Page 68 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“Commander, please—”

“Don’t call me Commander.” The first hint of emotion cracks through Garrett’s calm facade. “You don’t get to call me that. Not after you murdered innocents and then went on with your life like it meant nothing.”

Garrett approaches Marcian with the knife and I force myself to look away. I should move and announce my presence. I have to do something to stop this madness.

But I’m frozen, watching this impossible scene unfold.

This isn’t the Garrett I’ve been protecting, the person I hold on to in a too-small bed.

But it is. It’s all the same person and I’m only now seeing the whole picture.

My foot catches on something. A loose stone in the passage floor. The scrape of leather on rock is tiny but Garrett hears it.

His head snaps toward the door, toward where I’m standing in the shadows. For one long moment, we stare at each other through the gap in the doorway. His eyes widen in shock. Then something like resignation crosses his face, as if he’s been expecting this moment.

He exhales slowly. “Wolf.”

The word is quiet, almost gentle.

I should run to get away from this nightmare and pretend I never saw it. My job is to keep him alive and not asking questions about what he does in the dark.

Instead, I push the door open wider and step into the room.

The full scene is worse than glimpses through a gap. I look at Marcian, hanging limp in his chains. The stone floor is stained dark with old blood.

Garrett is standing there with a knife in his hand and that empty look in his eyes.

“You’re torturing your own soldiers,” I force the words past the shock.

“They’re murderers who happen to wear the same uniform I do,” Garrett corrects quietly.

The pieces are falling into place. “The disappearances and missing Valorians. It was all you. You’ve been taking them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

Garrett sets down the knife carefully. His hands are covered in blood. “Wolf, I can explain—”

“Then explain.” I step further into the room. “Why are you doing this?”

He takes a breath, and for a moment he looks tired. So tired. “Do you know what happened in Feywildra twenty years ago?”

I shake my head.

“The Aeonians suspected the villagers of harboring rebels and plotting against the crown. They sent a Valorian unit to investigate.” He looks at Marcian. “This unit. Twelve Valorian Knights including him. They decided the entire village was guilty.”

He walks to the table and picks up a different tool. “They locked everyone in the village hall. Men, women, children. Then they set it on fire. They stood outside while it burned and made sure no one escaped. Seventy-three people died. Eighteen of them were children.”

My blood runs cold. I know this story vaguely.

“We were just following orders,” Marcian whispers through broken teeth. “The Elders commanded—”

“The Elders were wrong.” Garrett picks up a blade from the table. “And you knew it. You all knew it. But you did it anyway because it was easier than showing mercy.”

He draws the blade across Marcian’s chest in a shallow stroke. The scream echoes off stone walls.

“Stop,” I say abruptly.