Not gradually—the city noise didn't fade slowly or peter out in stages. It just stopped. One step he was hearing distant voices and cart wheels on cobblestone and the general hum of too many people existing in too small a space. The sky above had deepened to black, stars visible through gaps in the canopy. The next step: silence. Or not silence exactly, but forest sounds. Wind moving through leaves overhead. Birds calling to each other in languages he didn't understand but had learned to recognize. The occasional crack of a branch settling or an animal moving through underbrush somewhere out of sight.
His body changed as he walked. Shoulders dropping slightly. Tension releasing from muscles that had been held tight since entering the marketplace. His stride lengthened, became more fluid. The hunched posture he wore in the city—disappeared completely.
Here, he moved like someone who owned the ground beneath his feet.
His path through the trees was automatic. No conscious navigation required. His feet knew where to step to avoid roots that would catch an ankle. His body knew when to duck under low-hanging branches. His hands knew which plants to push aside and which to avoid because they had thorns or irritating sap or attracted insects that bit.
Six years. He'd been living out here for six years. Long enough that the forest had stopped feeling like wilderness and started feeling like… not home exactly. He didn't let himself think of anything as home anymore. But territory. His territory. Space that he understood and that understood him back.
The trees thinned slightly and the house came into view.
It sat in a small clearing maybe thirty yards across—not naturally occurring but deliberately created, trees cut down and stumps removed, the ground cleared and leveled. In the center of that cleared space stood a structure that shouldn't exist this deep in the forest.
Medium-sized. Not a shack or crude shelter but an actual house. Rectangular. Maybe twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide. The walls were made of timber—logs that had been cut, stripped, and fitted together with visible skill. The corners were tight, no gaps where pieces met. The roof was slanted for rain runoff, covered in overlapping wooden shingles that he'd carved and placed individually. A stone chimney rose from one end, smoke-stained but functional.
From a distance it looked solid. Permanent. Like something that had been there for years and would be there for years more. Like something a professional carpenter had built, not a random young man of 19 years living alone in the wilderness.
Zarif approached it with the same unconscious familiarity he'd shown walking through the forest. This was his. Every beam, every nail, every fitted joint. He'd built it with his own hands.
The door was real wood, not hide or fabric. Fitted into a proper frame with hinges he'd made himself from scavenged metal. He pushed it open and it swung smoothly, no sticking, no scraping. The hinges didn't squeak.
Inside was dim. The windows were small—less about letting in light and more about maintaining structural integrity and keeping heat in during winter. What light did enter came through in pale beams that caught dust particles floating in the air.
The interior was sparse. A raised sleeping platform along one wall—wooden planks fitted together and elevated maybe a foot off the ground to keep him away from moisture and crawling insects. No mattress, just furs and a wool blanket folded at one end. Shelves along another wall, holding his few possessions—a knife, some rope, tools for working wood and leather, a few clay containers for storing food. A fire pit in the corner near the chimney, stones arranged in a circle to contain the flames. A small table. One chair.
Everything had a purpose. Nothing was decorative. Nothing was there just because it looked nice or made the space feel more welcoming. This wasn't a home in the sense that normal people understood homes. This was shelter. Function. Survival.
But it was well-made survival. Every piece of furniture was sturdy, properly constructed. The shelves didn't wobble. The chair didn't creak when you sat in it. The sleeping platform was level and solid. Someone who knew what they were doing with tools and materials had built this place.
Zarif stood in the center of his house—the house, not his house, he didn't think of it that way—and let the silence settle over him. No voices. No people. No expectations or judgments or eyes watching to see if he'd mess up again.
Just wood and stone and the quiet sound of his own breathing.
This was the same person who'd fumbled a knife throw in the marketplace. Who'd been mocked by an old woman. Who couldn't successfully threaten merchants into handing over their money. Who'd run away from Hayat in the marketplace because he didn't know what else to do.
This capable builder. This person who could take raw materials and turn them into something functional and permanent. This person who'd survived alone in a forest that killed most people who tried to live in it.
The contradiction sat in his chest like something physical. Something he didn't examine too closely because examining it meant acknowledging it, and acknowledging it meant having to reconcile two versions of himself that didn't fit together.
So he didn't examine it. Just set down the empty bag from Foggy and looked around his house—the house—and felt nothing except the familiar weight of being alone.
Zarif picked up the bag Foggy had given him—the one with the sweets—and checked inside.
Empty.
His fingers brushed against fabric that held nothing except a few crumbs that had broken off from the candies over the course of the day. He turned the bag upside down and shook it slightly. A single crystallized piece of sugar fell out, maybe the size of his thumbnail. It hit the wooden floor with a tiny sound and sat there catching the dim light coming through the window.
He stared at it for a moment. That small piece of sugar that represented the last physical connection to… what? To Foggy? To the marketplace? To something that had tasted sweet in a life that didn't have much sweetness?
Something tightened in his chest. Not quite sadness—he wouldn't let it become that—but something adjacent to it. Something that acknowledged the bag being empty meant something more than just being out of food. It meant that small moment of generosity, that gesture from Foggy, was used up. Finished. Gone.
He didn't let the feeling develop further. Just set the bag down and dismissed it from his mind.
His stomach made a sound—not a dramatic growl but a quiet complaint. A reminder that his body had needs that didn't care about empty bags or complicated feelings. It had been maybe six hours since he'd eaten the last of the sweets. Not starvation. Not desperation. Just practical hunger. The kind that said you should probably find food soon before it becomes a problem.
His hand went to his stomach automatically. Pressed against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the slight hollow there, the way his abdomen curved inward more than it should. He'd been hungry before—really hungry, the kind that made your vision blur and your hands shake. This wasn't that. But it was enough.
Time to hunt.
He moved to the corner of the room where he kept his weapons. Not many—just what he needed. A bow he'd made from flexible wood and animal sinew, though he rarely used it because arrows were difficult to make and easy to lose. A knife with a handle he'd wrapped in leather strips for better grip. And the spear.
He picked it up.
The weight was familiar. Comfortable. About six feet long, made from a straight sapling he'd found and spent days smoothing and shaping. The shaft was worn smooth in places where his hands gripped it most often—evidence of use, of hundreds of hours holding this exact piece of wood. At one end, a metal spearhead he'd traded for months ago. Not professionally forged but functional. Sharp. Deadly if you knew how to use it.
