Get it together. Don’t let yourself get bogged down by petty grudges. I admit it, I lost. He had me beaten, completely. Another second and he’d have beheaded me. So what?
The flames in his heart continued: Are you sure you’re okay with that? Can you live with me gnawing away at you? Revenge is what you really want, isn’t it?
But Wyatt buried the thoughts under his reasoning and closed the lid tight over the fire—just in time for a knock to sound at the door, followed by the voice of one of his employees.
“Excuse me, sir! S-Sorry to bother you! I have an urgent message for you.” He could hear the fear in her voice.
“Come in.”
She opened the door, but she wasn’t alone. Beside her stood—
“McArdle?!”
The man leaned heavily against the clerk, a splint wrapped tightly around one leg. With great difficulty, she helped him over to a nearby sofa.
“I beg your pardon...Sir Wyatt...”
“I was wondering what took you so long to return... What on earth happened to you?!”
“I’m ashamed to admit it, sir, but...in the middle of our mission to pillage that settlement in Dugard’s name...we were attacked. I managed to escape, but fell off my horse and was unable to get back up. I was finally found by a hunter, who rescued me, but I didn’t know what to tell him...I didn’t want to expose your plan. I had to wait until I recovered before—”
Wyatt held up a hand to cut off his rambling apology. There was only one thing he wanted to know. “Who attacked you? There shouldn’t have been any peacekeeping patrols out that way.”
“I-It was the Black Rose of Igris, sir...Gaius Beldarus!”
Wyatt’s eye twitched.
“There’s no doubt about it, it was him!” McArdle continued, growing more agitated the longer he recalled that day. “He killed all my men! He saw everything! Our crimes, our fake crests, my face...please forgive me, sir!”
Wyatt knew this would happen eventually. Not only had he planned on leaving survivors to tell the tale, he knew that eventually someone would see through their plan to frame Dugard. But who would listen to the tall tales of one or two peasants?
However, this was a completely different story. The Black Rose of Igris, the hero of the Five-Year War who had fought alongside nobility and royalty—now he knew of their plot. That would mean the end of everything. The monarchy would never legitimize Keighley’s dominion over Northplain. Even if she were to completely crush Dugard, her territory would be confiscated and brought under the direct control of the king.
Wyatt was on the road to ruin. He had only one chance to salvage everything.
He clutched his face tightly with his right hand, his fingers digging into his flesh until they pressed against his skull. A strange, muffled sound managed to escape from his lips.
McArdle watched him in terrified confusion, shrinking back into the couch. He’d never seen the man like this before.
At last, Wyatt released his face and stared into his palm. From where McArdle sat, he couldn’t yet see Wyatt’s expression, but he could hear the guildmaster’s voice.
“No need to apologize, McArdle. I’m not angry. Quite the opposite, in fact...”
Wyatt looked up at him, beaming with joy. At least, that was how it would appear to anyone who didn’t know him.
“Thank you. Now I know what I need to do. Thank you so much.”
The flames in Wyatt’s heart had burst free of their confines and had overtaken him. He continued smiling widely, an ominous glint in his eye.
＊
All of the six kobolds that died had families. Some were the heads of their household, while others left grieving parents behind. The dark, painful sorrow of their loss weighed heavily on the whole village.
Though it was a heavy burden to bear, everyone understood that they could not afford to let their despair crush them. They had to pick themselves up and fight, or else they wouldn’t even be alive to mourn.
One of them had said that, but by now no one could remember who had originally come up with it. Rain Grass, perhaps? Or one of the young men? Maybe it was a member of the housewives’ brigade. In any case, the quote was often heard around the village as of late, and everyone had the distinct feeling that someone had said it first.
What everyone did know was that they all shared the same idea. The image of what they needed to do, and what they wanted was starting to take the same form in everyone’s hearts.
＊
It had been raining heavily since daybreak and the weather showed no signs of letting up, which meant no one would be working outside anytime soon. Gaius sat beside the sunken fireplace in Fog’s house, tending to his weapons.
The village children sat around him, watching his every move with rapt attention. Ever since that terrible day, they’d all stuck close to Fluff and Amber Blossom, doing their best to cheer their friends up. Naturally, Fluff was still heavily affected by the loss of his mother, but thanks to Fishbone and the others glimpses of his usual self would peek through a little more every day.
The most difficult parts came at night, when all his friends went home. As soon as the sun set and everyone left, he would cling to Darke’s chest and refuse to let go. She and Sashalia did their best to tend to the void that Fog’s death had left in his heart. At first, Gaius had tried to help them, only to be turned away by Darke. This was how he spent his free time instead.
“Ah, this won’t last much longer...” he murmured.
“What’s wrong, gramps?”
“This.” Gaius held up his faussar, tilting the edge towards Emon. The children wanted to get in close and see as well, but Gaius would scold them if they ever tried to approach his weapons. They sat back at a safe distance and leaned in as far as they could to get a better look.