Boreas 10, Imperial Year 1642
Castle Ethelred, Eastern Marches
The body had been removed, but the blood remained.
Gregor Eisenhardt stood in the alley behind the Silver Tankard, staring at the dark stain on the cobblestones. Rain had diluted it, spreading it thin across the gaps between stones, but the color was unmistakable. A man had died here. A knight of the realm, struck down by an unseen hand from an impossible distance.
He had heard the voice. They all had.
"A knight is not a knight when he becomes a pig."
The words echoed in his skull, resonant and archaic, like something out of a old epic. Not a local accent. Not Mercian, not Elvish, not the trade tongue. Something else. Something learned.
Gregor knelt and examined the cobblestones. No arrow. No bolt. No blade. The only wound was a small hole in Aldous's chest, no wider than a finger, and an exit wound on his back the size of a fist. The castle's chirurgeon had called it a piercing by a metal projectile, but he had never seen anything like it. The projectile – a misshapen lump of lead – had been recovered from the wall behind where Aldous fell. It was too small for a crossbow, too heavy for a sling, and traveling far too fast.
"Sir Gregor." A guardsman approached, his helm under his arm. "The baron requests your presence. He is… unsettled."
Gregor stood. "I will come."
The great hall was crowded. Baron Ethelred sat on his dais, pale and sweating, his small eyes darting from face to face. Knights stood in clusters, speaking in hushed voices. A priest in brown robes knelt before a small altar to Dike, goddess of justice, his lips moving in frantic prayer.
"Gregor." The baron waved him forward. "You saw the body. You heard the voice. What manner of weapon does this?"
"I do not know, my lord."
"A mage?" The baron's voice cracked. "Some sorcerer from the Free Cities? An assassin from the south?"
Gregor considered. Magic was real – he had seen it, felt it, though he could not wield it. But magic had limits. A spell that could kill from beyond sight, beyond hearing, beyond any known range… that was not the magic of hedge wizards or temple priests. That was something else.
"It could be magic," Gregor said carefully. "Or it could be a weapon we do not understand."
The baron's face contorted. "I do not pay you for riddles. I pay you for protection. Sir Aldous is dead. Who killed him? Why?"
Gregor had no answers. He said nothing.
The baron dismissed him with a wave.
That night, Gregor sat in his quarters and stared at the wall.
He had seen many deaths. He had caused many deaths. The peasant revolt, the bandit skirmishes, the border raids – he had killed men with sword and spear and dagger, and he had felt nothing. They were enemies. They had to die. It was simple.
But Aldous's death was not simple.
Aldous was a monster. Gregor knew that. The man had beaten women, extorted money, abused his power. His death would save lives. By any rational measure, the killing was justified.
And yet.
The voice had come from nowhere. The weapon had come from nowhere. The killer had not shown his face, had not offered himself to judgment, had not given Aldous a chance to repent or defend himself. He had simply removed him, like a surgeon cutting out a tumor, and then vanished.
That is justice, Gregor thought. Is it?
He did not know.
He lay down on his cot and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come.
Boreas 12, Imperial Year 1642
The Hills Above Castle Ethelred
Vladislav Eisenberg watched the castle through his scope.
He had not left the area. Not yet. He wanted to see the aftermath – the baron's reaction, the knights' fear, the common folk's relief. Data for future calculations.
The young knight – Gregor – had been staring at the bloodstain for an hour. Vlad had watched him through the scope, noting the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his hand rested on his sword hilt. This was not a man who accepted easy answers.
He is troubled, Vlad thought. Good. Troubled men ask questions. Questions lead to answers. Answers lead to me.
He lowered the rifle and considered his options. He could kill the young knight – remove a potential threat. Or he could leave him alive, let him search, let him perhaps find the others. The others might lead Vlad to the reincarnations – not because he cared about them, but because they were variables. And variables needed to be accounted for.
I will watch, he decided. For now.
He packed the rifle and moved to a new position, higher up the hillside, where he could observe the castle's eastern gate.
He did not sleep. He never slept when he was watching.
Boreas 15, Imperial Year 1642
Castle Ethelred, Chapel
Gregor knelt before the altar of Dike, his head bowed, his hands clasped. He was not a religious man – not in this life, not in the last – but the chapel was quiet, and the priest had left a candle burning, and the silence was a kind of peace.
He prayed. Not to Dike, not to any god, but to the memory of his mother. The one who had died in the bombing. The one who had not reincarnated.
Why am I here? he asked her, in the silence of his heart. Why was I given a second life? What am I supposed to do with it?
No answer came. There was never an answer.
He heard footsteps behind him. Soft, hesitant. A woman's voice.
"Sir Gregor?"
He turned. A serving girl – young, pale, with dark circles under her eyes – stood in the doorway. He recognized her. She had been the one who found Aldous's body.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I… I wanted to thank you." She twisted her apron in her hands. "Sir Aldous. He… he hurt me. Many times. I could not speak. No one would believe me." Her voice cracked. "Whoever killed him… I am glad."