And Zarif knew how to use it.
His fingers found their positions on the shaft automatically. Right hand near the balance point, left hand further back for leverage. The spear became an extension of his arm—not a separate object he was holding but part of his body. Like his hands or his legs. Something that moved when he thought about moving, that responded to intention without requiring conscious control.
His posture changed.
Not dramatically. Not like he was performing a transformation for an audience. Just… shifted. His shoulders squared slightly. His spine straightened. The hunched, apologetic curve he'd carried in the marketplace disappeared completely. His weight distributed differently across his feet—more centered, more balanced, ready to move in any direction without warning.
The awkward criminal who fumbled knife throws and got mocked by old women evaporated. The person standing in the dim house now was someone else entirely. Someone competent. Capable. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with threats or intimidation and everything to do with simple, practical violence.
This was the real Zarif. Or at least, this was one version of him. The version that knew how to survive. How to kill. How to move through the world as predator rather than prey.
He moved toward the door with purpose. No hesitation. No uncertainty. No part of him questioning whether he could do this or worrying about failure. Out here, in the forest, with a weapon in his hands—this was what he was good at.
The door opened smoothly under his push. Evening light spilled into the house—not sunset yet but getting close, the quality of illumination shifting from afternoon brightness to something softer, more golden. Good hunting light. Prey animals got careless during transition periods, their attention divided between feeding and seeking shelter for the night.
Zarif stepped outside and the forest received him back.
The air was cooler out here than inside the house. He could smell earth and growing things and the faint musk of animals that had passed through recently. His eyes adjusted to the brighter light, pupils contracting, sharpening his vision. His hearing expanded outward—not straining to hear but simply opening up, becoming aware of the sounds around him. Birds settling into evening routines. Small creatures moving through underbrush. The wind creating patterns in the leaves overhead.
He started walking.
Not toward any specific destination. Just into the forest, following instinct and experience. He knew where prey animals tended to gather at this time of day. Knew which paths they used, which clearings they preferred, which water sources they visited. Six years of living here had taught him the rhythms of this place. Had made him part of its ecosystem.
His feet moved quietly across the ground. Not silent—true silence was impossible in a forest—but quiet enough. Weight on the balls of his feet first, rolling back to the heel, each step deliberate and controlled. The spear moved with him, staying parallel to his body, not catching on branches or dragging through undergrowth.
Confidence radiated from his movements. Not arrogance. Not swagger. Just the simple certainty of someone doing something they'd done successfully hundreds of times before. Someone who knew their capability and didn't need to prove it.
This person—this hunter moving through the forest with deadly efficiency—was about to become something even more dangerous.
But he didn't know that yet. Right now, he was just hungry. Just looking for prey. Just being the version of himself that made sense out here.
The version that knew how to kill.
Zarif's eyes moved across the forest floor, reading it the way other people read books.
There—a depression in the soft earth near a fallen log. Deer, probably. The hoofprint was partial, only the front half visible where the animal had stepped and then shifted its weight forward. Maybe three hours old based on how the edges of the print had dried and started to crumble slightly. The deer had been heading west, toward the stream that ran through this part of the forest.
He crouched down, one hand steadying the spear against the ground, and examined the area more closely. More tracks nearby. A trail developing. Multiple animals using the same path over time, wearing down the undergrowth, creating a corridor through the forest that was easier to travel than forcing through virgin terrain.
Smart. Efficient. Prey animals were stupid in some ways but smart in others. They knew to follow established routes because those routes had been tested. Had proven safe enough that multiple generations had used them without getting killed.
Zarif stood and followed the trail, his body automatically positioning itself downwind. No point in tracking something if your scent announced your presence before you got close enough to use the spear. The wind was coming from the west—he could feel it on his face, smell the moisture it carried from the stream—which meant approaching from the east would keep him invisible to anything relying on scent to detect threats.
This was what he was good at. This was where the fumbling, awkward version of himself didn't exist. Out here, he knew what he was doing. Knew how to read signs, how to move, how to position himself for a kill. Out here, he was competent in ways that the marketplace would never see.
His attention expanded outward, taking in the forest as a complete environment rather than individual elements. Birds calling—their patterns normal, not alarmed. Small creatures moving through underbrush—regular sounds, not the sudden silence that meant a predator had entered the area. Wind through leaves—steady, not gusting, which meant his scent would stay consistent and predictable.
Everything was as it should be. The forest in its evening routine. Prey moving toward water and shelter. Predators—himself included—moving into position to intercept them.
Then he heard voices.
Human voices.
The sound was distant—maybe a quarter mile away, hard to judge exactly through the trees and vegetation that muffled and distorted sound. But definitely human. Definitely multiple people speaking to each other.
Zarif stopped moving.
His body went still in a way that was more profound than just ceasing motion. Every muscle locked into position. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to quiet, becoming less noticeable in his chest. He became part of the forest—another tree, another shadow, another element of the landscape that didn't move or make noise or draw attention.
Human voices in this part of the forest were wrong.
Not impossible. People came out here sometimes—hunters, trappers, the occasional fool who thought they could live off the land without knowing what they were doing. But this deep? This far from the nearest settlement? At this time of evening when any sensible person would be heading back toward civilization rather than deeper into wilderness?
Wrong.
His confusion lasted maybe three seconds before shifting into something else. Wariness. The same instinct that made prey animals freeze when they detected something that didn't fit their environment's normal patterns. The same recognition that anomalies usually meant danger.
He needed to know what this was.
The calculation was brief. Almost instantaneous. Going to investigate meant risk—whoever was out here might be dangerous, might be armed, might react badly to discovering someone else in the forest. But not investigating meant remaining ignorant, and ignorance in the wilderness got you killed. Better to know what threat existed so you could avoid it or prepare for it.
Decision made.
Zarif changed direction, moving away from the deer trail and toward the voices. His approach was nothing like his earlier walking. That had been the movement of someone confident in their environment, comfortable with making noise because there was nothing around that required stealth.
This was different.
His weight shifted entirely onto the balls of his feet. Each step became a controlled fall—lowering his foot slowly, feeling for branches or leaves or anything that would crack or rustle, adjusting his placement before committing his weight. The process was slower than normal walking but nearly silent. The kind of movement that required complete attention and perfect balance.
