"…If you hadn't stripped that dead weight off me, it would have killed me."

  "I know. I know." Farone could hardly reconcile the rider before him with the cringing boy who had begged for mercy not long ago. Something new had taken root in him—not mere maturity, not simple hatred. It was venom, a malice so cold it chilled the very marrow. "So, as I said... I am grateful." The boy pressed closer, his lips brushing Farone's ear. "I am grateful for this robe of blood... no water can wash it clean. And grateful for those one hundred and two feet of torment. Don't be surprised. I counted the bricks on the way up. I know exactly how you built my torture chamber."

  "And I gave you your life, you bastard!" Farone Bolhart summoned every ounce of strength to force the words out. "Don't forget who was on his knees, begging us to spare him!"

  "Easy, benefactor. Easy now." The rider pressed a hand to Farone's wound; the knight nearly blacked out. "I must repay you. You can be sure of that. We Cynthians," he whispered, "are known for honoring our debts." He began to unwrap the bandage.

  "What are you doing!?"

  "Oh, please, benefactor. You know perfectly well what I'm doing." He cast the linen aside; blood that had nearly clotted now welled up afresh. "You saved my life," he continued to whisper, "you gave me a new one." His breath was hot on Farone's ear. "So I will grant you your life, too." He patted the bleeding chasm of the wound, and Farone screamed. "But whether you'll find a new life... that I cannot guarantee, my benefactor."

  "I should have... finished you... you venomous..." His strength was failing.

  "But you didn't. That was your 'mercy'. And my horse... you just left it standing there. Was that your mercy too? Hmm?"

  Farone had no strength left for proper speech; even his curses came weak and bloodless. "Enough. Our accounts are settled." The boy wiped blood from his split lip and winced at the pain. "You said your friend was near that house, didn't you?" He grinned through his pain, defiant. "Who is he? The long-haired knight? The fat one beside the horse? Or perhaps my other benefactor—the gentleman who suggested dropping me down the well?"

  "Hnh... whelp." Farone laughed with the same mad edge. "Rest assured—he'll grant you a second mercy. Hnh..." His head lolled toward his left shoulder.

  "So he is my benefactor. Excellent." The Cynthian rider mounted again. "I shall repay him in full measure."

  It seems the Gods—or the Triad—delight in miracles. Farone did not die alone in foreign soil. When his heavy lids finally lifted, a tapestry of stars greeted him. His wound had been dressed; the rhythmic jolting told him he lay on a stretcher in a military wagon. "Where is Carl?" These were his first words upon waking. Another wounded man sharing the wagon sat propped against the sideboard, hands resting on his knees. "Where is Hero Carl!?"

  "Don't strain yourself so, friend," the man cautioned. "You'll tear your wound open."

  "To hell with the wound. I want to know where Hero Carl is."

  The wounded man leaned slightly forward. "The man you speak of—he was near you, yes? Where you lost consciousness."

  A weight lifted from Farone's heart. "He was by the farmhouse to my left—some distance away. He went looking for a doctor, or at least some herbs." He exhaled with relief. "Thank the heavens—so you found him."

  "Don't thank the Gods so hastily, friend. We found him, yes—but not as you might hope."

  "...Continue."

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  "I was strapped to a stretcher like yours, so my view was limited. But I know there were bodies outside that farmhouse—the stench was overwhelming. They said they found two Imperial soldiers."

  "Two?"

  "Yes. One from House Friez—throat slit open. We all silently celebrated that one. The other, by his armor and insignia, belonged to the Royal Knights. I believe that was your friend—your Hero Carl."

  "That's him." Farone pushed himself upright. "Don't tell me you abandoned him there." Reading the half-answer in the man's expression, his anger flared. "You could salvage a wreck like me, but not a true hero?"

  "Peace, brother. He was already in two pieces."

  Farone wasn't surprised; from the moment the man's tone changed, he had sensed the worst was coming. "They took his head?"

  "To be precise—everything remained except the head."

  "...Generous indeed."

  "Indeed." The wounded soldier sighed softly. "The field surgeon observed that the cut was remarkably clean—executed in a single stroke. Such precision is typically seen only in formal executions."

  "So Hero Carl died either completely defenseless, or by a Cynthian executioner's hand."

  "Yes, yes. At least it wasn't some stray arrow in the chaos, or having his legs crushed by a chariot. This was... clean. Quick. Perhaps that is the Cynthian form of mercy."

  "Do you believe that good deeds bring good fortune?" Farone asked.

  The man hesitated. "I do. I try to see the better part of this world. You know, friend—I've traveled to Wyrmδenborn, the Land of Dragons. All manner of peoples dwell there. I spent most of my time among the Kalkasians. They live with an ease—almost a carelessness. It's difficult to imagine a people enslaved for centuries who still sing of life with such love. Once, while fishing, I questioned my Kalkasian companion about this outlook. He told me the world mirrors us perfectly. When we curse the world, it curses us in return. Though they had been slaves, most are free now; they refuse to live with hatred, for then the pain would remain their own. He said good and evil are difficult to distinguish—twins joined at birth. But if you plant kindness in the world, that cannot be wrong. Such kindness travels on the wind through the air, flows with the currents in the water, and is carried on travelers' tongues to distant lands. The Kalkasians embrace life with joy and goodness, looking not to the past but to what lies ahead. Only when peace and kindness touch every soul—those living and those yet unborn—will their tragic history never repeat itself. That is how you change the past through the future. He infected me with this belief—convinced me that we reap exactly what we sow."

  "And these Kalkasians... have they ever seen a real war?"

  "That I cannot say. I didn't delve deeply into their history. Hmm..." His brow furrowed. "You might discover their story in the Imperial Public Library..."

  "Friend," Farone interrupted, "after witnessing all these wars, great and small—you still cling to that belief? That good begets good?"

  "For now, yes."

  "Then set aside your Kalkasians, brother. Let me tell you this: Hero Carl—that Royal Knight found in pieces—lost his head to a Cynthian rider whom he spared out of mercy." He delivered the entire revelation in a single breath, without pause. The feat surprised even himself.

  "You spared a Cynthian?" The wounded man's eyes widened in disbelief.

  "Hero Carl spared him—a boy of fifteen or sixteen, a Cynthian cavalry rider. Carl was exactly the type who would unleash a hurricane of kindness upon the world, as you described." Farone's smile turned bitter. "We dropped the boy down a well to prevent him from alerting others. Yet, as you've heard, he climbed out by himself, tore off my bandage, left me to bleed slowly to death—and severed Carl's head. 'Good begets good?' Pure horseshit."

  "Not all men are the same. There are always exceptions..."

  "This is the battlefield, friend. You have no time to determine if someone follows Kalkasian philosophy. So here's my counsel—kill any Cynthian you can. Otherwise, you'll be the corpse."

  The other stretcher fell silent. "I... I find it hard to argue with that, brother. It's true. So many of the rules we live by... they just melt away on the battlefield. War is a breeding ground for malice and slaughter. And yet... I still believe that choosing to meet the world with kindness is never a mistake."

  Farone reclined again, folding his arms beneath his head as a pillow, and ceased responding. He found it curious that the man before him had sustained only minor injuries—and hadn't been cleaved in two like Carl.

  (In times of peace, perhaps what's needed is Hero Carl.) He closed his eyes. (But in an age of turmoil, what's needed is Farone Bolhart.)

  He drifted into heavy slumber.

  Starlight still imprinted on his eyelids; amid that scattered brilliance, he wondered which light might be Hero Carl.