

  Valentin said nothing. His head was buried in his crossed arms.

  "We fight every day, Valentin. What was so different about today?"

  "They wanted to kill me, Mikhael. That is the difference. And you do not."

  "Oh, how wrong you are," Mikhael thought.

  "But they did not," he said instead. "We walked off unharmed, did we not?"

  "Yes, but why? Why would they want to kill me, or my mother? What could we have possibly done to them?"

  "I could name a few reasons, especially for that mother of yours. Starting with a building that sucks people's will to live." He wanted to say it.

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  Instead: "I really have no idea. There are just some bad men in the world, I guess."

  "But it is the law. The Messenger received it from the gods, it is divine decree that they belong to the nobility," Valentin said, each word full of certainty.

  Mikhael stood up, done with the boy's nonsense. If this continued, he would have two bodies by the end of the day.

  "Never mind that now. Come, let us play. I think I can beat you this time. I am sure of it."

  Valentin chuckled. "You say that every time." He moved to the board and sat opposite Mikhael.

  They played in silence at first. The pieces moved with soft clicks, each one measured, each exchange a conversation neither of them wanted to have aloud. Valentin opened strong, as always, structured, safe. Mikhael mirrored, adapting step by step. Not copying. Learning.

  Five moves in, Mikhael saw it. A rhythm. Valentin liked symmetry. He favored controlling the center but often left his left flank soft. He rushed development, but overlooked an exposed diagonal. Mikhael did not strike. He filed it away.

  By the tenth move, the board was complex, equal, but not really. Valentin held more space. Mikhael held more understanding. And still, he played like the lesser man.

  Valentin moved one of his rooks, steady and deliberate, tightening his hold on the center. He did not hesitate. His training showed in the way he moved, disciplined, confident, certain he was in control.

  Mikhael sat still, studying the board with a calm expression that said nothing. But in his mind, the game had already opened like a wound. He saw the weak points, the overconfidence, the repeated habits Valentin leaned on without realizing. There, and there, two small gaps. If he struck now, the game would tip. Not gradually. Completely.

  He could break him. But he did not. Instead, he nudged a pawn forward. A quiet move. Harmless on the surface. The kind of move that said, I am trying. That said, I am getting better.

  Valentin did not even pause. He nodded to himself and played on, still half smiling, still unaware that Mikhael had just thrown the game.

  "You are playing better," Valentin said, offering it like praise.

  Mikhael gave a polite nod. "Trying to."

  But in his mind, he saw it all unfold again, the trap he could have sprung, the position he could have turned into victory. Every move he did not make screamed louder than the ones he did. He had promised himself to be patient. To learn. To wait.

  The game ended ten minutes later. Valentin extended his hand across the board with the quiet pride of someone who thought he had earned the win. Mikhael took it, his grip firm and unreadable.

  "You did not win," he thought. "I let you live another day on the board. Nothing more."

  Valentin looked pleased. Mikhael watched him. The boy still believed he was the better player. Still believed he was the one climbing. Still believed he was safe.

  Good. Let him believe.

  In Romulus's study, Valentina still paced like a storm gathering force.

  "How could they have even gotten here? The borders are supposed to be impregnable."

  Romulus remained seated, his eyes tracking her movements like a general observing a battlefield.

  "We are close to the frontier, love. They have always found ways to slip past our patrols, our advances, to vanish into thin air. It is not surprising they found a way in."

  He said it with calm logic, but it only fed her fire. She stopped mid-step and fixed him with a sharp look, the kind that said, You think I do not already know that?

  Romulus fell silent. Words were spent. He knew better than to meet heat with heat. Let her burn herself out. He had tried every tactic already to calm her down. None worked.

  A knock at the door saved him.

  A servant entered and bowed. "My lord," he said, bowing low. "The Captain of the Watch has arrived. He brings three prisoners, the last of those who fled. They were caught in the lower quarter, trying to disappear into the alleys."

  "Finally," Valentina muttered, already halfway to the door. But Romulus stood and blocked her with a word.

  "Valentina. I will handle this. You are still shaken. Go to your chambers. Rest."

  "Alexander, please, I—"

  "Valentina," he said again. The name alone, firm and final.

  She stared at him, lips slightly parted in protest, but she knew the tone. She exhaled through her nose, turned with a sharp motion, and brushed past his shoulder as she left. Her footsteps echoed once around the corner and were gone.

  Romulus waited a moment. Then turned to the servant still at the door.

  "Bring me Mikhael. Now."

  Mikhael was already rushing toward the courtyard. The servant's voice had made it sound urgent, as if delay might cost something. On his way, a thought lingered: Valentin's slumped face when Romulus had summoned him instead of his own son. That look stayed with him.

  As Mikhael stepped into the courtyard, he found Romulus already there, hands behind his back, eyes locked on the prisoners. No one spoke. The only sound was the quiet crackle of torches burning as night crept in. Mikhael slowed as he approached. Even without eye contact, he bowed.

  "My lord. You summoned me."

  Romulus did not look at him.

  "Come beside me," he said.

  Mikhael hesitated, then obeyed. He stood next to him, close. Too close. It was strange, standing within reach of the man he had sworn to kill, to live with him every day and one day take his life.

  His thoughts snapped when Romulus's hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.

  "You did well today, Mikhael. Acted on your own to protect my wife."

  He turned, green eyes meeting Mikhael's blue. The look was calm. Almost proud.

  "You keep proving yourself."

  He gave Mikhael's shoulder a light nudge toward the prisoners.

  Romulus turned fully now, then dropped into a crouch beside him. Mikhael flinched. His instincts told him to back away, but the hand on his shoulder held firm. He panicked inwardly. Outwardly, he stayed still.