The spear stayed parallel to his body, tucked close so it wouldn't catch on branches or brush against trees. His free hand moved ahead of him sometimes, gently pushing aside vegetation rather than forcing through it, creating a path that closed behind him without obvious disturbance.
His breathing stayed controlled. Deep, slow inhalations through his nose—quieter than breathing through his mouth, less likely to create sound that would carry. His chest expanded and contracted in a rhythm that felt almost meditative. Not the quick, shallow breathing of fear or exertion but the steady breathing of someone who'd learned to manage their body under stress.
The terrain helped. He used it instinctively, without conscious thought. Moved behind larger trees when possible, keeping solid objects between himself and the direction of the voices. Stayed in shadows where the failing evening light hadn't penetrated. Avoided clearings and open spaces where his movement would be silhouetted against brighter background.
This was professional stalking. Not the amateur sneaking of someone trying to be quiet and mostly succeeding. This was the movement of someone who'd spent years learning how to approach things that would run or attack if they detected you. Someone who understood that survival sometimes meant being invisible.
The voices grew louder as he approached. Still not clear enough to make out words, but distinct enough to count. Four? Five? Multiple speakers, at least. Male voices, mostly. Deep registers. Speaking at normal volume—not whispering or trying to be quiet. Whatever they were doing out here, they weren't concerned about being overheard.
That fact alone was interesting. Either they were stupid—possible but unlikely since stupid people rarely survived long in places like this—or they felt safe. Protected. Like they had a right to be here and didn't need to worry about threats.
Zarif moved closer, his curiosity now mixed with caution. His body stayed low, using the underbrush as additional cover. The spear remained ready—not in an attack position but positioned so he could bring it up instantly if needed. His eyes never stopped scanning, taking in everything, building a mental map of his surroundings so he'd know the fastest escape routes if this went wrong.
Sixty yards away. Fifty. Forty.
He could see shapes now through the trees. Figures moving in what looked like a clearing ahead. The voices clearer—still not making out specific words but hearing the cadence, the rhythm of conversation or possibly something else. Something more formal. Ritualistic maybe.
Thirty yards.
Zarif found a position behind a large tree trunk with good sightlines toward the clearing. Dense brush in front of him provided additional concealment. He lowered himself into a crouch—weight balanced, ready to spring up or drop flat or run depending on what happened next.
His breathing had become nearly imperceptible. His heartbeat was elevated but controlled. Every sense focused forward, toward the clearing and the figures within it.
This was Zarif at his most dangerous. Not the fumbling criminal from the marketplace. Not the awkward boy who couldn't threaten merchants or throw knives properly. This was someone who knew how to hunt. How to stalk. How to move through hostile territory without being detected.
This was the person who'd survived six years alone in a forest that killed most people who tried to live in it.
And he was about to discover something that would require every bit of that lethal competence.
Zarif's position behind the tree was perfect.
The trunk was wide enough to conceal his body completely if he stayed still. The brush in front of him provided additional concealment—layered vegetation that broke up his silhouette, made him blend into the forest background. He could see through gaps in the foliage without being seen from the other direction. Professional. Instinctive. The kind of positioning that came from years of observing prey without alerting it to his presence.
His body had gone completely still. Not just motionless but still—the kind of stillness that required conscious effort to maintain. No shifting weight. No adjusting grip. No small unconscious movements that humans made constantly without realizing it. Just absolute control, holding position like a statue, becoming part of the landscape.
His breathing was so quiet it was almost absent. Shallow inhalations through his nose, long slow exhalations that didn't disturb the air around him. His heartbeat was elevated—he could feel it in his chest, in his throat—but controlled. Not panic. Just heightened awareness. Adrenaline preparing his body for whatever came next.
Through the gaps in the brush, he could see the clearing.
It wasn't large. Maybe twenty feet across. Roughly circular. Someone had cleared it deliberately—the stumps were visible, cut at ground level, the area scraped clean of undergrowth. This wasn't natural. This was made. Prepared for something.
And in that clearing stood four figures.
Zarif counted them automatically. Tactical assessment happening without conscious thought. Four targets. Four potential threats. His eyes tracked their positions, noting how they were arranged. Three of them stood in a loose semicircle facing inward. The fourth stood slightly apart, positioned closer to the center of the clearing.
All of them wore robes.
That was the first thing that registered as wrong.
Long robes that fell to their ankles, the kind of formal clothing you'd see in a city—on priests maybe, or scholars, or wealthy people attending ceremonies. Dark fabric, looked like it might be black or deep blue, hard to tell in the failing evening light. Each figure had their hood pulled up, concealing their faces in shadow.
Formal robes. In a forest. Miles from any settlement. At evening when any sensible person would be heading toward shelter, not standing around in clearings wearing ceremonial clothing.
Wrong.
Zarif's eyes narrowed, trying to see more detail. The distance wasn't great—maybe thirty yards—but the light was getting worse by the minute. Evening transitioning toward dusk, that period when colors faded and edges blurred and everything became harder to distinguish.
But even in the poor light, he could see the patterns on their robes.
Symbols. Designs. Covering the fabric in intricate networks that seemed to flow across the material like water. Not embroidery—the patterns were too complex, too detailed for that. Painted maybe. Or dyed directly into the fabric using techniques he didn't understand.
The symbols weren't anything he recognized. Not letters from any alphabet he'd seen. Not pictograms or drawings of recognizable things. Just… shapes. Abstract designs that twisted and curved and connected to each other in ways that didn't quite make sense.
Zarif stared at them, trying to make them resolve into something comprehensible.
The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable he became.
The patterns seemed to move. Not actually moving—the fabric was still, the figures standing motionless—but if you looked at the symbols for more than a few seconds, your eyes started playing tricks. The lines would seem to shift slightly, to writhe like living things, to reconfigure themselves into different arrangements when you weren't looking directly at them.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Looked away briefly then back. The symbols were exactly where they'd been before. Static. Unmoving. But the impression of movement remained, lurking at the edge of perception, making his eyes want to slide away from the patterns rather than focus on them.
Unsettling.
More than unsettling. There was something about those designs that made his skin crawl. Made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Made some deep, primal part of his brain that predated language or conscious thought start screaming warnings that he couldn't articulate but could definitely feel.
Wrong wrong wrong.
This wasn't just unusual. This wasn't just out of place. This was wrong in a way that transcended simple incongruity. These people, these robes, these symbols—they felt like a violation. Like something that shouldn't exist. Like reality had bent slightly to accommodate them and the bent parts were visible if you knew how to look.
