“The stronghold,” I begin. “That's where it started. Where I was made, in a way. Where all of us were made.”
“Us?”
“The Bogatyr. My order.” The word tastes like ash. “We were guardians. Protectors. We swore oaths to defend the weak, to stand between the darkness and those who couldn't stand for themselves. There were more of us, once. A full order. Dozens of strongholds across the mountains.”
“And now?”
“Now there are fewer. The order is scattered. Some strongholds still hold. Most don't.” I watch the road ahead, the wild fields, the crumbling walls. “But the one where I trained, where I grew up. That was the heart of it. The oldest. The strongest.”
She's listening. Not interrupting, not asking questions, just walking beside me and letting me find the words at my own pace. Her head tilts back occasionally to glance up at me, and each time I see the angle she has to hold to meet my eyes.
I slow my pace further. She doesn't seem to notice.
“Rodvek was there.”
The name. I held it back in Gorvani. Wasn't ready. Now it comes out like something dislodged, sharp-edged and tasting of copper.
“We grew up together, trained together, took our oaths on the same day.” I can still see his face, the way it looked beforethe rage twisted it. Sharp features, quick smile, eyes that always seemed to be laughing at a joke no one else had heard yet. “He was better than me. Faster, smarter, more disciplined. The masters said he'd lead the order someday.”
“What happened?”
“I happened.” The guilt is old, but it still cuts. “There was a village. Two days' ride from the stronghold. We got word that raiders were coming, that the people there had no way to defend themselves. I wanted to go. Rodvek said to wait for reinforcements, but I couldn't stop thinking about the children. About what would happen if we waited too long.”
“So you went.”
“I went. Alone. Against orders.” I can still smell the smoke, still hear the screaming. “I got there in time. Barely. The raiders were already at the gates when I arrived.”
“And?”
This is the part I've never said aloud. The part I've carried for eight years, the weight of it grinding into my bones.
“I went berserker.”
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't slow her pace. Just keeps walking, waiting.
“To save them. That's what I told myself. The raiders were too many, and I was one man, and the only way to stop them was to let the rage loose.” My hands are shaking. I fold them into fists, try to still them. “It worked. The raiders died. Every single one of them.”
“But?”
“But when I came back to myself...”
The words stick in my throat.
“There were bodies that weren't raiders. Villagers. People I'd come to save. And I don't... I don't know if I killed them. Don't remember. The berserker doesn't leave clean memories.”
She stops walking.
I stop too, bracing myself for the horror, the revulsion, the moment when she finally sees me clearly and turns away.
She turns toward me. Has to tilt her head back to find my eyes. But she holds my gaze, gray eyes steady, searching.
“You don't know,” she says. “Whether you killed them.”
“No.”
“But you've been punishing yourself for it anyway.”
“I was covered in blood.”
