He face and his eyes, in them—determination. The kind that didn't bend. Didn't break. Just waited for the right moment to strike.
I'd never seen that in anyone's eyes before. Not in this house where power was absolute and defiance meant death.
***
We returned to the manor as smoke began to rise from the town.
Black. Thick. Carrying the smell of burning wood and worse things we didn't name.
Screams carried on the wind—faint but audible. Cut off one by one as the fire did its work.
Count Haroth sat in the great hall, still covered in his son's blood. The physician worked frantically over Carius, applying pressure, stitching wounds, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.
But Carius didn't wake. Just lay there, chest rising and falling shallowly, face grey as ash.
The Count's grief had burned itself out, leaving only cold fury.
"Who were his escorts?" His voice was quiet now. Dangerous. "Who was supposed to protect him?"
Silence.
The soldiers who'd accompanied Carius to the tavern—the ones who'd fled rather than face consequences—were conspicuously absent.
"Where are they?" The Count's eyes swept the assembled soldiers. "The cowards who ran?"
No one answered. No one knew. Or if they did, they weren't saying.
The Count's gaze landed on those who remained. "Then who brought him back?"
"David did, my lord," someone said.
"David." The Count's fingers drummed against his chair arm. "Step forward."
But David didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the floor, face pale.
The Count's voice sharpened. "I said step forward!"
Another soldier stepped out instead.
Garrett.
He moved through the assembled men with that same economical grace I'd seen in training. Stood before the Count with shoulders squared, meeting his gaze directly.
"I escorted him, my lord."
It was a lie. I'd seen David bring Carius back. Everyone had.
Why is he lying, is he not afraid of count?
But Garrett said it with such absolute conviction that for a moment, I almost believed him myself.
The Count studied him. "You brought my son home?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And where were you when he was attacked?"
"Guarding the tavern's entrance. I failed to prevent the assault." Garrett's voice was steady. Matter-of-fact. Like reporting any other failed duty. "The responsibility is mine."
The Count stood slowly.
Grabbed a chair.
And swung it with all his considerable strength.
The wood exploded against Garrett's head. Splinters flew. The impact should have dropped him.
Garrett didn't flinch.
He stood there, blood running from a new cut on his forehead, and met the Count's eyes steadily.
"You!" The Count's voice climbed toward hysteria. "You should have done something! He isn't waking up! My poor son! He isn't waking up!"
He grabbed a decorative vase. Smashed it against Garrett's shoulder. Picked up a candlestick. Brought it down on his back.
Again. Again. Again.
Garrett bled. But he didn't move. Didn't raise his hands to defend himself. Just stood there like a mountain weathering a storm.
And his eyes—his eyes never left the Count's face. Watching. Cataloging. Remembering.
The Count's hand found a sword hanging on the wall.
He pulled it free. The steel sang as it left its mounting.
My heart stopped.
But I saw it—saw Garrett's hand creep toward the axe at his belt. Not fast. Not obvious. Just... readying.
The Count raised the blade.
"Father, stop!"
Calla's voice cut through the madness.
She rushed forward, placing herself between her father and the bleeding soldier. Her hands pressed against the Count's chest, staying the blade.
"Please," she said, voice breaking. "Please, Father. This isn't their fault. Carius was drinking. The girl was scared. This was an accident."
Tears streamed down her face. "Don't make it worse. Please."
The Count stared at her. At his daughter. At the sword in his hand.
Slowly, the weapon lowered.
He collapsed into his chair like a puppet with cut strings. The Countess rushed to him, and together they dissolved into wailing grief that echoed through the hall.
Servants moved to escort them away. To give them privacy for their mourning.
Calla turned to the assembled soldiers. "You're dismissed. All of you. Return to your quarters."
They saluted and filed out—some quickly, grateful to escape. Others slowly, eyes lingering on the Count's hunched form.
Garrett moved to leave with them.
"Wait," Calla said. She looked at me. "Maria. Tend his wounds."
"Yes, my lady."
I approached Garrett carefully. Up close, he was even larger—easily a head taller than me, shoulders broad as barn doors. Blood matted his hair and soaked his uniform.
"Follow me," I said quietly.
***
The infirmary was small but well-stocked. I gestured to a chair. "Sit."
He did, lowering himself carefully. Probably hurting more than he showed.
I gathered supplies—clean water, cloth, salve. My hands shook slightly as I worked.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, dabbing blood from a cut above his eye.
He said nothing.
I continued cleaning wounds in silence. The cuts were numerous but mostly superficial. The Count had been attacking out of rage, not skill.
If Garrett had been a smaller man, it might have been different.
But he was built like fortress stone. He'd weathered worse.
Finally, I finished. Applied the last of the salve to a particularly nasty gash on his temple.
Garrett stood, gathering his things.
He moved toward the door. Paused at the threshold without turning.
"Your name," he said. His voice was rough. Deep. Like rocks grinding together.
"Maria."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"I'll pay the favour back."
And he left.
I stood alone in the infirmary, staring at the bloody cloths, replaying those words.
He'll pay for this.
When the tavern was burning, he uttered...
Not "the Count will pay." Not "someone will pay."
Just... he. Definitive. Certain.
I should have been afraid. Should have reported those words to someone in authority.
But I didn't.
Because for the first time in three years—for the first time since becoming a maid, since having my dreams beaten out of me—
I'd heard someone speak defiance out loud.
And some small, buried part of me whispered:
Help me...