Zarif's grip on the spear tightened. His knuckles went white. The wood pressed into his palm hard enough to hurt.
The four figures weren't moving. Weren't speaking now—the voices he'd heard earlier had stopped, replaced by silence that felt heavy and expectant. They just stood there in their semicircle arrangement, hooded and robed, waiting for something.
Ceremony. That's what this felt like. The positioning was too deliberate, too formal to be casual gathering. The robes were too elaborate for everyday wear. This was ritual. Performance. Something that required specific participants in specific positions doing specific things.
But what things?
Zarif's eyes moved across the clearing again, looking for details he'd missed. The ground was bare dirt, packed down from use or preparation. No fire pit. No supplies or equipment visible. Just empty space and four robed figures standing in it like they were waiting for a play to begin.
No—not empty space.
There was something in the center of the clearing. Something stone. Low to the ground, maybe waist-height on a standing person. Roughly rectangular. He couldn't see it clearly from this angle, couldn't make out details through the poor light and the bodies partially blocking his view.
But it was there. Deliberate. Placed. The focal point of whatever was about to happen.
Zarif's breathing had become even more shallow. His body was tense now—not the relaxed readiness of a hunter watching prey but the coiled tension of someone recognizing danger. Every instinct he'd developed over six years of surviving in hostile wilderness was screaming at him.
This is bad. This is wrong. You should leave. You should run. You should get away from here before whatever this is notices you.
But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Something held him there—not fear exactly, though there was definitely fear mixing into the cocktail of emotions churning in his chest. More like… need. The need to understand what he was looking at. The need to know what was happening in his forest, on his territory, in a clearing that had been prepared without his knowledge.
And underneath that need, something else. Something that sounded uncomfortably like Nikandros's voice in the back of his mind.
Be watchful. Be aware. Know what evil walks in the world so you can stand against it.
One of the hooded figures moved. A small gesture—raising one hand, making some kind of signal to the others. The movement was deliberate, controlled, weighted with significance.
The ceremony was beginning.
And Zarif, crouched behind his tree with a spear in his white-knuckled grip and alarm bells ringing in every part of his being, stayed exactly where he was.
Watching.
Waiting.
About to witness something that would change everything.
The voices began again.
Not speaking this time. Not conversation or discussion. Something else. Something that made the word "voices" feel inadequate to describe what Zarif was hearing.
Chanting.
The four figures spoke in unison—or close to unison, their words overlapping slightly, creating a layered effect that was more unsettling than perfect synchronization would have been. The sounds they made were words, had to be words, but in a language Zarif didn't recognize. Not the common tongue. Not any of the regional dialects he'd heard in marketplaces or from travelers passing through. Something older maybe. Something that predated the languages normal people spoke.
The syllables were harsh. Guttural. They caught in the throat, required the speaker to force air through their vocal cords in ways that sounded painful. Each word landed heavy, weighted with significance that Zarif couldn't understand but could definitely feel.
The rhythm was wrong.
Not unrhythmic—there was definitely a pattern to it, a cadence that the chanters were following. But it wasn't natural. Wasn't the kind of rhythm you'd find in music or poetry or normal speech. It was… off. Like someone had taken a normal rhythm and shifted it slightly, moved beats to places they didn't belong, created gaps where there shouldn't be gaps and connections where there should be pauses.
The sound made Zarif's skin crawl.
Not metaphorically. Actually, physically made his skin react. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms, on the back of his neck. Could feel the small hairs standing up like his body was trying to make itself bigger, more threatening, in response to a danger it couldn't identify but knew existed.
The chanting continued, building in volume. Not loud—they weren't shouting—but fuller somehow. Taking up more space in the air. Making the forest around them feel smaller, more confined, like the words were pushing against the boundaries of the clearing and compressing everything outside it.
Zarif's eyes were fixed on the figures. On their hooded forms standing in that semicircle, their mouths moving beneath the shadows of their hoods, their hands making small gestures that seemed to accompany certain syllables.
Then one of them moved.
The figure standing slightly apart from the others—the one positioned closer to the center of the clearing, closer to that stone structure Zarif had noticed but couldn't see clearly. This one stepped forward, breaking the semicircle, approaching whatever was in the center.
The movement revealed what had been hidden.
An altar.
That's what the stone structure was. Not a table or a bench or some random piece of architecture. An altar. Flat stone surface raised about waist-height on a standing person, supported by smaller stones stacked and fitted together. Roughly rectangular. Maybe four feet long and two feet wide. Old—the stone was weathered, stained with discolorations that might have been age or might have been something else.
The altar shouldn't exist here. Shouldn't exist anywhere in this forest. Stone structures required tools and time and multiple people working together. Required purpose. Required someone deciding that this specific spot, in this specific clearing, needed a permanent place for ritual.
How long had this been here? Weeks? Months? Years?
How many times had Zarif passed within a mile of this clearing, completely unaware that someone had built something like this on his territory?
The figure approached the altar with reverent steps. Slow. Deliberate. Each footfall weighted with ceremony.
And as the figure moved, as the angle of Zarif's view shifted slightly, he saw what lay on the altar.
A child.
A baby.
An infant so small it couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. Maybe days. The tiny body lay on its back on the cold stone, arms moving slightly—those aimless, uncoordinated movements that newborns made, hands grasping at nothing, legs kicking weakly at air.
Zarif's breath caught.
Actually caught—stopped completely in his throat, trapped there by shock so profound his body forgot how to perform the automatic function of breathing. His chest froze mid-inhalation, muscles locking, diaphragm refusing to move.
The baby was naked. Placed over white cloth. Completely exposed to the evening air that was getting colder by the minute. Its skin looked pale—too pale, corpse-pale—but that might have been the poor light making everything look washed out. The tiny limbs moved in that helpless way infants moved when they were cold or uncomfortable or simply existing in a body they didn't yet understand how to control.
Impossibly small. That was the thought that kept repeating in Zarif's mind. The baby was impossibly small. Smaller than seemed real. Smaller than seemed like it could survive. A few pounds of flesh and bone and developing organs wrapped in skin so thin it looked translucent.
Helpless. Completely, utterly helpless. Incapable of defending itself or escaping or doing anything except existing and hoping that the world around it was kind.
