I've been galloping for hours, but I can't calm down!
If only I could stop crying like a helpless infant. Damn it!
What does it mean that my parents were murdered?
Who killed them?
Curse them all!
I was always told my mother died in childbirth; that my father, too inept to raise me on his own, chose to give me to the sovereigns and then took his own life!
And that was all. Everything.
Now, instead, I find out it was a lie. None of it is true.
They were murdered!
… murdered!
But why?
And what reason was there to lie to me?!
And then that elf. Saying the most absurd things I've ever heard.
Do not kill. Never. Never. Never.
Why?
Bàistec raised me believing that killing is the lifeblood of existence.
I've done it countless times at his command… and I liked it! If the order is kill, I kill; if it's torture, I torture; if it's take prisoners, I do that too…
Forget about eyes full of pain and all that nonsense.
Since when do you look into the pleading eyes of a victim? Of course they beg—cowards to the end. They're about to die; what else should they do? Laugh?
I love the adrenaline born from danger, the intoxication of screams of pain!
They make me feel invincible.
I am invincible!
I slaughtered all the King's guards in Cloudland on my own—who else could have done that? Who? Only me. Dorcha, the Black Knight, the Prince of the Orcs.
Not of the clouder, damn it. Of the orcs!
"I embraced evil," the old man says… but what is evil?
Is everything Bàistec taught me—the teachings of him and Urchoicha—truly all wrong?
Because… if one can act not necessarily by the will of one's Sovereign, if one can truly choose…
Choose.
No. It can't be.
It's absurd. Unthinkable.
Father always told me:
"Dorcha, killing is a pleasure—you must be proud of it. You are an assassin. There is nothing more beautiful or invigorating than the smell of blood, isn't that right, my son?"
And it is so.
Or… maybe not.
But if I don't kill or torture… I don't exist to him.
And if he doesn't embrace me, if he doesn't acknowledge me, then I stop existing.
This is my normality.
Why should I change now?
That mission began the same way: stripping off his armor and pretending to be someone I am not. Deceive. Then betray.
That is the order.
That is what I am doing.
But now… I realize that, for my entire life, I've done nothing but deny my true essence to myself.
So… who am I, really?
What race do I belong to? Am I truly one of the clouder?
Why does deceiving that girl now feel so wrong?
…
The truth is… I am nothing but a pawn.
If that's so, what use is the title of Black Knight to me?
What meaning does it have?
That, too, is just a farce.
Now I know.
I am a servant in the hands of the Orc sovereigns.
But if this has always been my destiny, why should I change—why?
I feel sick. I can't breathe.
My head is splitting.
My body trembles without stopping.
I climb down from Hercules, shaking even harder than when I mounted him.
I think I have a high fever…
… I need to lean against that tree trunk…
I can't reach it—grass will do…
I need to…
-----
There he is…
I finally found him!
He's sleeping on the grass. He must be cold.
I try to move him…
Ugh, he's so heavy… at least now he's resting against the tree trunk.
There. I place a blanket over him…
Oh wow—he's burning up.
I hope he gets better soon.
I sit down beside him, keeping watch…
I can't just leave him all alone again.
-----
Something brushes against my face… what is it?
I open my eyes.
I'm confused. My head still hurts.
And… this blanket? Where did it come from?
Hercules is close by, at my side.
Resting.
I turn slightly and see her — the kid — sitting right beside me.
She's quiet, watching me with a faint smile.
"Welcome back… how are you feeling?" she asks.
Just what I needed.
What am I supposed to tell her?
That I'm confused out of my mind, that being near her makes me feel inadequate?
That my soul is dark as pitch,
and hers shines like light?
I'm dangerous to her.
To hell with my father's plan.
She needs to stay away from me.
I fling the blanket aside and lunge at her.
"You're here again? Leave me alone!" I shout.
Then I let out a sharp whistle.
Hercules rears up.
In an instant, I'm on his back.
-----
I try to stop him, touching his leg.
"Where are you going? Don't you remember? Today we start the training."
"What do I have to do with this? You had to find that Elf, and I helped you do it. That's it. I'm going home."
