Henry stood for a moment, letting the cool mountain breeze hit his face, his mind racing through the reality of his situation.
If he rode out now, in broad daylight wearing blood-soaked rags and riding a winded horse, he’d be dead before he reached the ridge of Skalitz.
In the game, Henry had rushed blindly back into the valley only to get his father’s sword stolen, his skull cracked, and nearly slaughtered by Runt and his bandits.
Doing that wasn’t bravery; it was begging for a sword through the neck.
Going to Skalitz at night was the only logical choice.
Under the cover of pitch darkness, the scavengers and Cuman stragglers looting the corpses would either be drunk, sleeping, or huddled around campfires with poor night vision.
But to pull off a nighttime stealth operation, Henry needed the right tools: lockpicks to clear out the Talmberg guardhouse, dark clothes to blend into the tree line, bandages to wrap his raw wounds, and above all, Nighthawk potions to see in the dark without lighting a loud torch.
He scanned the bustling outer bailey.
Chickens fluttered past wooden wagons, and refugees from Skalitz sat huddled against stone walls in shock.
Near the wooden porch of a stone cottage, a plump, sharp-eyed man sat on a bench, lazily paring an apple with a small knife while watching the castle guards.
It was Votava, the castle trader.
Henry adjusted his stride and walked straight toward him.
“God be with you,” Votava said, eyeing Henry’s blood-crusted tunic with mild curiosity as he slid his knife back into his belt.
“God be with you,” Henry replied, stopping a few paces short and folding his arms.
“You’re known around here as a man who can get things…
even when the castle gates are locked tight.”
Votava raised his eyebrows, a defensive, practiced chuckle slipping from his throat.
“I don’t know where you heard such gossip, lad.
I’m just a simple merchant selling salt, dried beans, and cheap iron.”
Henry didn’t bother arguing.
He reached into his pocket—accessing a sliver of the fortune stored in his hidden system inventory—and pulled out a small leather pouch.
He casually tossed three heavy silver groschen into Votava’s lap.
The metallic clink made the merchant’s eyes dart down instantly.
Henry gave a slight, knowing smirk.
“I guess you’re right.
You probably don’t know anything.”
Votava’s fingers snapped shut over the coins like an iron trap.
He slid them into his purse with practiced speed, his posture instantly straightening as a warm, merchant’s smile spread across his face.
“Well…
now that my memory is refreshed,” Votava purred softly, leaning forward.
“What is it a fine young man like you might be looking for?”
“Supplies,” Henry said in a low tone.
Votava gestured for Henry to step closer to the shade of the cottage eaves, reaching into his heavy packs and pulling out an array of goods to inspect:
20 Linen Bandages: Clean, tightly rolled, and smelling faintly of lye.
Perfect for binding torn flesh.
1 Bottle of Cheap Red Wine: A crude, sour vintage, but high enough in alcohol content to sanitize open sores and clean off caked blood.
Cured Ham & Dried Beef: Tough, heavily salted meat that would keep for weeks without spoiling.
10 Lockpicks: Thin, blackened iron pins with slightly bent tips—crude, but sturdy enough to turn a guardhouse padlock if handled with a soft touch.
7 Marigold Decoctions: Thick, yellowish potion vials smelling strongly of crushed flowers and stinging nettle, known for knitting flesh and dulling deep pain.
2 Weak Nighthawk Potions: Murky, dark green glass bottles filled with an oily liquid that smelled faintly of nightshade and cold ash.
1 Pitch Torch: Wrapped in tar-soaked hemp, dry and ready to strike.
Henry looked over the pile carefully, checking the corks on the potion bottles to ensure they hadn’t been watered down.
Satisfied, he bargained sharply, tossing down the remaining payment.
Votava counted the silver with a wide grin, thoroughly pleased to be turning a massive profit while the rest of the castle was locked down in panic.
“A pleasure doing business, lad.
Anything else?”
Henry looked down at his own chest.
His linen shirt was stiff with dried brown mud, sweat, and dried blood.
“Look at me,” Henry said grimly.
“These clothes belong in a mass grave.
Can you get me something clean?”
Votava scratched his chin, eyeing Henry’s frame.
“Usually I don’t deal in tailored garments, but for a customer with silver in his palm, exceptions can be made.
Step inside.”
Votava ushered Henry through the heavy oak door into the dim interior of his cottage.