And it was lying on a stone altar while four robed figures chanted in a language that made Zarif's skin crawl.
His body unlocked. The paralysis broke. Air rushed back into his lungs in a sharp inhalation that was too loud, too sudden. He froze immediately, terrified that the sound had given away his position.
But the figures didn't react. Didn't turn toward his hiding spot. They were too absorbed in their ritual, too focused on whatever they were doing, to notice one sharp breath from thirty yards away.
The chanting continued. The words—if they were words—rose and fell in that wrong rhythm, building toward something. The figure who'd approached the altar stood over it now, looking down at the infant. The other three remained in position, their voices joining together, layering over each other, creating sound that felt thick and oppressive.
Zarif's mind was racing, pieces falling into place with horrible clarity.
Hooded figures. Secret clearing. Stone altar. Chanting in unknown language.
The baby wasn't here by accident. Wasn't lost or abandoned. It had been brought here. Placed on that altar. Prepared for whatever came next.
________________________________
Zarif watched the figure standing over the altar.
Watched and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Tried to find an explanation that wasn't the one his mind kept offering. Tried to believe that this was something else—some ceremony that looked sinister but was actually harmless, some ritual that involved babies but didn't hurt them, some practice he didn't understand because he was ignorant of the world's stranger customs.
His brain refused to accept what his eyes were showing him. Kept searching for alternative interpretations. Kept insisting that people didn't do things like this. That the world wasn't this cruel. That surely, surely there had to be another explanation.
Denial. Desperate, futile denial in the face of mounting evidence.
The figure reached into their robes. The movement was slow, ceremonial, weighted with significance. Their hand emerged holding something that caught the last rays of evening light.
A knife.
Not a utility knife or hunting blade. This was different. Ceremonial. The blade was maybe eight inches long, curved slightly, polished to a mirror finish that reflected light even in the growing darkness. The handle looked like bone or ivory, carved with patterns that probably matched the symbols on the robes. Expensive. Purpose-made. A tool designed specifically for ritual use.
The figure held the knife in both hands. Raised it above their head. The blade pointed toward the sky, catching what little light remained and throwing it back in a flash that hurt to look at.
And then the figure spoke. Not chanting this time. Clear words in the common tongue, loud enough to carry across the clearing, loud enough for Zarif to hear every syllable with perfect clarity.
"Accept this sacrifice from us."
The words hit Zarif like a physical blow.
All the denial, all the desperate searching for alternative explanations, all the refusal to accept what was happening—it shattered. Broke apart completely. Left him staring at a truth he couldn't escape or rationalize away.
Sacrifice.
They were going to kill the baby.
Were going to take that ceremonial knife and use it on an infant that had been alive for maybe a few weeks. Were going to spill blood on that stone altar in the name of whatever dark thing they served. Were going to murder something innocent and helpless and completely incapable of defending itself.
Rage exploded in Zarif's chest.
Not cold rage. Not the controlled, calculating anger he'd learned to manage over six years of survival. This was hot. Primal. The kind of rage that bypassed conscious thought entirely and went straight to the most primitive parts of the brain. The parts that recognized evil and demanded action. The parts that screamed protect, fight, kill with such volume that everything else got drowned out.
His throat tightened. Words formed without his permission. A shout building in his chest, climbing up through his windpipe, pressing against his clenched teeth. Stop. Don't. You can't.
The shout wanted out. Needed out. His body was preparing to launch it across the clearing with all the force his lungs could generate. Would shatter the ceremony, would alert them to his presence, would maybe—maybe—shock them enough to make them hesitate.
But the shout didn't emerge.
Zarif held it back. Physically held it back with effort that made his jaw ache and his throat burn. Kept his mouth clamped shut so hard his teeth ground together. Swallowed the words down even as they tried to claw their way out.
Because shouting would accomplish nothing except getting him killed.
The thought cut through the rage like a blade through flesh. Cold. Clear. Tactical reality asserting itself over emotional impulse.
He couldn't just charge out there. Couldn't reveal his position while they were prepared and he was thirty yards away. The math was simple. Four of them. One of him. They had weapons—at least the knife, probably more. He had his spear but was too far away to use it effectively. If he revealed himself now, they'd have time to react. Time to defend. Time to kill him before he got close.
And then the baby would die anyway. And his corpse would be lying in the dirt. And nothing would have been accomplished except adding one more body to whatever horror was about to happen.
His eyes swept the clearing again. Faster this time. More desperate. Looking for something he'd missed. Some detail that would change the equation.
Then he saw it.
One of the three figures standing in the semicircle—the one positioned slightly behind and to the left of the others—was holding something. Not a knife. Something larger. Longer.
A crossbow.
The weapon was held casually, almost lazily, pointed at the ground. But it was loaded—Zarif could see the bolt sitting in the groove, ready to fire. The figure holding it wasn't participating in the ceremony the same way the others were. Wasn't chanting or making gestures. Just standing there. Watching. Alert.
A guard.
Someone positioned specifically to watch for interruptions. To deal with threats. To protect the ceremony from interference.
Zarif's mind calculated distances and angles automatically. The guard was maybe twenty-five yards from his position. Had good sightlines across most of the clearing. If Zarif stepped out from behind his tree, if he revealed himself, the guard would see him immediately. Would raise that crossbow and fire before Zarif could cross even half the distance to the altar.
And crossbow bolts killed. Didn't matter how strong you were or how well you could hunt. A bolt through the chest or throat or head meant death. Simple. Final. Absolute.
He couldn't charge out there. Not while that guard was watching. Not while that crossbow was ready.
The rage in Zarif's chest was still there. Still burning. Still demanding action. But now it was trapped. Caged behind tactical reality and survival instinct and the cold understanding that getting himself killed would save no one.
So he stayed hidden. Stayed silent. Held the shout in his throat where it burned like acid. Kept his body locked in position even though every muscle was screaming to move.
His jaw was clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might crack. His hands gripped the spear with enough force that the wood creaked quietly under the pressure. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps through his nose—trying to stay quiet while his body demanded more oxygen to fuel the rage churning in his chest.
Waiting.
Forced to wait while horror unfolded thirty yards away.
Forced to watch while someone raised a knife over a helpless infant.
Forced to hold back the violence that was building in him like pressure behind a dam.
