After calming the survivors, Matthew kept walking downhill.
When he stepped out of the forest, the last streak of sunset—dark and red like dried blood—was sinking behind the western hills.
The whole world felt heavy and dim.
He exhaled hard and dropped the bundle he carried beside the wreckage of a wagon.
Ahead, Morty waved at him from the road. "Hey. Over here—quick."
Matthew turned to Bors. "Fix the cart. I'll check it out."
Bors nodded without complaint and went straight to work. Matthew trusted him enough not to say anything more and hurried after Morty.
As he approached, he saw a filthy, ragged man standing nearby. Hair like a bird's nest, clothes torn to rags—he stood there grinning vacantly.
Matthew frowned. "Who's this?"
Morty smirked. "This fool? Looks like the one you put an arrow through."
Matthew's interest sharpened. He regarded the man—Raif, the bandit leader now pretending to be half-witted—and sneered.
"So he thinks if he plays pitiful, I'll just let him live?"
Morty shrugged. "You never know."
Matthew took a few steps closer, noticing the infected wound in Raif's leg. He already knew exactly how bad it was.
Then he asked, "How much loot did we lose?"
Morty shook his head. "Hard to say. A lot. Sir Elen's armor's gone, for sure."
Matthew nodded once—expression calm, though his voice turned flat. He lifted his boot and pressed it hard into Raif's wounded thigh.
The bandit screamed, body jerking as pain seized him.
Matthew didn't ease off. Instead, he pressed harder, grinding his heel until Raif's composure split open.
The man howled, eyes bloodshot, and spat between clenched teeth. "You bastard! Kill me if you dare! Go on! Look at your dead men! It's your fault—your damned meddling—"
He knew he wouldn't live to see another dawn.
Matthew didn't answer. He just leaned in, voice cold. "You'll die, no question. But how you die—that depends on us. Maybe we roast you slow… or slice you apart piece by piece."
Each method chilled the air. Raif flinched at every word.
He wasn't afraid of dying—but of dying badly.
He had watched others die that way: screaming, eyes bulging wide in endless pain, faces twisted into masks of terror.
Now the thought of it made his stomach seize.
"Please," he stammered, breaking down. "Please, mercy! I'm crippled now. I didn't even do that much wrong—"
Matthew watched him grovel, and the brief thrill of cruelty faded. He shook his head. "Don't insult me. You're worthless now. Death's the only thing left to give you."
Raif froze—and then blurted desperately, "Wait! I'm worth something! I've got gold—lots of it! Hidden in the mountains. Spare me, and I'll tell you where!"
His pride was gone; all that was left was the animal will to keep breathing.
Matthew crouched down in front of him, smiling thinly. "Then talk. If it's worth my time, I'll let you die quick."
Raif pointed shakily toward the left ridge. "Over that way… past the hill, there's a small valley. I buried it all there. Gold, silver, everything."
Matthew clapped his hands once, grinning. "Good. Very good. I like honesty."
The smile turned to steel as he straightened. There was a low rasp of metal.
A flash of steel.
Thunk.
Raif's head hit the dirt with a dull, wet sound.
Morty stared down at it, nose wrinkling. "Quick death for a monster like him? That seems too kind."
Matthew wiped the blade on his sleeve and replied quietly, "Maybe. But I don't lie about terms—and he just bought redemption for my dead men."
Morty watched him for a moment, oddly struck. Then he smiled faintly. "You're sure he wasn't lying?"
Matthew turned to him and tapped a finger below his eye. "Nothing false gets past these. Just like when you said you'd work for anyone who pays enough—that was true. But when you said you wanted to go home—that was a lie."
Morty rubbed at his nose, caught off guard by how easily Matthew had read him. The blood on his fingers made him stop and wipe them on his pants instead.
He muttered, "I really did want to go home. Just to see it again."
Matthew didn't react, only clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't overthink it. As I said—you're free to leave once we reach Sow's Ridge. Help me recruit a few men, take your share, and you can be on your way."
Then he turned and walked back toward Bors, who was still bent over the broken wheels.
Morty watched his back in silence, lips twisting with thoughts he didn't voice.
Night swallowed the valley. The last glow of dusk vanished, leaving only firelight.
Bors had lit three campfires, their flames encircling the dismantled wheels like halos.
When the fire flared bright, shadows of men and wagons stretched long across the rocky ground, all blending together.
Matthew crouched beside Bors, occasionally handing him tools, watching him plane the wood smooth before testing the fit again.
After a while, the rhythm grew monotonous.
Then, from the road on both sides, came the sound of hooves and voices—laughter, familiar tones.
Matthew looked up just in time to see Sir Haven approaching, carrying something bulky in his arms while talking to another rider beside him.
Matthew smiled and called, "Come on, hurry up!"
Haven grinned back, sliding off his horse and dumping a bundle of dented chainmail and swords onto the ground. Loot, by the look of it.
He knew exactly what the boy needed—supplies and steel could always buy the future.
From behind Haven's horse, Little Fishy poked his head out, face lighting up. "Brother! I'm back! Sir Haven found us!"
Matthew smiled warmly, ruffling the boy's hair before turning to the old mercenary who rode in behind.
"You see anyone else? Especially the two Night's Watch brothers?"
The old man's expression darkened. "No. The boy convinced me to turn back. The others kept running—we couldn't stop them. Maybe they thought their leader was dead."
The words weighed heavy, the air thick with quiet.
Matthew let out a long breath. "We'll search later. Living or dead, we bring them home. Northmen deserve that."
The old mercenary's eyes glistened as he wiped them roughly. "Thank you, my lord. Truly…"
Matthew pulled him into a quick, rough hug. "No need to thank me. Anyone under my command is my brother. Living or fallen—I'll remember them."
Something in his voice struck the men around him. The fire crackled, and for a long moment, no one moved. But their eyes followed him, hearts thudding hard against their ribs.
Even Haven's expression softened—admiration and something gentler behind it.
When Matthew turned away to help again, Haven followed, almost blurting his thoughts before hesitating.
He waited until they were alone by the trees, then finally asked, "How were you so sure we could beat those bastard bandits in the forest? They had the numbers."
Matthew gave him a look but answered evenly, "They weren't that strong, and the trees broke their reach. In close quarters, long spears mean nothing. We had you and Morty—your armor and skill gave us the edge. That was the key."
Haven chuckled, clearly pleased by the praise, the warmth of pride flushing through his tired limbs.
Matthew smiled faintly at the reaction. Sometimes he envied men like Haven—able to laugh so easily after bloodshed.
But that wasn't him.
He turned to go relieve himself, when Haven caught his arm awkwardly. "Uh… Matthew—wait."
The knight's face colored slightly. "I've been thinking. I've made up my mind."
Matthew raised an eyebrow.
Haven took a deep breath, straightening his posture like a man about to swear an oath.
"I accept your offer," he said solemnly. "You have my sword."
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