No. He can't. How am I supposed to do this without him? I grab at his trousers—he has to get down! Or let me climb up!
"But… Cloudland is petrified. Time is running out, and the seal has to be restored! I'm still small, inexperienced—I can't do this without you. Help me, please!"
He pushes me away with a brusque gesture.
"Stop it! I don't care about any of this. Leave me alone."
"Then I'm coming with you," I say again, trying to pull myself up onto the horse.
I shouldn't have done that.
"Get away from here, I said!" he yells.
And he shoves me hard.
I fall backward.
It hurts…
"Ow…" I say instinctively.
I struggle to my feet.
He jumps down from the horse like a fury, grabs my wrist roughly, and yanks me toward him.
"Ow! What's wrong with you?! Stop it—you're hurting me! Let go!"
"Listen to me carefully," he growls in my ear. "I'm not normal. I'm a weapon of war. They call me the Black Knight. I was raised with a sword in my hand and a single purpose: to kill. So if you don't want me to prove it to you, leave. Stay away from me—and don't ever try to look for me again. Ever."
Then he throws me to the ground, hard, almost as if he wants to hurt me.
And he does.
More inside than out.
I'm lost. I don't understand.
Why is he doing this to me?
I have no words—they die in my throat.
I get back up with effort.
Everything hurts.
I look at him one last time.
He looks back at me.
There's something strange in his eyes.
As if he were sorry… but at the same time, not quite.
Maybe I misunderstood…
He wants me gone. That's all.
Fine.
As you wish.
Goodbye, Dorcha.
-----
She really is gone.
Damn me.
I'm an idiot.
A stupid idiot.
Why did I treat her like that?
That stinging in my eyes again! Damn it—this anger!
I wipe them with an irritated gesture.
Since when am I a crybaby?
I don't even recognize myself anymore!
…
Huh?
Broken branches.
Someone's coming.
They won't leave here alive.
No one comes near Aileen without consequences.
I dart behind a tree and slowly draw my sword.
I blend the sound of my breathing with the rustling leaves stirred by the morning breeze.
Then I wait, ready to strike.
A few moments pass, and I see him emerge from between the trees: almost three meters tall, his face resembling a boar's snout.
Long arms, short legs.
Slightly hunched, ape-like, with an agile build and, most likely, considerable strength.
A saber hangs from his belt, and he grips a flail in his hand.
He's certainly not a troll… but he doesn't quite look like an orc either… and yet, he reminds me of someone.
"O sentient being, halt!" I shout, bursting out from behind the tree.
I love this magic.
The Orc-troll's limbs freeze instantly.
He struggles to break free… useless. Let's see who he is.
I gesture with my hand, allowing him to speak.
"Who are you?"
"Grrr… Grrr… Grrrogherrr," he says with effort.
That accent—typical of the Lower Storm Kingdom. Could it be…
"Grogher…"
Wait…
I was six years old… lost in a mountain gorge… a ferocious creature with an elongated body and a massive head was about to tear me apart with its fangs.
He saved me.
And then he taught me how to use a flail to defend myself!
"Of course! How could I not recognize you! Forgive me, my friend."
I release his limbs—he's not dangerous.
"Thank youuu, maassster," he says, stretching.
"What brings you here? Do you carry orders from our King?"
He nods.
"I must taaake you baaack home, maassster. King Bàistec does not want you to continue your journey. He says that now you have… well… uhh… sooofteeened."
"Soften—what?"
He flushes, embarrassed. My father is the one who should be embarrassed. Softened? Me?!
"Weakened, yes," he tries to explain, as if that were any better.
I understand perfectly.
Just another way of saying he doesn't trust what I'm doing—or how I'm doing it.
What a disappointment.
It's true.
I am not his blood son.
No matter how hard I try, I never will be.
I'm like Grogher and the other soldiers; I hold a different rank, but in truth, I am nothing more than a slave in his service.
But I can choose, right?
Baelkers said so.
And it hurts.
But I believe it.
I want to believe it.
So I only have to choose:
follow Grogher and go back to my old life… forever;
or stay, take the risk, and fight for myself—
to discover who I truly am.