He unlatched a heavy cedar chest in the corner, rummaging through folded cloth until he pulled out two distinct sets of clothing.
The first was a tailored, dark blue linen tunic with clean white trim around the neck and cuffs, paired with sturdy, undamaged dark hose.
It was neat, respectable, and looked like something a prosperous craftsman’s son would wear—perfect for appearing composed when meeting noble blood.
The second set was entirely different: a dark charcoal-gray padded gambeson, black cloth hose, and a dark wool hood designed to cover the neck and lower face.
Votava handed over the dark gear, his eyes narrowing slightly with a sudden flicker of suspicion.
“A clean tunic I understand…
but dark padded wool?
That’s what poachers and night-runners wear when they don’t want to be seen.”
Henry took the dark clothes without flinching, keeping his face entirely unreadable as he tossed another couple of groschen onto the table.
“If I have to sleep in the woods outside the castle walls because the guards won’t let me leave,” Henry said smoothly, “I’d rather not have Cuman scouts spot my yellow tunic from a mile away.”
Votava blinked, his eyes settling into something quieter.
“Aye.
A sensible lad, then.
Nobody can blame a man for trying to keep his head on his shoulders.”
With the deal complete, Henry gathered his purchases, stepped back out into the cool evening air, and made his way toward the servants’ washhouse near the inner courtyard.
He fetched a heavy wooden bucket, filling it to the brim with fresh, cold water from the courtyard well, and carried it up to his small guest quarters in the keep.
Once the door was securely bolted, Henry stripped off his blood-stained rags.
He uncorked one of the Marigold Decoctions and downed it in a single gulp.
The bitter, herb-heavy liquid burned down his throat, sending a sudden wave of soothing warmth rushing through his chest and limbs.
The sharp, throbbing ache in his ribs instantly deadened to a dull murmur.
Uncorking the cheap wine, he poured the harsh alcohol directly over the open gashes on his forearms and shoulders, gritting his teeth against the sharp sting as it washed away the dirt and bacteria.
He quickly bound his arms with the fresh, clean linen bandages, wrapping them tight and securing the ends.
Next, he washed his face, hair, and neck thoroughly in the washbasin, scrubbing away every trace of dirt and Skalitz ash until his skin was clean.
He pulled on the fresh blue linen tunic and clean hose.
The fabric felt soft, cool, and comfortable against his healing skin.
He stored the dark stealth clothes, the Nighthawk potions, the lockpicks, and the extra food directly into his hidden system inventory with a mere thought, keeping his body light and unburdened.
Henry turned toward the small polished brass mirror hanging on the wall.
He didn’t look like a hysterical, bloodied peasant anymore.
He looked neat, respectable, and quietly resolute—a young man carrying deep grief with dignity, rather than a frantic boy driven mad by trauma.
Satisfied with his appearance, Henry turned toward the heavy door, ready to make his way up to Lady Stephanie’s solar.
Henry climbed the narrow spiral staircase of the keep, his soft boots silent against the cold flagstones.
Reaching the upper floor, he stopped outside the heavy oak door leading to Lady Stephanie’s solar.
He took a quiet breath, composed his posture, and knocked three times.
“Come in,” a gentle voice called from within.
Henry pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The solar was warm and smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax candles.
Lady Stephanie was seated on a cushioned wooden bench by the window, her delicate fingers deftly guiding a needle and silk thread across an embroidered handkerchief.
She looked up, her expression softening into relief as her eyes fell upon Henry.
“Lord be praised,” she said warmly, setting her needlework into her lap.
“Look at you!
You look much better than last night, Henry.
What is on your mind?”
Lady Stephanie’s eyes lingered on him, trailing slowly from his freshly washed dark hair down the clean, tailored cut of his blue tunic.
A faint, dusty rose blush crept onto her cheeks, and she smoothed her skirt with a sudden, flustered motion of her fingers.
“In truth…” she murmured, her voice dropping a fraction, “when you were brought through the gate covered in mud and blood, I feared the worst.
But seeing you now—clean, poised, and standing tall—you look less like a blacksmith’s boy from the provinces and more like a young noble prince from Prague.”
Henry allowed a soft, quiet smile to touch his lips, taking a step closer and offering a graceful, low bow.
“If I carry myself like a prince today, my Lady, it is only because I am in the presence of a queen.”
Stephanie let out a breathless, melodious laugh, raising a delicate hand to her mouth as her blush deepened.
