The march back to the waystation was silent.
No one spoke. No jokes, no banter, no relieved laughter at having survived. The squad trudged forward in a heavy quiet broken only by the crunch of boots on frozen earth, ragged breathing from exhausted lungs, and the occasional suppressed groan from wounded squires being supported by their comrades. Behind them, smoke still rose from the forest where the burning troll had been left to char, a dark column marking their first real battle like a funeral pyre.
Knight-Captain Voss led from the front, her greatsword still drawn and held at the ready, though her spirit flame had faded. Her jaw was set like iron, shoulders tight with tension that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. She hadn't looked back at Adrian since asking her question—What exactly are you?—but he could feel the weight of it hanging between them like a blade suspended by fraying thread, waiting to fall.
The unspoken accusation. The suspicion. The knowledge that something was deeply wrong with what she'd witnessed.
Edric walked beside Adrian, his left hand pressed firmly against the cut along his ribs, blood still seeping between his fingers despite the rough field bandage someone had tied around his torso. His face was pale, almost gray, lips pressed thin against pain that must be screaming through his body with every step. But his eyes kept darting sideways to Adrian—not with fear exactly, but with confusion, concern, and something that might have been hurt. As if Adrian's secret, whatever it was, felt like a betrayal of the friendship they'd built over three months.
"You stopped a troll," Edric finally whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. "With one hand. I saw you... the blade glowed red, Adrian. Just for a second, but I saw it."
Adrian said nothing. What could he say? Denial would be an insult to what Edric had witnessed with his own eyes.
Finn limped on Adrian's other side, favoring his wounded leg where a goblin blade had opened his calf to the bone. Each step was clearly agony, but the fisherman's son had refused to be carried, maintaining his independence through sheer stubborn pride. His dark eyes were thoughtful, distant, processing. Unlike Edric's emotional reaction, Finn's was analytical—reassessing every interaction, every sparring match, every patrol over the past three months through the new lens of what he'd just seen.
"Border training," Finn said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "That's what you always said. Border training." His eyes cut to Adrian. "What kind of training stops a troll's full-force strike?"
Again, Adrian offered no response. The silence was its own answer.
Brann trudged several steps behind them, his dislocated shoulder roughly bound in a makeshift sling torn from someone's cloak. His right arm dangled uselessly, the joint swollen to nearly twice its normal size. For once—perhaps for the first time since Adrian had met him—Brann wasn't grinning, wasn't laughing, wasn't making light of their situation. The reality of how close they'd all come to dying had stripped away his bravado like bark peeled from a tree. His eyes were haunted, staring at nothing, probably replaying the moment that club had smashed into him, the sickening pop of his shoulder coming loose from its socket.
He hadn't said a word since the fight ended.
Around them, the rest of the squad was in similar shape. Derrin, the noble's son, was being half-carried by two other squires, barely conscious, a nasty concussion from where a goblin had clubbed him. Another squire—a girl named Mara—had a deep gash across her forearm that would scar badly. A third was missing two fingers, lost to a goblin's jagged blade, the stumps wrapped in blood-soaked cloth.
They'd survived. But barely. And everyone knew it.
If Adrian hadn't intervened when he did, Knight-Captain Voss would have died. And without her, the rest of the squad would have been slaughtered.
That knowledge hung over them like a shroud.
The waystation appeared ahead as they crested a small rise—a fortified structure of stone and timber, squat and functional rather than beautiful, designed to shelter travelers and serve as an emergency refuge on dangerous roads. Thick stone walls, narrow windows that could be shuttered and barred, a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. Smoke rose from its central chimney, carrying the smell of burning wood and cooking food. Lanterns burned in the windows, warm yellow light spilling out into the growing twilight.
Safety. Finally.
"Almost there," Voss called back, her voice rough from shouting commands during the battle. "Waystation has an infirmary. We'll get everyone treated, rest until morning, then continue to Arathor."
The promise of medical attention, of rest, of walls between them and the forest, gave the squad a final burst of energy. Their pace quickened slightly despite the exhaustion.
