The fire had burned down to low red coals. Outside, the rain had slowed to a thin drizzle. Inside the small office the air still smelled of wet wool, old stone, and the blood that had dried on my clothes.
I sat against the wall with my eyes half-closed.
My shoulder ached.
The cuts on my arms stung every time I moved.
The temporary strength from the System was long gone.
All that was left was the heavy Iron Body and the knowledge that six templars were lying dead in the hall outside.
Isolde had not spoken for a long time.
She stayed in the broken chair, arms wrapped around herself, face turned toward the door as if she could still hear the fighting.
Seraphina lay against the wall under the wool cloak, golden eyes open and watching me without blinking.
"You should sleep," I said.
Isolde’s mouth tightened. "In a room with a man who just killed six Church soldiers? No."
"Then stay awake. I don’t care."
I stood slowly and checked the bolt on the door again.
It was still locked.
Through the thick wood I could hear only the rain and the occasional creak of the ruined keep settling.
The smell from the main hall was already starting to creep under the door - blood and wet iron.
Seraphina’s voice came quiet and rough.
"Silas will reach the Cardinal before night."
"I know."
"They will send more."
"I know that too."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You should have taken the offer. You would already be on a horse back to the capital."
I looked at her. "And you would already be on your way to Alaric’s cage. Isolde would be drinking that purple sludge. I chose this."
Seraphina did not answer right away. Her eyes stayed on me, cold and measuring. When she spoke again her voice was lower.
"You keep choosing the hard path. That does not make you trustworthy. It only makes you unpredictable."
I sat back down against the wall.
Time passed.
The coals dimmed further and the room grew colder.
My body wanted sleep, but every small sound from the hall kept me awake.
Isolde’s breathing stayed tight and controlled.
She was listening the way blind people learn to listen - for footsteps, for the shift of weight on floorboards, for anything that did not belong to the rain.
I tore a small piece from one of the remaining stamina rations and chewed it slowly. The artificial warmth helped a little, but not enough. My hands still felt unsteady.
Then a different sound reached us.
Heavy boots on gravel. More than one pair. Not the random noise of scavengers or animals. Deliberate steps crossing the courtyard and stopping near the broken front doors.
I was on my feet at once. Isolde went completely still in the chair. Seraphina’s eyes narrowed.
A rough voice carried through the ruined main hall.
"Look at this mess. Templars. Looks like Vane’s men got here first and got chewed up."
A second voice answered, closer. "Check the side rooms. Baron Morvan is paying for the Draven girl’s head, not for us to stand around staring at dead priests."
Isolde’s breath stopped. The name hit her hard.
"Baron Morvan," she whispered. "My father’s rivals. The Marcher lords."
I understood.
In the novel the lesser Marcher lords hated Duke Draven.
Isolde’s exile was their chance.
If they killed the Duke’s blind daughter out here in the mud, they proved he could not protect his own blood.
It would weaken him in front of the other houses.
They had not come for me or for Seraphina. They had come for Isolde.
Boots moved closer to our door. Someone kicked a piece of broken furniture out of the way.
I did not wait for them to kick the door in. I slid the bolt back, pulled the door open myself, and stepped into the main hall with the dagger already in my hand.
Three men in dark green leather stood among the dead templars. Broadswords. Scarred faces. The kind of mercenaries who worked for coin and did not ask questions once the gold was paid.
The leader, a man missing his left ear, looked at me and grinned.
"The Voss bastard. Heard your father threw you out like trash. Step aside. We only need the blind girl. Hand her over and we’ll let you die quiet."
"No."
He laughed once, short and ugly. "Kill him."
The closest mercenary came at me with a wide swing aimed at my neck. I stepped inside the arc, took the impact on my Iron Body forearm, and drove the dagger up under his ribs. He dropped with a wet sound.
The second man was already moving. His blade scraped across my shoulder and opened a new cut. I caught his wrist, shoved him back into the blood on the floor, and finished it before he could rise.
The leader came last, heavier and faster.
His sword forced me back two steps.
He was stronger than the others.
I closed the distance anyway, slammed my shoulder into his chest, and put the dagger into the gap under his arm where the leather was thinner.
He staggered, eyes wide, and fell among the templars.
Silence returned to the hall. Only the rain and my own hard breathing. Blood ran warm down my arm from the new cut.
I stood there for a few seconds, checking that none of them were still moving. Then I went back to the office door.
Isolde was on her feet, one hand on the chair for balance. Her face was pale. Seraphina’s eyes were wide and sharp, tracking every drop of blood on my clothes.
"They’re dead," I said. "Marcher mercenaries. They came for you."
Isolde’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Morvan will send more."
"I know."
I looked at the bodies in the hall and at the blood already mixing with the old templar blood.
The smell was getting worse by the minute.
It would draw every scavenger and hound in the area before long.
Staying on the ground floor was no longer safe.
"We can’t stay down here," I said. "We move upstairs. Now."
Isolde did not argue this time. She reached out until her fingers found my belt and held on tight. I lifted Seraphina, settled her against my good shoulder, and started toward the stairs at the back of the hall.
Behind us the main hall stayed quiet, thick with the smell of blood and rain.
Somewhere outside, more men would already be riding toward this place.