“Oh, Henry…
you speak with far too smooth a tongue for a forge hand.
Be careful, or the maidens will be dueling over you before the moon rises.”
“Let them duel,” Henry said softly, looking her directly in the eyes.
“So long as I have the favor of the fairest lady in Talmberg, I need no one else.”
Stephanie blinked, her breath catching for a second as her blue eyes searched his face, clearly flattered and subtly flustered by his confidence.
She cleared her throat softly, regaining her composure, though her smile remained warm and intimate.
“My lady,” Henry bowed his head with quiet respect.
“I hope you were not unduly distressed by the arrival of Sigismund’s army this morning.”
Lady Stephanie let out a faint sigh, her dark eyes reflecting the lingering tension of the siege outside their walls.
“Well, it was to be expected.
Thanks to God’s mercy and my good husband, there was no more bloodshed today.
But…
it is something else that distresses me.
Maybe my mind deceives me, but I have an evil foreboding.”
“You, my lady?
Surely not,” Henry replied gently, his voice carrying the genuine warmth of a young man who hadn’t forgotten her kindness when she brought him food and comfort while he was wounded.
“No evil could possibly come to you while you are surrounded by such brave men and strong stone.”
Stephanie offered a frail, appreciative smile, though her eyes remained troubled.
“I fear something bigger and worse will come, Henry.
That Sigismund is only an omen of an imminent, terrible evil.
But…
what brings you to me, Henry?”
Henry took a step forward, his expression growing serious and resolute.
“My lady, I would ask for your assistance,” Henry said steadily.
“I want to go back to Skalitz.”
Lady Stephanie paled, setting her hands on the bench as her breath caught in her throat.
She leaned back against the bench, her hand pressed against her chest.
“Why, Henry?
You must know that your wounds are far from healed!
It is terribly dangerous out there.”
“My lady, I cannot allow my parents’ bodies to be torn apart by crows and dogs,” Henry said, his voice dropping to a low, emotional rasp that held no theatrical deception—only raw, painful truth.
“They didn’t get to see me become a man.
They will never see me have a family of my own, or bounce their grandchildren on their knees.
Their lives were cut short in an instant.
They had so many happy years waiting for them, and it was all stolen.”
He swallowed hard, looking directly into her eyes.
“If I do not give them a proper Christian burial, their souls will find no rest.
I cannot abandon them to the mud.”
Lady Stephanie’s eyes filled with tears as she listened, visibly moved by the grief and devotion in his voice.
“I understand your pain, Henry,” she murmured, her voice trembling.
“No child could endure leaving their parents without rest after death.
My dear boy…
you risk your own life to give them a Christian burial.
My heart goes out to you, and I will do whatever I can to help—though I shall tremble in fear for you until you return.”
“I am deeply grateful, my lady,” Henry said.
“And please, do not fear for me.
I am in no hurry to die.
I want to live a long, full life so that when my time finally comes, I will have many years of stories to tell my parents when we meet again in Heaven.”
Stephanie wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded in deep agreement.
“God willing, you shall.”
“To make the journey safely, I need to get past the gate without causing trouble for Lord Divish or Captain Robard,” Henry explained his plan clearly.
“If I wear a set of the castle guard’s armor, the sentries at the gate won’t recognize my face in the dim light, and they will let me pass.”
“The castle’s armor…
yes, of course!” Stephanie’s eyes brightened as she saw the wisdom in his strategy.
“If you wear a proper helmet and tabard, the guard won’t question you.
Good thinking, Henry!
You can find spare armor in the gate tower chest.
The soldiers keep their patrol kits there while they sleep in the quarters nearby.”
She reached for a small velvet purse resting on the side table, untied its drawstring, and poured a heavy pile of silver coins into her palm.
She held them out to Henry.
“Take this.
You will need coin for provisions and whatever lies ahead.”
Henry held out his hands, expecting the modest sum of twenty-five groschen that a desperate, bloodied boy might receive.
But as the heavy silver spilled into his palms, his eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise.
Fifty heavy silver groschen.
Double what she would have given him in the game.
He realized then that his clean appearance, calm dignity, and clear resolve had earned him far more than just pity—it had earned her deep respect and trust.
“Thank you, my lady,” Henry said, pocketing the fifty groschen securely into his pouch.
“I shall never forget your generosity.”