As they approached, the waystation's heavy door swung open. An older man stepped out—grizzled, weathered, wearing the leather apron of a healer. His eyes swept across the bloodied, battered squad with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd seen this scene too many times.
"Troll?" he asked simply.
"And goblins," Voss confirmed. "Ambush. We need beds and medical supplies."
"Got both." The healer gestured them inside. "Come on, get them in here before someone bleeds out on my doorstep."
The squad filed into the waystation's main hall—a large room with a roaring fireplace at one end, long tables for meals, and stairs leading to sleeping quarters above. But off to the side was the infirmary, a well-stocked room with cots, medical supplies, and the sharp smell of antiseptic herbs.
Healers—apprentices and assistants—immediately swarmed the wounded. Derrin was laid on a cot first, his head examined. Mara's arm was unwrapped and cleaned. Brann's shoulder was assessed, the head healer grimacing at the swelling before preparing to pop it back into place.
Adrian stood apart, untouched except for minor scratches. Not a single significant wound. Not even particularly exhausted, though he made sure his breathing was appropriately heavy, his posture appropriately weary.
Too perfect. Too unmarked compared to everyone else.
He saw the way Voss's eyes tracked him, noting his condition. Calculating.
"Blackthorn." Her voice cut through the bustle. "A word. Outside."
It wasn't a request.
Adrian followed her back through the main door, into the cold evening air. The sun had fully set now, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. Their breath steamed between them.
Voss turned to face him, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she simply studied him—measuring, weighing, trying to understand what she'd witnessed.
"I've been a knight for twelve years," she said finally. "Fought monsters, demons, bandits, rival kingdoms. I've seen strong men, fast women, warriors touched by divine favor or cursed by dark powers." She paused. "I've never seen a squire stop a troll's strike with one hand. Never seen spirit flame flicker red instead of white. Never seen someone move that fast."
Adrian met her gaze steadily, giving nothing away. "I did what was necessary to save your life. And the squad's."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give."
Voss's eyes narrowed. "Are you demon-touched? Some kind of hybrid? There are stories about border lords, about what happens when—"
"No." Adrian's voice was flat, absolute. "I'm human. Just trained differently."
"Trained." Voss's laugh was short, bitter. "That wasn't training. That was power. Real power." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I should report this. There are protocols for squires who demonstrate abilities beyond normal limits. Tests that need to be run. Questions that need to be answered."
Adrian's hand didn't move toward his sword, but something in his posture shifted—became harder, more dangerous. "And if you do?"
"Then we'll find out exactly what you are." Voss held his gaze. "And if you're a threat, you'll be dealt with accordingly."
The threat hung in the air between them.
Then Voss sighed, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "But you saved my life. Saved all of our lives. That counts for something." She turned to look back at the waystation. "I'll keep this quiet. For now. But Blackthorn—" her eyes cut back to him, hard as flint "—if you're hiding something that puts other squires at risk, if you're dangerous in ways I don't understand, I will end you myself. Understood?"
"Understood," Adrian said quietly. "But I'm not a threat. Not to Arathor. Not to the squires."
"We'll see." Voss studied him a moment longer, then nodded toward the door. "Get some rest. We leave at dawn. And Blackthorn? Whatever you are, whatever secrets you're carrying—figure out how to control that power better. Because next time you slip up, I might not be the only one who notices."
She walked back inside, leaving Adrian alone in the cold night air.
He stood there for a long moment, staring up at the stars, feeling the weight of exposure pressing down on him. He'd been so careful for three months. So controlled. And one moment of necessity had nearly unraveled everything.
Inside, he could hear voices—the wounded being treated, Brann's bitten-off scream as his shoulder was relocated, quiet conversations as squires processed what they'd survived.
And somewhere in there, Edric and Finn were probably talking about what they'd seen. Drawing conclusions. Asking questions.
Adrian closed his eyes briefly, then pushed the door open and stepped back inside.
The complications had only just begun.