As Ventren and Gwendolyn rode westward, Gwendolyn urged her horse forward until she matched his pace, riding alongside him. Her mount was almost identical to Vesper in armor and caparison, though slightly smaller—a white mare instead of black.
"Nice horse, Sir Ventren."
"Thank you," he replied, patting the neck of his steed. "Good horsey."
"So…"
"I know what you're about to say, Sir Gwendolyn."
"Gwen's just fine. No need to be formal with me, Venty."
"Do not call me that." Ventren spurred his horse forward in annoyance. Gwen quickly caught up.
"Sorry… Thank you, regardless. For saving me that night."
"It wasn't a big deal. I saw the retinue being attacked, so I did what had to be done."
"Was it because you wanted to join the Royal Guard?"
"No. Can't have brigands roaming around. Especially now, with the Freehold system gone—we only have soldiers to rely on."
"I wanted to thank you for a while but I couldn't reach you at Ironhold. I got chewed out by my superior then had to ride to the Halzyon Wall for the army's tournament."
"Winning against the best of the best of knights. Impressive, I must say."
"I was a sergeant—a man-at-arms," Gwen said smugly. "I had combat experience with actual banditry, Sir Ventren. Didn't have to kill unarmed peasants like most of the current 'veteran' knight lineup. The veterans of the Valk–Tytia War were too old to participate, so I got lucky."
"Most of them are commanders now," Ventren said. "High-ranking garrison or retinue officials."
"Yes. I've tremendous respect for them. Unlike the junior officers—the other sergeants and knights—whose only experience was killing peasants under King Maershal's orders."
"He is no king of mine," Ventren said flatly. "I hope that bastard's fucking dead by the time we return. Vaenir should already be our monarch."
Gwen looked visibly surprised. Such language did not befit a knight—though Ventren was a mercenary, after all.
"No one loves Maershal," she said carefully, "but you ought to keep those sentiments to yourself. It doesn't befit a Royal Guard. Wait until he's dead. What if I were loyal to Maershal? You'd be hanged, drawn and quartered."
"The person I saved wouldn't throw me to the wolves."
She smiled faintly. "True… Sir Ventren, can we rest here?" She pointed toward a village ahead. "I'm exhausted. We've been riding all day."
Ventren studied the road, the forests beyond it—then realized the place looked familiar.
"All right," he said. "Let's dismount."
—/—/—
They approached the village inn, Ventren leaving his axe behind and opting to carry only his shortsword in case of emergency. The inn's door was large enough that he could enter without removing his horned helmet. As it swung open, a small bell chimed, alerting the innkeeper to new arrivals.
The interior was spacious and warmly lit. The air buzzed with celebration—the eve of the kingdom's founding and the anniversary of Matrem Myriam's discovery of what would become modern Halzyon. The fiery inn fell silent the moment the two stepped inside: heavily armored figures draped in silver-white cloaks, and a man bearing a helmet crowned with winged horns.
"Isn't that Sir Ventren?"
"And who's the girl with him?"
"That's Sir Gwendolyn!"
Ventren and Gwen each rested a hand on their shortswords, instinctively on guard. Then, suddenly, the silence broke into cheers.
"Saviours of Gejhetz Village!"
"You defended us from the goblins!"
"Heroes!"
They glanced at one another, startled and slowly relaxed—hands moving away from their blades.
"You are always welcome here!"
"For a moment," Gwen said with a nervous laugh, "I thought you were about to attack us."
"What for?" one of the villagers replied. "Sir Ventren, we saw you enter the caves and leave with the goblin shaman already dead!"
Ventren's expression was unreadable beneath his helmet. His jaw clenched, sweat forming at his temples as a familiar image flashed through his mind—Martin's corpse, cold and still. He had slain the goblin shaman, yes… but he had also led a child to his death.
"And you, Sir Gwendolyn," another voice added, "we heard from the local patrols that you led the charge against the horde's makeshift siege engines!"
Gwen flushed slightly at the praise, though a dull ache settled in her chest. Victory did not erase the memory of the men who had fallen under her command.
The innkeeper hurried over, setting down two glasses of schnapps and a large, fluffy loaf of bread. "On the house, Royal Guards. Thank you for saving us. You two are the best possible choices for that position!"
"Quite generous of you," Gwen said, offering a polite nod. "Thank you."
The cheers washed over Ventren as he accepted the glass placed in his gauntlet, nodding when expected, but the warmth of the inn did nothing to loosen the knot in his chest.
Saviour, they called him. The word tasted bitter.
Every laugh, every raised cup pulled him backward—to the damp cave walls, the stench of blood and poison, the shaman's body collapsing at his feet. And behind that memory, always behind it, Martin. The child who he irresponsibly lead to his death. The mental image of him dead and impaled haunting him.
Ventren's grip tightened around the schnapps until the wood of the table creaked beneath his knuckles. If he closed his eyes for even a moment, he could still hear it—the wet gasp, the laughter of that vile goblin.
He did not drink, which Gwen noticed.
"Sir Ventren?" she said softly, leaning closer so only he could hear. "You all right?"