The figure with the knife spoke again. More words in that unknown language. The chanting from the other two figures rose in volume, building toward some crescendo. The blade remained raised, catching the last fragments of evening light, ready to descend.
Zarif's vision had narrowed. Tunnel vision focusing on the altar, on the baby, on the knife. Everything else—the forest around him, the discomfort of his cramped position, the cold evening air—faded into irrelevance. There was only the clearing. Only the ceremony. Only the moment stretching out like torture.
Wait. Wait for an opening. Wait for the moment when they're distracted. Wait for the crossbow to point away. Wait wait wait.
His body was coiled like a spring. Compressed. Ready to explode into motion the instant an opportunity presented itself. Every sense hyper-focused. Every muscle prepared. Every part of him screaming with the need to act.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Be kind. Be merciful. Be just.
Nikandros's voice in his head, calm despite the chaos. Teaching him even now. Even six years after dying. Even in this moment when everything was wrong and evil was happening and Zarif was being forced to watch.
Wait for the right moment. Act when action will succeed. Rage without strategy is just suicide.
The knife began to lower.
Slow. Ceremonial. The blade descending toward the tiny body on the altar. Toward flesh that couldn't defend itself. Toward a life that had barely begun.
Zarif's fingers flexed on the spear shaft.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Almost.
The crossbow guard looked away.
Just for a second. Just a fraction of attention shifting from vigilant surveillance to watching the ceremony. The knife was lowering. The chanting building. The moment approaching its climax. Even a guard couldn't help but watch what was about to happen.
That split-second of distraction was all Zarif needed.
His body moved before conscious thought completed. The decision happened somewhere deeper than language, somewhere primal where survival instinct and moral imperative merged into action. One moment he was frozen behind the tree, waiting. The next moment he was standing, emerging from cover, the spear already drawing back.
No hesitation. No pause to reconsider. No moment of doubt.
Just movement.
His right arm pulled back, the spear shaft sliding through his grip until his hand found the balance point. His left hand released completely, leaving the weapon supported by his throwing arm alone. His body rotated—shoulders turning, hips following, generating torque that would transfer through his core into his arm into the spear.
The motion was smooth. Practiced. Identical to the throw he'd made hundreds of times when hunting. When killing deer or wild boar or anything else that needed to die so he could eat. The mechanics were exactly the same. Target acquired. Distance calculated. Trajectory planned. Body executing without needing to be told how.
His arm snapped forward.
The spear left his hand with velocity generated by his entire body. Not just arm strength but legs pushing off the ground, core rotating, shoulder extending, elbow straightening, wrist following through. Every part of him contributing force to the throw. The weapon became a projectile launched with lethal intent.
It flew.
Straight. True. The distance between Zarif and the crossbow guard collapsing in the time it took to draw a single breath. Twenty-five yards crossed in less than a second. The spear shaft remaining stable, not wobbling or rotating, the balance perfect, the flight clean.
The guard didn't see it coming.
Didn't have time to react or raise the crossbow or shout a warning. The spear was just there—sudden, inevitable, moving too fast to track or evade.
Impact.
The spearhead punched through the side of the guard's neck. Entered just below the ear, drove through flesh and cartilage and the vital structures that kept a human alive. The metal tip emerged from the other side, blood following immediately, spraying in an arc that caught the fading evening light.
The guard's body locked. Went rigid. Every muscle seizing in response to catastrophic trauma. The crossbow fell from hands that had lost all coordination. Hit the ground with a dull thud that was barely audible over the chanting that was still continuing, the ceremony that hadn't yet registered the interruption.
The guard tried to make a sound. Tried to shout or scream or warn the others. But the spear had destroyed everything needed to produce voice. What came out instead was a wet gurgling—air escaping through the wound, mixing with blood, creating a sound that was more disturbing than any scream could have been.
Then the guard collapsed.
Not dramatically. Not with flailing arms or theatrical stumbling. Just… down. Legs giving out. Body crumpling like a puppet with cut strings. He hit the ground face-first, the spear shaft still protruding from his neck, blood pooling rapidly beneath him.
Dead. Or dying so fast it made no difference.
The chanting continued for another second. Two seconds. The other three figures still absorbed in their ritual, still focused on the altar and the knife descending toward the infant, still unaware that violence had entered their ceremony.
Then one of them noticed.
A slight turn of the head. Peripheral vision catching movement where there shouldn't be movement. The body on the ground. The spear. The blood.
Zarif was already moving.
Not waiting to see if they'd react. Not giving them time to process what had just happened or form a response. Just sprinting—full speed, legs pumping, closing the distance between his position and the altar.
Thirty yards to cover. He'd crossed five before the first figure's brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing. Ten yards before that figure opened his mouth to shout. Fifteen yards before the shout actually emerged—a wordless cry of alarm that shattered the ceremony's rhythm.
The other two figures turned. Saw Zarif charging toward them. Saw their guard dead on the ground. Saw violence approaching with lethal intent.
But they were too slow.
Too absorbed in ritual. Too unprepared for combat. Too shocked by the sudden transformation of their protected ceremony into a battlefield.
Zarif had momentum. Had surprise. Had the absolute commitment of someone who'd decided that killing was necessary and acceptable and the only path forward.
He reached the figure with the knife—the one standing over the altar, the one whose hands were descending toward the infant, the one whose throat held words in languages that predated mercy.
And Zarif's hands were already moving to stop him.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.
Zarif's legs ate up the distance with speed born from desperation and rage and six years of running through forest terrain that would break most people's ankles. His feet found purchase automatically—avoiding roots, adjusting to uneven ground, maintaining balance even at full sprint. His body stayed centered, controlled despite the velocity, not wasting energy on unnecessary movement.
The figure with the knife was turning. Slow. Too slow. His body rotating toward the sound of running footsteps, toward the shout that had broken the ceremony, toward the threat he hadn't anticipated. His hands were still holding the ceremonial blade but lowering it from its raised position, bringing it down and around, trying to reorient toward danger.
His mouth was opening. Words forming. Maybe a spell or prayer or just a curse. Zarif would never know because the man didn't get time to finish.
Five yards.
The other two figures were also turning, also reacting, also far too slow. Their bodies still locked in ceremony-mode, their minds still processing the impossible transition from sacred ritual to sudden violence. They had weapons—Zarif could see knives on their belts, could see hands reaching for them—but they were seconds behind where they needed to be.