  "It is all right," Romulus said quietly.

  Then his gaze shifted to the three men sprawled on their stomachs a few meters away.

  "Caught today. Desert dogs. Fanatics. They wanted revenge against the gods."

  He stood.

  "And in honor of your bravery, you will decide what happens to them."

  Mikhael said nothing.

  Romulus did not press. He just stared at the bodies.

  "Their fate is entirely in your hands. Choose."

  "There is no honor here. Just another test," he thought. "I cannot spare them. That would make me suspicious. Weak. They expect blood."

  They were darker than him. Rougher. Spoke a tongue he did not understand. But they were his people. Not by nation. Not by blood. By circumstance. If he had been born in the dust like them, without chains, he might have been the one to loosen an arrow that day.

  "They are what I would be if I had the chance. If I had the courage. But they failed."

  He scanned the faces around him. No one would stop him. No whip, no punishment, no shame. He was not the one being judged anymore. He was the one who passed judgment.

  That was what power was.

  It is strange, this feeling. I should be more shaken. If I had done something like this in my village, fear would have run through me. I would have been punished. I would have been seen as a monster. But not here. Here, they will praise me. Here, I am the one who decides what is right and wrong, and this is so wrong.

  Romulus broke the silence.

  "And?" A calm prompt. But sharp.

  Mikhael's voice did not shake. But just before he spoke, he realized his jaw had tightened. He wanted to think he was doing it for the greater good. He needed to think that.

  "They die, my lord," he said. "They are blasphemers. They went against the divine order. Anything less would be unworthy."

  Romulus's mouth curled, not into a smile, but something like it.

  "Good," he said. "Very good."

  The guards reached for their swords, but Romulus raised his hand, signaling them to stop. And, without protest, they obeyed.

  He turned back to Mikhael.

  "Are you sure of your decision, Mikhael?"

  Mikhael hesitated. Everything in him screamed uncertainty now. Had he made the right call? Had he passed Romulus's test, or failed it? He did not know, but faltering now would be worse than any mistake.

  "Yes, my lord," he said. "I am sure."

  "Very well."

  Romulus turned to one of the guards. "Your sword. Give it to him."

  The guard blinked in confusion, but obeyed. He unsheathed his sword and offered the hilt to Mikhael.

  Mikhael took it with his right hand, then both. It was heavier than he expected. He had not trained with a real blade before. The guard stepped back into line without another word.

  "You have made the order," Romulus said, calm and collected. "Now carry it out. Be the example. Pick one. Do it."

  Mikhael did not answer. He just turned to the prisoners, truly looking at them now for the first time. One lay unconscious, face buried in the dirt. The second was conscious but bloodied, murmuring to himself in a language Mikhael could not understand.

  The third stared directly at him. Unblinking. Burning with defiance and fury. So strong it could swallow him whole.

  How could he choose? They all looked so human. So alive.

  The man he had killed in town, that had been instinct. Reflex. But this? This was something else entirely.

  He walked forward, the third prisoner never breaking eye contact. It was a silent war between them. And as Mikhael knelt, something shifted in the man's gaze, hatred giving way to a strange calm.

  "You… not them," the man said, his accent broken, his voice low. "You… me."

  "I… I do not understand," Mikhael stammered, panic rising in his throat.

  The man chuckled weakly and muttered something in his own language.

  Then, in halting Common:

  "Avenge."

  Mikhael froze. Avenge what? Who? How did this man see through him?

  No time to think. Romulus was watching.

  He stood, stepped behind the man. He did not know his name. That made it no easier. If anything, it made it worse.

  He raised the sword in a reverse grip, angled toward the heart.

  "I am sorry," Mikhael whispered. "Forgive me."

  Then he let the blade fall. He felt everything. The sword slicing through cloth, through flesh, striking bone. It punched through the ribcage, pierced the heart, and hit the earth below. His arms shook. His stomach lurched.

  The man gasped. A sharp, stifled sound, half pain, half surrender. It did not last long. A few short breaths. Then silence.

  Mikhael pulled the blade free. Blood soaked the metal. He returned it to the guard and nodded, stepping back before Romulus.

  Romulus grinned like a man watching a flower bloom.

  "You have done wonderfully," he said. "You are excused. It is a big day tomorrow. Get some sleep."

  Mikhael nodded and turned away. He moved slowly at first, dazed, heavy. He could hear the unsheathing of the swords. Then he bolted the moment he was out of sight.

  He burst into his room and grabbed the nearest pot. He vomited until his knees hit the floor.

  That night, sleep did not come. He lay on the bed like a corpse awaiting burial, eyes wide open, unmoving. The sheets twisted beneath him, damp with sweat, yet he did not feel hot. He did not feel anything. Not really. His mind kept returning to the sword. Not the weight of it, but the feeling of it sliding through skin, through muscle, through bone. The way the body jerked. The sound. Not a scream, not even pain, just that strangled breath, caught halfway between dying and trying not to.

  Mikhael turned on his side. His stomach churned again, dry now, nothing left to give. His throat burned with bile and silence.

  "You… me."

  The man's words echoed over and over again, looping until they blurred with his own thoughts. He could still see those eyes. Not afraid. Not begging. Expectant.

  And then: "Avenge."

  Was it a plea? A command? A curse? Mikhael did not know. Did not want to know. He pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw stars, trying to burn the image out. But it always returned. The blood. The breath. The sword in his hand.

  And the worst part? No one would punish him for it. They would praise him. Reward him. Dress him in silk and call him loyal.

  The hours passed like that. Staring. Shaking. Trying not to breathe too deeply, because it reminded him of the man's final gasp.