Gregor looked at her. He saw the fear, the relief, the hope. He saw a girl who had been broken and was now, perhaps, beginning to heal.
"Go," he said gently. "Say nothing of this to anyone."
She nodded and fled.
Gregor returned to his knees. He stared at the candle flame.
She is glad, he thought. The common folk are glad. The women are glad. The children are glad.
Aldous's death brought more good than harm.
Does that make the killer just?
He did not know. But for the first time in years, he wanted to find out.
Boreas 18, Imperial Year 1642
Castle Ethelred, Guest Quarters
The three travelers – the halfling, the orc, the red-haired woman – had left three days ago. Gregor had watched them go from the castle wall. They had not looked back.
He had not gone with them. He could not. He had sworn an oath to Baron Ethelred, and oaths meant something. Even if the baron was weak, even if the knights were corrupt, even if the system was rotten – a man was only as good as his word.
But he could not stop thinking about what they had said.
"You deserve to know you are not alone."
"We are trying to build something – a community, a family."
"Leave the door open."
He sat on the edge of his cot, his sword across his knees, and stared at the wall.
He had been alone for so long. Not physically – there were always guards, servants, fellow knights – but internally. No one knew his past. No one knew his memories. No one knew that he had died once and been reborn.
The halfling – Elara, she had called herself – had known. She had looked at him with Yuki Tanaka's eyes, and she had seen him. Not Gregor the knight, not Takeshi the silent student, but the soul beneath.
She saw me, he thought. And I pushed her away.
He closed his eyes.
The voice in the hills echoed in his memory.
"The sword of justice is longer than thou knowest."
Who was that man? How had he killed Aldous from so far away? Why had he spoken in that strange, archaic tongue?
Gregor opened his eyes.
He would find out.
Not because he wanted to join the class. Not because he wanted to be found. But because the killer was a variable – and Gregor had spent twenty years learning to account for variables.
He stood, sheathed his sword, and walked to the door.
He had work to do.
Boreas 20, Imperial Year 1642
The Hills Above Castle Ethelred
Vladislav Eisenberg watched the young knight ride out of the castle gate.
Gregor was alone, armored, armed, his face set in an expression of grim determination. He rode east, toward the forest where Vlad had positioned himself three days ago.
He is looking for me, Vlad realized.
He did not move. The young knight could not see him – two kilometers of open hillside and forest separated them. But he was coming closer.
Vlad considered his options. He could kill Gregor now, from this distance, and be done with it. One shot, one death, no witnesses.
But the nightmare came – not the bombing, but the memory of Aldous's body, the blood on the cobblestones, the serving girl's tearful thanks. He saw the consequences of killing Gregor: the baron's paranoia, the knights' fear, the chaos that would follow. Gregor was not a monster. Gregor was a man trying to do his duty in a world that did not deserve him.
The balance is not clear, Vlad thought. This death brings uncertain harm.
He lowered the rifle.
Gregor rode into the forest and disappeared among the trees.
Vlad packed his equipment and moved to a new position, farther east, where he could observe without being seen.
He did not know why he was letting the young knight live. He told himself it was because the balance was uncertain. He told himself it was because Gregor might be useful later. He told himself many things.
But deep in the cold, dark place where his heart used to be, he knew the truth.
He was curious.
And curiosity, for a man who had lived a hundred and twenty years, was a rare and precious thing.
Boreas 22, Imperial Year 1642
The Forest East of Castle Ethelred
Gregor found nothing.
He rode for two days, searching the hills, the forests, the valleys. He found no sign of the killer – no camp, no tracks, no discarded equipment. It was as if the man had vanished into thin air.
But he had seen something, on the second day, just before dusk. A glint of light on the far hillside, like sunlight reflecting off glass or polished metal. He had turned his horse toward it, but by the time he reached the spot, it was gone.
He dismounted and examined the ground.
A patch of flattened grass. A few scraps of dark fabric. And, hidden beneath a rock, a single brass casing – small, cylindrical, with a faint smell of burnt powder.
He picked it up and turned it over in his hand.
He had never seen anything like it.
He tucked it into his pouch and rode back to the castle.
That night, he sat in his quarters and studied the brass casing by candlelight. It was too small for a crossbow bolt, too heavy for a sling stone. The inside was hollow, and the base was marked with a small indentation, as if something had struck it from within.
A weapon, he thought. A weapon that uses fire and metal to launch a projectile.
But from how far?
He had no answers. But he had a question, and questions were the beginning of knowledge.
He put the casing in a leather pouch and hid it under his cot.
Then he knelt beside the window and looked up at the stars.
Who are you? he asked the darkness. Where did you come from?
No answer came.
But for the first time in years, he was glad to be alive.
End of Chapter Three