Zarif reached the figure at the altar before any of them could complete their reactions.
His left arm came up and around in a smooth arc. Not a punch or strike but a grappling move—the kind you used when you needed to control someone completely, when killing wasn't enough if they had time to hurt someone else first. His forearm locked across the man's throat from behind, his bicep pressing against one side of the neck, his forearm against the other, his hand gripping his own wrist to close the circuit.
A blood choke. Cut off blood flow to the brain and the target dropped unconscious in seconds. But Zarif wasn't waiting for unconsciousness.
He pulled back hard. Yanked the man away from the altar, away from the infant, creating distance between the ceremonial blade and the tiny body it had been descending toward. The man's feet left the ground briefly as Zarif hauled him backward. His weight—maybe one hundred sixty pounds, maybe more—lifted and moved like he was made of cloth instead of flesh and bone.
The man struggled. His free hand came up to claw at Zarif's arm, trying to pull it away from his throat, trying to create space to breathe. His legs kicked, feet scrambling for purchase on ground that was no longer beneath them. His body twisted, trying to break the hold, trying to escape the iron grip that had locked around him.
Nothing worked.
Zarif's arm didn't budge. Didn't loosen. Didn't give the man even a fraction of space. The choke held with pressure that turned the man's face red, then purple, his struggles becoming more desperate, more frantic, more futile.
The man still held the knife in his right hand. Held it but couldn't use it—couldn't reach backward far enough to cut Zarif, couldn't build leverage for a stab, couldn't do anything except grip the handle uselessly while his body was controlled by someone stronger.
Zarif's right hand shot out. Grabbed the man's wrist. His fingers wrapped around bone and tendon with crushing force—the same grip strength that came from six years of working with tools and weapons, from building houses and killing predators, from surviving through physical labor that never ended.
He twisted.
Not gently. Not gradually. Just a sharp, violent rotation of the man's wrist that forced the joint to bend in directions it wasn't designed to go. Tendons stretched. Ligaments strained. The man's grip on the knife weakened involuntarily—pain overriding conscious control, his fingers opening because his body demanded it.
The ceremonial blade fell from his hand.
Zarif caught it before it hit the ground. His fingers closed around the bone handle, feeling the carved patterns press into his palm. The weight was wrong—too light for a weapon meant for real combat, too balanced toward the handle. This was made for ceremony, not fighting. But the edge was sharp. The point was functional.
Sharp enough.
The man realized what was about to happen. His struggles intensified—thrashing, writhing, trying to break free with the desperate strength of someone who knew death was seconds away. His hands clawed at Zarif's arm hard enough to draw blood. His legs kicked backward, trying to connect with Zarif's shins or knees. His whole body became a weapon in those final moments, fighting for survival with everything he had.
It wasn't enough.
Zarif brought the blade up to the man's throat. Pressed the edge against skin that was slick with sweat and stretched tight over the structures beneath. Felt the man's pulse through the metal—rapid, panicked, the heartbeat of prey in a predator's jaws.
Then he pulled.
The blade moved across the throat in one smooth motion. Not sawing. Not hesitating. Just a single pull that opened everything from one side to the other. Skin parted. Flesh separated. The deeper structures—arteries and windpipe and all the vital plumbing that kept a human alive—opened to the air.
Blood erupted.
Not a trickle or leak but an explosion of pressure released. Arterial spray that shot forward with force generated by a heart still beating, still trying to circulate blood that was no longer contained by the body it was meant to serve. The red arc crossed the space between the man's throat and the altar in less than a heartbeat.
Splattered across the infant lying on the stone.
The baby's pale skin disappeared under red. Droplets and splashes covering the tiny body, soaking into flesh that was impossibly soft and vulnerable. The child's face, its chest, its small arms and legs—all of it marked by blood that wasn't its own, blood that belonged to the man who'd been about to kill it.
The infant made a sound. Not crying—too young for proper crying, too confused by the sudden warmth coating its skin. Just a weak mewling. A protest that lacked the strength or understanding to be anything more than noise.
The man in Zarif's arms went slack. The fight drained out of him as blood drained from the massive wound across his throat. His hands dropped from Zarif's arm. His legs stopped kicking. His weight became dead weight, held up only by the arm still locked around his neck.
Zarif released him. Let the body drop to the ground beside the altar. The man crumpled, his face hitting dirt, blood still pumping from his throat in pulses that were weakening as his heart realized there was nothing left to pump.
Dying. Dead in seconds if not already.
Zarif stood over the body, the ceremonial knife still in his hand, blood running down the blade and dripping from the tip. His chest heaved with exertion and adrenaline. His arm where the man had clawed him stung and bled from shallow scratches. His hands were slick with blood—some from the knife, some from the man's throat, impossible to tell which was which.
On the altar, the infant continued its weak mewling, its tiny body covered in red, alive because Zarif had killed to keep it that way.
Protection through violence. Mercy through murder. Saving an innocent by creating a horror that would never wash away.
The other two figures stood frozen. Staring. Processing what had just happened in the space of maybe ten seconds. Their ceremony shattered. Their companion dead at their feet. Their protected ritual transformed into a slaughter.
And Zarif turned to face them.
Still holding the bloody knife. Still between them and the infant. Still radiating the kind of violence that came from absolute commitment to purpose.
Still not done.
The two remaining figures broke their paralysis.
The one on the left reached for the knife at his belt—hand moving with the jerky coordination of panic, fingers fumbling at the sheath. The one on the right made a different choice—turned and ran, robes billowing as he sprinted toward the tree line, toward escape, toward anywhere that wasn't this clearing that had become an abattoir.
Zarif went after the one who ran.
Not a tactical decision. Not conscious calculation. Just instinct—prey that ran triggered the chase, triggered the part of him that hunted, that pursued, that didn't let things escape. His legs launched him forward before his brain finished processing the movement. Three strides and he was at full speed again, closing the distance.
The running figure made it maybe ten yards. Less than halfway to the tree line. Not even close to safety.
Zarif caught him from behind. One hand grabbed the back of the man's robe, fisting in fabric, yanking backward with enough force to stop the forward momentum completely. The man's feet kept moving for a fraction of a second—running on air, physics catching up—before his body snapped backward and he fell.
Hit the ground on his back. Hard. The impact drove air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. His head bounced slightly against packed earth. Dazed but not unconscious. Still aware. Still seeing Zarif standing over him. Still understanding what was about to happen.
