Gwendolyn did not think twice to seize him by the arm, by the scorched edge of his pauldron, shouting words she did not remember later while pulling him out of the fire.
Ventren was heavy for her, armor deadweight and his body was unsteady, but adrenaline and panic lent her strength. She dragged him away from the worst of the flames, away from collapsing canvas and falling stone pillars towards the open field of the forests.
She's seen me,she'll hate me, she'll tell the Prince…
Then the forest swallowed him as everything went black.
When Ventren woke, the world was quiet. Leaves rustled softly and birds chirped. Sunlight filtered through branches overhead, dappling the ground with light. He lay on his back and felt a hand holding his own. It felt warm and small, Ventren turned his head. He was whole again.
Around him stood the freed slaves—men and women, thin and wary, some wrapped in salvaged cloaks, others embracing each other. The girl from the road stood near the edge of the clearing, watching him with gratitude written on her face.
And beside him, seated on a fallen log, was Gwendolyn. She was still in full armor, holding his hand.
Her helm lay discarded at her feet. Strands of hair had come loose from their braid, framing a face marked by soot, sweat and something rawer than fatigue. She was watching him closely, as if afraid he might disappear if she looked away.
"You're awake," she said quietly. "The Royal Guard cloaks are somewhat fireproof… Mitigated most of the fire damage."
Ventren swallowed. "Seems so."
There was a pause.
Then she said, very carefully, "You're… a dullahan."
"Yes."
"I've only ever heard of them from stories..."
The word dullahan felt heavier spoken aloud than it ever had kept buried. She waited, giving him space he did not feel he deserved.
"I wasn't always," Ventren said at last. His voice was rough, scraped thin by memory. "I was a Freehold mercenary. I fought with friends I trusted and bled with."
His fingers tightened unconsciously around hers.
"I don't know what I did. I never got to know. It just happened so fast."
He exhaled slowly.
"They ambushed me and left me broken in a ruin. They wanted me dead, even killed my horse."
Gwen's grip tightened in response but she said nothing.
"I didn't die," Ventren continued. "I woke up cursed."
He laughed once, bitter and humorless.
"Eventually, I learned what I was." He looked away. "And naturally, I wanted to hide it."
"Is that why you never—" Gwen stopped herself, then tried again. "Is that why you don't sleep much? Or eat?"
"Yes."
Another silence.
"I want revenge," Ventren admitted. "On them all who did it. That's the only thing that's ever felt… right. Everything else—joining the Royal Guard, swearing an oath to the Prince Regent and the kingdom—was supposed to be penance and a matter of convenience."
He finally looked back at her.
"If you want to report me," he said quietly, "I won't stop you. The Prince would be within his rights. So would you, but I'd prefer you to do so after I'm done."
Gwen stared at him.
Then she stood up abruptly, still holding his hand and before Ventren could react she leaned down and hugged him. Plate met plate with a dull, awkward clatter. The embrace was fierce and unrefined, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as if afraid he might leave.
What the—
"You idiot," she said, voice muffled against his armor.
Ventren froze, stunned at her actions.
She pulled back just as suddenly, cheeks flushing crimson, hands retreating as if she reached out to fire. "I—sorry. I didn't think—"
He was staring at her.
"You don't look like a monster, nor are you one!" she said quickly, words tumbling now. "None of them think you're one. Look."
She gestured around the clearing. The former slaves had drawn closer. Some bowed their heads. Others pressed hands to their chests, a known gesture of thanks in Tytia. A few spoke softly in a language Ventren did not recognize, voices layered with gratitude and awe.
"You saved them," Gwen said. "From slavery, from torture and from being sold like cattle. Whatever you think are—who you are is defined by what you do in the present."
Ventren felt something in his chest loosen, just a fraction.
I see. It is a truth that how you view yourself is not how others see you.
"I was afraid you'd hate me," he admitted.
Gwen shook her head fiercely. "I was afraid you were dead..."
They stayed like that for a moment longer. Eventually, they helped the freed captives to their feet and guided them back toward the road. The ruins smoldered behind them, smoke curling skyward like a dark finger accusing the heavens.
As they passed the outskirts of the camp, Ventren's eye caught something amid the ash. A pavise shield, half-burnt, its face blackened but not entirely destroyed with a crest remaining visible.
It was the blood snake of House Menzo.
Ventren stopped.
"What is it?" Gwen asked.
"This day has just gotten more interesting," he said quietly and pointed towards the shield. "House Menzo's pavise."
They reached the road shortly after. An Ironhold patrol convoy stood there—wagons halted, soldiers alert with eyes drawn by the distant smoke. Pikes lowered slightly as Ventren and Gwen emerged from the treeline flanked by former slaves.
They recognised the white cloaks immediately.
"Royal Guardsmen!" one of the patrolmen called. "What happened here?"
Ventren and Gwen told the patrol details regarding what transpired.
The patrol captain listened grimly, then nodded. "We'll take it from here."
The freed captives were ushered gently into wagons, given canteens and blankets. The soldiers moved out toward the ruins to secure what remained.
As the convoy rolled away, Gwen mounted her horse beside Ventren.