“Go with God, Henry,” Lady Stephanie said softly, watching him with maternal concern as he bowed.
“And bring yourself back safely.”
Leaving her warm solar behind, Henry stepped back into the quiet hallway and made his way toward the gate tower, his hand resting on the heavy purse of silver at his hip.
It was time to get his armor.
The cool night air hit Henry as he crossed the upper walkway toward the gate tower.
Below in the courtyard, torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long, swaying shadows across the empty cobbles.
Most of the guards were off-duty, huddled in the lower hall over warm ale or snoring softly in the barracks nearby.
Henry kept to the shadows of the battlements, his boots making no sound against the flagstones.
He reached the heavy wooden door leading into the guardhouse inside the gate tower.
Slipping inside, he pulled the door shut until it rested flush against its frame.
The room was dark, save for a thin sliver of moonlight spilling through an arrow slit.
Resting in the corner near a rack of leaning spears stood the heavy oak chest bound with iron bands—the gear locker where duty armor and spare weapons were stowed.
Henry dropped to one knee in front of the chest.
From his system inventory, he retrieved one of the thin, blackened steel lockpicks he had purchased from Votava.
Holding his breath, he inserted the hook into the keyhole.
The mechanism was cold and stiff.
Henry applied gentle tension with his thumb, feeling the internal pins with careful, minute movements.
Click.
Click.
A small pressure point resisted on the third pin.
He eased the pick slightly to the left, angled it upward, and felt the iron tumbler shift.
CLACK.
The heavy padlock popped open.
Henry caught the iron loop before it could clang against the wood, letting out a quiet breath.
He lifted the heavy oak lid.
Inside lay neatly stacked patrol gear:
A padded gambeson dyed in the yellow-and-red colors of House Divish.
A clean Talmberg wappenrock (surcoat) bearing the castle crest.
A steel kettle hat helmet with a low brim.
A well-oiled steel arming sword in a dark leather scabbard, complete with a sturdy waist belt.
Henry worked quickly and methodically.
He buckled the arming sword around his waist, testing the weight against his hip.
The hilt was solid, the balance true.
He pulled the gambeson and yellow wappenrock over his blue tunic, then strapped on the kettle hat, angling the brim down so it shadowed the upper half of his face.
He closed the chest, relocked the padlock, and wiped his hands.
To any casual onlooker in the dim torchlight, he was no longer Henry of Skalitz—he was just another guard on the evening rotation.
Stepping back out into the courtyard, he made his way to the stables.
Olena was tied near a stall, chewing lazily on a bundle of dry hay.
Henry smoothed her mane, slipped her bridle into place, and hoisted himself up onto the saddle.
He trotted Olena down the incline toward the main drawbridge.
Near the gate mechanism, Radim stood leaning against a timber post, wrapped in his heavy cloak against the night chill.
As the sound of Olena’s hooves echoed off the stone archway, the guard straightened up, lowering his pike slightly.
“Halt there,” Radim called out, squinting into the dark.
“Who goes there?”
Henry kept his head tilted down, letting the wide brim of the kettle hat hide his features while highlighting the bright yellow Talmberg wappenrock across his chest.
“Patrol duty,” Henry replied, keeping his voice steady, low, and calm.
“Checking the perimeter road toward the lower woods on Lady Stephanie’s order.”
Radim looked at the crisp yellow-and-red tabard, then at the steel sword at Henry’s side.
With the castle under lockdown, no peasant or refugee could possibly be geared in fresh castle kit unless authorized.
“Ah, right then,” Radim muttered, shaking his head with a yawn.
“Watch yourself out there.
Cuman stragglers could still be lurking past the ridge.”
Radim walked over to the heavy iron winch, grabbed the wooden handles, and began cranking.
The heavy iron chains rattled and groaned as the wooden drawbridge lowered slowly, thudding softly into place across the moat.
“God speed, guardsman,” Radim called over the creak of the chains.
“God be with you,” Henry said.
He nudged Olena forward.
Her hooves clattered over the wooden planks of the drawbridge, crossing the threshold of Talmberg into the pitch-black countryside beyond.
Once he cleared the outer gatehouses and reached the shadows of the tree line, Henry checked his reins and pulled Olena to a stop under the thick canopy of oak trees.
The castle lights behind him faded into distant sparks.
Ahead lay the dark, silent road leading back toward the valley of Skalitz.