The ceremonial knife came down.
Not a stab—Zarif's angle was wrong for that, his positioning awkward. Instead he dropped to one knee on the man's chest, driving his weight down to pin him in place, and brought the blade across in a horizontal slash that opened the throat the same way he'd opened the first man's.
Blood sprayed. The man's hands came up—not to defend, too late for that, just reflexive clutching at a wound that couldn't be closed. His mouth worked, trying to speak or scream or pray, but nothing came out except wet gurgling as blood filled his windpipe.
Zarif was already moving. Already standing. Already turning back toward the clearing where the fourth figure—the last one—was finally getting his knife free from its sheath.
Too slow. Everything these men did was too slow. They'd spent so much time on ceremony and ritual and protected darkness that they'd forgotten how to react to real violence. Forgotten that people died fast when sharp metal met vital anatomy. Forgotten that fighting wasn't about chanting or symbols or divine favor—it was about who moved faster and hit harder and was willing to do what needed doing.
Zarif crossed the distance back to the clearing in seconds. The last figure saw him coming. Saw the blood-covered apparition charging at him with a knife that had already killed two of his companions. Saw death approaching with absolute certainty.
The man raised his own blade. Not to attack—his posture was all wrong for that, his grip defensive, his body language screaming that he wanted to ward off rather than engage. Just trying to keep the monster at bay. Just trying to survive the next few seconds.
It didn't work.
Zarif didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. Didn't give the man time to find courage or remember training or do anything except react. He came in fast and low, under the defensive knife position, and drove his blade up into the man's stomach.
The ceremonial knife wasn't designed for this kind of thrust. The blade was too light, the curve wrong for penetration. But sharp was sharp. And force was force. The blade punched through robe and skin and muscle, sliding between ribs, finding the soft organs beneath.
The man made a sound—half gasp, half scream, cut off as Zarif twisted the blade and pulled it free. Blood followed the withdrawal, pouring from the wound, soaking into robes that were already dark. The man stumbled backward, one hand pressed against his stomach like he could hold himself together, like pressure would stop what was happening inside.
He fell. Knees giving out. Body following. Hit the ground and didn't move except for shallow, rapid breathing that was getting shallower with each cycle.
Dying. Minutes maybe. Not immediate like the others but inevitable.
Zarif stood in the center of the clearing.
Four bodies. The guard with the spear through his neck. The runner with his throat opened. The last defender bleeding out from the stomach wound. And the man at the altar—the one who'd held the knife over the infant, the one Zarif had killed first, the one whose blood still covered the child lying on the stone.
The clearing had gone quiet. The chanting was gone. The voices silenced. The ceremony broken. Only three sounds remained: Zarif's breathing, harsh and rapid. The infant's weak mewling. And the dying man's rattling attempts to draw air into lungs that were filling with blood.
Zarif's hands were shaking. Not from fear or shock but from adrenaline crashing, from muscles that had been pushed hard and were now trying to process the aftermath. The knife hung loose in his grip, blood dripping from the blade in a steady rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
He looked down at the man at the altar. The first one he'd killed. The one whose body lay crumpled beside the stone where the infant still lay.
The hood had fallen back during the struggle. Pushed away when the man had hit the ground. His face was visible now—fully visible in the last light of evening that was rapidly fading toward true darkness.
Zarif stared at the face.
Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Handsome in the way that people in paintings were handsome—strong jaw, straight nose, high cheekbones. The kind of face that belonged on someone important. Someone celebrated. Someone who mattered.
Recognition hit Zarif like a physical blow.
He knew this face.
Not personally—he'd never met this man, had never been close enough to speak to him or hear his voice. But he'd seen the face before. In the marketplace. On posters advertising tournaments. Being discussed by crowds who gathered to talk about combat and skill and who was the best warrior in the empire.
Nicholas.
THE Nicholas.
The greatest young talent in sword dueling. The man who'd won three consecutive tournaments without losing a single match. The celebrated warrior who'd risen from relative obscurity to become the empire's symbol of martial excellence. The man who was supposed to marry Princess Althea in two weeks.
The hero.
Zarif had just killed the hero.
The weight of that realization crashed down on him with force that made his knees weak. Made his breathing stop. Made the world narrow to just this face, this corpse, this impossible fact.
He hadn't just killed someone. Hadn't just stopped a ritual sacrifice. Hadn't just saved an infant from murder.
He'd killed Nicholas. The man the entire empire celebrated. The man whose name everyone knew. The man who represented everything the common people aspired to—proof that skill and dedication could elevate you beyond your birth, that merit mattered, that excellence was rewarded.
Gone. Dead. Lying in dirt with his throat opened and his blood soaking into earth.
By Zarif's hand.
The consequences started assembling themselves in his mind with horrible clarity. This wouldn't be investigated as just another murder. This wouldn't be forgotten or overlooked or dismissed as unfortunate violence. This was the death of someone important. Someone beloved. Someone whose murder would demand justice, would require punishment, would mobilize every resource the empire had.
They would hunt whoever did this. Would chase them to the ends of the earth. Would spend whatever it took—gold, soldiers, time—to find the killer and make them pay in ways that would serve as warning to anyone else who might think of harming the empire's favorites.
And Zarif had just made himself that target.
His hand loosened on the knife. It fell from his grip, hitting the ground with a dull thud beside Nicholas's body.
What had he done?
The infant mewled. Weak sound cutting through Zarif's spiraling thoughts. Reminding him that whatever else had just happened, whatever consequences were about to crash down on him, there was still a baby on that altar. Still an innocent that needed help. Still something that mattered more than his own panic.
Zarif looked from Nicholas's face to the infant. Saw the tiny body covered in blood that wasn't its own. Saw the small arms waving aimlessly. Saw life that had been seconds from ending.
He'd saved it. Whatever else he'd done—whatever political disaster he'd created, whatever manhunt he'd just triggered, whatever future he'd just destroyed—he'd saved this child.
That had to count for something.
Didn't it?
The dying man nearby let out a final rattling breath and went still. The clearing fell silent except for Zarif's breathing and the infant's mewling.
Four bodies. One living child. And Zarif standing between them, covered in blood, understanding dawning that his life had just ended as surely as if he'd been the one with the knife across his throat.
He'd killed Nicholas.
And the empire would never forgive that.