Alester lay still as the local healer worked, his teeth clenching despite himself when the man pressed cool ointment into the cuts along his ribs and shoulder.
"Gods," Alester hissed. "What is that?"
The healer didn't look up. "A mixture of milk, honey, and oil blessed at the Temple of Faunor."
Alester nodded through the sting.
"Rest," the healer continued, corking the jar. "By tomorrow, your cuts will be healed."
As the man gathered his things, Alester asked, "What's your name?"
"Bren."
"Thank you, Bren."
The healer inclined his head, finished packing, and left the room in silence.
Alester lay alone on the narrow bed, the scent of herbs and honey thick in the air. He began to hum softly—a tune Uncle Arnault used to sing when he was young, low and steady, like a prayer.
Reynolds' words crept back into his thoughts.
A sinner. An affront to the Nine.
The man had died claiming he spoke the truth.
Maybe Ser Liam would know. Liam had been Arnault's dearest friend—closer than blood.
The thought lingered as sleep finally claimed him.
Nine hours later, Alester awoke.
He blinked, confused at first, then sat upright. The cuts that had burned the night before were gone—no pain, no stiffness. His body felt light, whole. Better than he could ever remember feeling.
He stretched, muscles loose and strong, and swung his legs off the bed.
"I'm leaving today," he muttered to himself.
His clothes and sword rested neatly on a table nearby. He crossed the room and lifted his tunic, clean and warm, scented faintly like roses. He dressed quickly, buckled on his sword, and stepped outside.
Blinding Solarion light struck his eyes.
"Fuck—it's bright," Alester groaned.
He whistled sharply.
Moments later, Milk trotted toward him, stopping just short before lowering her head and licking his cheek.
Alester laughed. "Did you miss me?"
Milk snorted in reply.
He mounted her easily, scratching behind her ear. "Come on, girl. Let's head back to Lord Mallory's lands."
They had barely reached the gate when a familiar voice called out.
"Alester! Awake already—and leaving so soon?"
Ser Will stood beside the gatehouse, arms crossed.
"I've nothing more to do in Stormwatch," Alester replied. "There are matters waiting for me elsewhere."
Ser Will nodded. "I understand. But before you go, last night I sent men into the Stormwood. We searched for your uncle's armour and mace. We didn't find the armour… but we did find this."
He gestured. One of the guards stepped forward, holding a mace.
Alester dismounted at once.
The weapon was unmistakable—southern steel, dark and flawless, its grip wrapped in worn deerskin. At its head, six sharp flanges caught the light.
Uncle Arnault's mace.
Alester took it reverently.
"Thank you," he said, voice tight. "With everything that happened, I'd nearly forgotten it. You have my gratitude—truly. May the Nine bless you."
Ser Will waved it off with a chuckle. "It's nothing. I only wish we'd found the armour as well."
"You've already done more than enough," Alester said. "If ever you need my help, send a pigeon to Lord Mallory's castle."
Ser Will shook his head. "Godspeed, Alester."
Alester mounted Milk once more as the gates creaked open. Stormwatch fell behind them.
Hours later, Alester rested beneath the same great tree beside the River Tristan. Milk lay nearby, dozing in the shade.
He turned the mace over in his hands, thoughts heavy.
Was my uncle truly a sinner? An affront to the Nine?
What had Arnault done to earn such hatred?
Another voice whispered that Reynolds had lied—that this was nothing but a dead man's bitterness.
Alester stared at the mace.
And remembered a story his uncle once told him.
Flashback
The fire crackled warmly as young Alester sat cross-legged, its heat chasing away the northern chill.
"Uncle Arnault," he asked, "why are we in the Northern Realms? You never told me."
Arnault sighed, gazing into the flames. "Because the smith who made my mace lives here."
Alester's eyes widened. "But you said it was made in one of the southern city-states."
Arnault smiled. "Do you want to hear a story, Alester?"
Alester shook his head eagerly.
"Then listen."
Arnault's voice grew stronger, carrying the weight of a well-worn tale.
"There was once a renowned smith from lands of ice and snow—a place where winter ruled most of the year, and iron froze bare hands solid."
Young Alester hugged his knees, rapt.
"As a boy, the smith heard whispers of a city far to the south—Sideropolis, the City of Smiths. They said its forges burned day and night, that steel there sang beneath the hammer, and that a man could shape his fate with fire and will."
Arnault smiled faintly.
"When the boy had seen twenty summers, he left his homeland with nothing but a bag, a hammer, and stubborn hope. He crossed mountains, rivers, and war-torn lands until he reached Sideropolis."
Arnault stirred the fire.
"There, he apprenticed under Thalos, a master whose name was spoken with reverence. Thalos taught him that steel was not merely metal—it was will. That every weapon carried the soul of its maker."
Arnault's hand rested on the mace beside him.
"When his apprenticeship ended, the smith forged one final piece—not for coin, nor for any lord, but as proof of who he had become. A mace, balanced and brutal, meant to shatter armour and end battles swiftly."
Alester swallowed. "So… who did he give it to?"
Arnault's eyes reflected the firelight.
"A knight seeking justice," he said quietly. "A man sworn to the Nine, yet willing to walk paths others feared. The smith saw resolve in him—and sorrow—and placed the mace in his hands."
His voice softened.
"That knight swore never to use it for cruelty. Never for pride. Only for protection—and for truth."
Silence followed.
"Is that knight you?" Alester whispered.
Arnault smiled sadly. "That is a story for another night."
The fire crackled, sparks rising into the dark northern sky.
PRESENT
The memory faded, leaving Alester alone beneath the tree, the river whispering beside him.
During the story, Uncle Arnault had sounded… careful. Measured. Like a man choosing his words so as not to speak of certain things too plainly. Alester hadn't noticed it as a boy. He did now.
His stomach tightened.
What did you do, Uncle?
Reynolds' dying words pressed in on him again.
I told the truth.
Alester rose slowly and lifted the mace. He gave it a light swing with his right hand. The weapon moved easily, far lighter than it looked, its balance perfect—most of the weight drawn toward the flanged head. It wanted to strike. It wanted momentum.
A weapon made to end fights quickly.
He stopped, staring at it, then glanced toward Milk, who lay nearby with eyes half-closed, tail flicking lazily.
Alester whistled.
Milk snorted, then rose to her feet with a shake, ears pricking forward.
"We're not camping here tonight," Alester said quietly. "We'll ride closer to Lord Mallory's lands."
Milk let out a low neigh, as if in agreement.
Alester mounted her, settling the mace at his side. With one last look at the river and the tree, where too many thoughts had gathered, he turned Milk toward the road.
They rode on, the sun lowering behind them, carrying questions that refused to stay buried—and a past that was beginning to stir.