He exhaled through his nose. "They shouldn't say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Hero." His voice was low, almost lost beneath the din. "Saviour."
She studied him for a moment, then gestured with her head toward the far corner of the inn, where the light dimmed and the noise softened. "Come. Before someone asks you to make a speech."
Ventren hesitated, then followed.
They sat at a smaller table near the hearth, half-shadowed, the crackle of fire dulling the edge of the celebration. For a while, neither spoke. Gwen broke the loaf in half and pushed a piece toward him.
"You didn't touch your drink," she said.
"Don't need it."
Her brow furrowed. "You killed the shaman. It is cause for celebration, no?"
"And got a boy killed doing it."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Gwen stiffened—not in surprise, but recognition. "Martin. That boy we found dead in the caves…"
Ventren's jaw tightened. "I told him to stay back. He didn't listen. Should've known better than to let him lead or follow at all." His fingers flexed, restless. "At the end of the day, I am still a mercenary deep down. We only handled kill and retrieve missions, never had to rescue or defend anything of that scale."
She didn't interrupt. She knew better, after all her own men haunts her in her nightmares.
"I keep seeing him," Ventren continued. "Every time I hear the word hero or saviour."
"And what do you see?" Gwen asked quietly.
"It doesn't matter what I see. I want to just handle my unfinished business before… I don't know, actually."
She took a slow breath. "I lost men leading the charge at the siege engines."
Ventren looked at her then.
"Some screamed," she said. "Some didn't but I gave the order anyway. If I hadn't, we'd all be dead—and this village would be goblin feed." Her hands curled in her lap. "They called that victory. Can you blame them, though?"
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"You carry yours," Gwen said at last. "I carry mine. That doesn't make us frauds."
Ventren stared into the fire. "Doesn't make us heroes either."
"Well, suits you…" she said. A faint smile touched her lips. "But I am loving the praise and free food."
They both let out soft laughs.
He let out a slow breath, the tension easing just a fraction. He lifted the glass at last—not in celebration, but acknowledgment—and took a small sip.
"I'm serious though, don't call me Venty again," he muttered.
She winked at him. "No promises."
From the corner of his eye, Ventren caught a glimpse through the inn's window—a figure standing in the dark, just beyond the torchlight. The witch raised a hand and waved, slow and deliberate.
"Gwen," he said, rising from his seat, "I'll be back. Need to use the outhouse."
She chugged the remainder of her drink, already half-drunk. "Fine by me. I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow."
Ventren threaded his way through the cheering crowd, bumping shoulders with villagers too merry to notice his urgency. He pushed through the door and broke into a brisk walk, rounding the side of the inn until he reached the sheds behind it.
She was waiting there, half-hidden by shadow.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed.
"Easy, big guy." The witch raised a finger to her lips, one eye closed in a mockery of secrecy, her smile sharp and smug. "Would be terrible if you were caught sneaking around with a silly little witch."
He glanced back toward the inn. No one followed or seemed to notice the witch.
"I came to tell you," she continued lightly, "that I won't be appearing anymore. This will be our last meeting for a while." Her smile widened. "Though I will still be watching you."
"Good," Ventren said flatly. "It's too dangerous for you to appear like this anyway."
"So eager to rid of me..." Her gaze flicked past him, toward the inn windows glowing with firelight. "That girl in there," she said. "Pretty cute, no?"
"None of your business." His voice hardened. "Besides—I can't. Not after Irina."
For the briefest moment, the witch shifted. Her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. She shuffled her feet, uncomfortable. "You shouldn't let that dictate the remainder of your love life."
"Witch," he said, turning back to her, "why do I forget about your presence whenever I'm with others?"
She tilted her head. "A safety mechanism," she said easily. "So you don't go telling people you're a slave to my will."
Something dark passed through Ventren's posture. Even hidden behind his helmet, the air around him seemed to tighten.
"I wouldn't do that," he said slowly, "unless you planned to betray or discard me. Remember—our interests align."
She laughed softly. "I wouldn't discard such a valuable and obedient warrior." Her voice dipped, almost flirtatious. "Now—speaking of interests. House Menzo."
Ventren's shoulders stiffened.
"Since you're going there anyway," she continued, stepping closer, "retrieve a sacrificial dagger hidden on their grounds."
"Sacrificial?" Ventren snapped. "That goes against the teachings of Matrem Myriam. Does the house indulge in heresy?"
"You'll figure that out yourself, dear." She reached out, placing a finger beneath the chin of his helmet, lifting it just slightly. "While investigating, you'll stumble upon it. You'll know what it does once you have it."
"A sacrificial item," Ventren muttered. "And yet you say it's magical."
"Magic wears many masks~"
He exhaled sharply. "Fine. I'll get it. But I've been gone too long. I'm heading back before anyone notices."
"Goodbye, dully-honey."
Ventren made a dismissive sound and raised his hand, extending his middle and ring fingers—the good ol' Valkraun sign for jump in a ditch.
The witch vanished.
Ventren turned and walked back toward the inn, his steps felt heavier than before.