His own reflection stared back at him from a polished sheet of metal hanging on the wall not far off. His face was twisted into a grimacing snarl, eyes alight with anger. Magnus’s breath hitched. The man staring back at him was not the man he wanted to be. Blood splattered across his fists, his eyes burnt with a fury he did not recognize. It was as though he was looking into a mirror that reflected the very worst parts of him, parts he had hoped were buried deep within and would never surface. Revulsion flooded through him. Who was this stranger glaring back at him?
The red glow of the forge cast an eerie light on the place, casting deep shadows that danced and swirled in the corners of the room. Sparks from the forge scattered like frightened fireflies before winking out against the cold stone floor. In that light he looked like some kind of crazed monster, rather than the man who had pledged his life to the Order of the Osprey, to protecting the weak and upholding the Order’s values.
The sight momentarily shocked him into stillness, his clenched fist hovering in mid-air. What was happening to him? What was he allowing himself to become?
“Who am I?” he found himself whispering, almost too quiet to be heard over the low hiss of the forge.
He was supposed to be a protector, a guardian of justice and peace. But he was far from that right now. A grimthought slithered into his mind: were he and Lord McRae any different? They both sowed fear and pain. They both used violence to get what they wanted.
Everything is a choice, Irene MacAskill had told him. It was his choice to be here right now. It was his choice whether he let his fist fall or whether he pulled it back.
Which path will ye take? The path of a man at odds with himself, or the path of one who forgives himself. The first path is easy, the second one long, and hard and dark. But one leads to darkness and one leads to light.
For the first time since he’d met her, Irene’s words made sense. Therewasa choice ahead of him. Therewasa path beneath his feet. The one he walked currently led to darkness, to becoming the very thing he’d always fought against. But there was another choice. He could turn away.
Give it up,Emeric had urged him.Let it go.
Come with me, Isabelle had asked him.Come with me to Dun Saith.
And if he did? If he turned his back on the goal that had driven him for so long? What then?
The answer came to him in a flash of insight. Then he would begin to walk a different path, one that led him to a different place entirely.
One that led him to Isabelle.
He released his grip on the blacksmith’s tunic, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Magnus pushed back on his heels and rose to his full height, towering over the blacksmith. He felt the heat from the forge, the smell of burning coal filling his nostrils. But none of that mattered anymore.
The blacksmith blinked up at him, confusion etched onto his weathered face. Magnus simply nodded at him, a silent apology for the violence he had unleashed. His fists were still tingling, still stained with the blacksmith’s blood, but he did not wipe it away. It was a reminder, a symbol of the path he had almost taken.
He staggered to the exit of the forge, his mind consumed by a single thought. Isabelle. She had become his compass, guiding him back to the man he wanted to be.
He made his way through the muddy streets of Torloch, away from the seedy taverns and dark alleyways of its underbelly, towards the welcoming glow of the boarding house where Isabelle awaited. The raw anger that had colored his world crimson receded with each step, replaced with a different kind of warmth, one that filled him with excitement and trepidation in equal measure.
When he got there, he avoided the vibrant common room, the laughter and clinking of ale mugs too jovial, too far removed from his current state of mind. And besides, he didn’t want to risk running into Emeric. He took the back stairs instead, the worn treads creaking under his weight as he climbed.
His heart pounded against his ribcage as he ascended, every creak of the wooden stairs beneath his boots echoing the apprehension building within. What if he was too late? What if he’d already broken the fragile, unnamed thing that was building between them?
He arrived at Isabelle’s door and stopped. It was only a flimsy piece of wood that stood between them and yet, it felt as thick as acastle wall.
He raised his fist to knock but hesitated, his reflection in the blacksmith’s forge, playing through his mind. He was afraid of what she might see when she looked at him. Isabelle had never been afraid of him, had never seen the hulking brute that most people saw, but what if that had changed? What if he’d broken her trust and her image of him? He wasn’t sure he could bear that. But neither could he turn away.
With a trembling hand, he knocked on the door, the soft thudding sound harsh in the quiet hallway. He waited. Finally, the door creaked open just a sliver, revealing a pair of wary hazel eyes framed by soft dark tangles.
“Magnus?”
“Isabelle,” Magnus breathed her name like a prayer. “Can I come in?”
A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes, quickly replaced by a complex mix of emotions that Magnus couldn’t begin to decipher. She looked at him cautiously for a second, then her gaze dropped to his bloody fists.
Magnus winced. What must he look like?
She stepped away from the door, opening it wider in silent invitation. He followed her inside, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor.
The room was warm and softly lit by the dying embers of the fire flickering in the hearth. It was a stark contrast to the harsh cold outside, and to the hot violence of the blacksmith’s shop.
Isabelle was watching him closely, her face shadowed. “Are you hurt?” she asked quietly, her gaze dropping to his bloodied hands.
The concern in her voice triggered a mix of emotions within him: relief at her caring, shame at the reason for it. He rubbed his sore knuckles on his plaid.
