Kael did not remember the first death clearly.
Later, when he tried to recall it, his mind supplied fragments rather than a full picture. A sound like air leaving a punctured bellows. The dull resistance of flesh giving way beneath steel. The sudden, unbearable stillness that followed.
What he remembered most was the silence afterwards.
It pressed in on him as the bandit's body went slack, heavier than the weight of the knife in his hand. The man's eyes stared at nothing, mouth half-open as if words had been waiting there and simply never arrived.
Kael staggered back.
His legs nearly folded beneath him, and he had to catch himself against the stone wall. The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the road.
For a moment, he thought he might be sick.
His stomach twisted violently, his throat tightening as bile rose, but nothing came. His body shook instead, sharp tremors racing through his arms and shoulders, as if it couldn't decide whether to flee or collapse.
Rothmar watched him.
He did not step in. He did not speak.
The wounded bandits lay scattered across the corridor, some still breathing, others frighteningly still. One whimpered softly, a thin, broken sound that cut into Kael's chest like a blade.
Kael pressed his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold stone. His hands were red to the wrist. He rubbed them together, harder and harder, as if friction alone could scrape the colour away.
It didn't.
"I didn't mean to—" Kael began, then stopped.
He didn't know how to finish the sentence.
Rothmar approached at last, boots crunching softly on gravel. He crouched in front of Kael, their eyes level.
"You meant to live," Rothmar said. "And you did."
Kael swallowed, jaw tight. "He was looking at me."
"Yes."
"He was scared."
"Yes."
Kael's fingers curled into his palms. "He wasn't like the others. The ones in the town."
Rothmar's gaze didn't waver. "No."
Kael looked up sharply. "Then why—"
"Because fear does not make a blade miss," Rothmar said quietly. "And it does not make intent disappear."
Kael's shoulders sagged.
The whimpering grew louder.
Kael flinched.
Rothmar stood and turned towards the wounded men. He moved with the same calm precision as before, checking pulses, assessing wounds. His actions were efficient, almost clinical.
Kael watched from the ground, heart hammering.
"These two will bleed out within the hour," Rothmar said, nodding towards the man Kael had stabbed in the thigh and another struck earlier. "This one will live if treated." He glanced at the bandit with the crushed knee.
Kael forced himself to stand. His legs felt weak, but they held.
"What do we do?" he asked.
Rothmar looked at him. "What do you want to do?"
Kael stared at the men.
The one with the injured hand had stopped screaming. He lay on his side, breathing shallowly, eyes darting back and forth whenever Kael looked his way.
Kael's chest tightened.
"If we leave them," Kael said slowly, "the ones who live could come after us."
"Yes."
"And if we… don't," Kael continued, "then I become someone who kills people who can't fight back."
Rothmar regarded him thoughtfully. "You already killed someone who could fight back."
"That's different," Kael said immediately. Then he hesitated. "Isn't it?"
Rothmar was silent for a long moment.
"No," he said finally. "It isn't. But it feels different. That matters too."
Kael clenched his jaw.
The wind swept through the corridor, carrying the smell of blood and dust.
Kael looked at the bandit whose knee he'd shattered. The man's eyes were glassy with pain, his hands clutching uselessly at the ground. He was staring at Kael now—not with hatred, but with a desperate, pleading terror.
Kael's hands shook again.
"I don't want them to follow us," Kael said quietly.
Rothmar nodded once.
"Then do it quickly," he said. "Or let me."
Kael stared at the knife lying on the road.
He bent and picked it up.
It felt heavier than before.
Kael approached the first of the wounded—the one with the ruined hand. The man tried to crawl away, fingers scraping uselessly at stone.
"Please," he croaked. "Please, I didn't—"
Kael stopped beside him.
He didn't look at the man's face.
He remembered Rothmar's voice from the night before.
No theatre.
Kael drew a breath.
Then another.
His strike was fast.
He stepped back immediately, heart racing, breath coming in sharp gasps.
The next was harder.
The third took longer than he wanted it to.
By the time it was done, Kael felt hollow.
He stood there, knife dripping red, staring at nothing.
Rothmar waited until Kael lowered the blade before he spoke.
"You didn't prolong it," Rothmar said. "That's good."
Kael laughed once, a short, broken sound. "Is it?"
"Yes," Rothmar said. "It is."
Kael wiped the knife clean on his sleeve, not trusting his hands to do anything else. His fingers felt numb.
They left the bodies where they lay.
The road stretched on ahead of them, quiet once more, as if nothing had happened.
They walked in silence for a long time.
Eventually, Kael spoke without looking up. "Does it get easier?"
Rothmar didn't answer immediately.
"No," he said at last. "But it becomes quieter."
Kael frowned. "Quieter?"
"The part of you that asks why," Rothmar said. "It learns when to stay silent."
Kael didn't like that answer, but it felt true.
They made camp near a shallow ravine as the sun dipped low. Rothmar tended Kael's wounds with practiced hands, cleaning the cut on his shoulder and retightening the bandage at his ribs.
Kael watched the sky darken, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.
When Rothmar finished, he sat back on his heels.
"You did not enjoy it," Rothmar said.
Kael shook his head. "No."
"Good," Rothmar replied. "People who enjoy killing are unreliable. They make mistakes."
Kael stared into the fire. "And people who don't?"
"They last longer," Rothmar said. "If they learn when to act."
Kael's eyelids grew heavy.
Before sleep took him, he asked one last question.
"Will they keep coming? The ones like last night?"
Rothmar looked out into the dark.
"Yes," he said. "Not because you fought today. But because you exist."
Kael closed his eyes.
For the first time since the fire, he dreamed—not of his parents, not of blood or blades, but of running without fear, and of learning how to stand when the world tried to knock him down.