Chapter 70: Ghosts of the Frozen Star
The old mage's voice trembled, his white beard quivering like wind-stirred snow. Bennett watched him closely, his mind racing. He can see Semel too. The revelation tangled his thoughts further. This ancient sorcerer not only recognized Semel but also knew Hussein—the disgraced, hunted former Knight-Commander, the continent's most formidable warrior.
Semel stirred, her ethereal form flickering as she rose unsteadily to her feet. Though her glow remained dimmed, the silver liquid the old mage had administered—Bennett couldn't begin to guess its origins—had revived her. Her hollow eyes regained their sharpness, though confusion lingered.
"Bennett?" she murmured, clutching her temples. "What happened? I feel… drained. Did you—are you hurt?"
Relief washed over him. The playful, mischievous Semel had returned—the one who'd haunted his days with laughter and pranks, not the spectral echo of a long-dead sorceress who called him "Zach" in moments of crisis.
"You fought him," Bennett said quietly, nodding toward Hussein. The knight sat apart, his charred armor creaking as he sharpened his blade. "To protect me. Nearly destroyed yourselves doing it."
Semel frowned, her fingers tightening in her hair. "I don't… remember. It's all fog. Why does my head—"
The old mage staggered forward, his weathered hand outstretched. For a breath, Bennett thought he might touch her—but the gesture faltered, collapsing into a fist at his side.
Semel recoiled, her form blurring as she darted behind Bennett. "Who is that?" she hissed. "I don't know him, but… I hate him. Make him leave!"
Before Bennett could respond, she dissolved into motes of light, retreating into whatever artifact she'd bound herself to.
The mage stared at the empty air where she'd stood, his laugh bitter as frostbite. "Even now… even without memories, she loathes me." When he turned to Bennett, his gaze burned with urgency. "Boy. Explain. Why does she linger with you? Why has she become… this broken shadow?"
Threads of the Past
Bennett recounted it all as he tended to Darnadil—snapping off arrow shafts, dousing wounds with the mage's "holy water" (which he pocketed without shame). The secret passages beneath the estate, the enchanted portrait, Semel's fragmented existence—a magical replica clinging to borrowed memories.
The old mage listened in silence, his hope crumbling like ash. "A copy," he muttered. "Not her. Never her." He tossed Bennett another vial, its contents shimmering like liquid moonlight. "Use it sparingly. That's Temple-grade sanctity you're wasting."
Hussein snorted. "Your friend will sleep till dawn. My strikes shatter bone, not just flesh." The knight's glare dared Bennett to protest. "Be grateful he breathes at all."
Bennett ignored him, his focus on the mage. "Why drag me here? What do you want with us?"
The answer never came.
A howl split the night—not wolves, but war horns. The mage stiffened, his ear tilted to the wind. "Riders. Twenty knights, two mages… no, three. Temple enforcers, drawn by your theatrics, Hussein."
Hussein rose, his sword scraping free. "Let them come. We'll paint the snow with their entrails."
"Fool!" The mage whirled, cloak snapping. "You've slain a High Inquisitor! The Temple won't rest until you're a head on their gates—and anyone near you shares that fate!" His finger jabbed at Bennett. "You—stay with him. North, deeper into the wilds. I'll divert the hounds."
Bennett's protest died as the mage vanished in a swirl of snow.
Reluctant Allies
They trudged through the frozen wastes, Hussein leaning heavily on a staff, Bennett dragging Darnadil's sled. The knight's burns wept through his bandages, yet his pride refused aid.
"Why obey the old worm?" Bennett finally spat. "You'd rather gut me than share a campfire."
Hussein's smile was a blade. "Gorion sees value in you. I see a mewling brat. But he's right—alone, you'd last minutes here." His gaze swept the jagged pines, where shadows slithered with unseen predators. "This forest devours the weak. Even I tread lightly."
Bennett opened his mouth—then froze.
Semel materialized ahead, her back to them. She stood at the edge of a glacial crevasse, staring into the abyss. When she spoke, her voice wasn't her own—older, colder, laced with stars.
"Zacharias… the Fractured Star bleeds. You must not let him—"
Her form rippled, the playful Semel reasserting herself mid-sentence. "—climb that ridge! Bennett, there's a cave behind the icefall! Warmth! Maybe even… uh… berries?"
Hussein halted, his eyes narrowing. "Two souls. One vessel. How?"
Bennett had no answer. But as the wind screamed and the crevasse yawned below, he understood one truth:
The dead never truly leave. They linger—in portraits, in memories, in the cracks between what is and what was.
And sometimes, they drag the living into their storms.
Chapter 71 (Part 1): Scars of the Forsaken
If there was one truth Bennett had learned in the past day, it was this: Hussein made for an insufferable companion.
The knight strode ahead like a storm given flesh, his silhouette cutting through the blizzard's wrath. Behind him, Bennett hauled the makeshift sled bearing Darnadil's unconscious form—branches lashed with frozen vines, creaking under the weight. Hussein hadn't so much as glanced at the injured man. Why would he? Bennett thought bitterly. To him, weakness is a sin.
And yet, as Bennett stole another glance at the knight's wounds, his stomach churned.
Hussein's body was a tapestry of ruin. Flesh hung in ragged strips where blades had bitten deep, exposing glimpses of ivory bone. The worst lay at his abdomen—a fist-sized void of necrotic tissue, edges crawling with blackened tendrils. Even now, the cursed wound pulsed: muscle fibers knitting themselves into grotesque knots before bursting anew with wet, crackling snaps.
Magic corrosion, Hussein had explained tersely during their first rest. A parting gift from the Temple's High Inquisitor. Only a grandmaster's healing could purge it.
But grandmasters were scarce in this frozen hell. So Hussein endured—his divine aura flaring intermittently to seal the rot, only for it to claw back moments later. Bennett marveled at his stoicism. In his past life, a toothache had left him cursing for days. Yet here was a man whose every breath was agony, marching onward without so much as a grimace.
Frostbound Silence
They followed the rim of the Great Round Lake, northward into winds that howled like damned souls. Bennett's face was numb beneath layers of fur, his eyes reduced to slits against the stinging snow. Conversation was impossible; to open one's mouth was to swallow a storm.
Twice they paused to hack deadwood for fire. Each time, Hussein sat apart, eyes closed, his aura flickering like a guttering candle. Bennett watched the knight's strained breaths—the way his fingers trembled imperceptibly against his sword hilt.
"You're killing yourself," Bennett finally said during their third halt, unpacking vials of salve. "These won't cure you, but they'll dull the edge."
Hussein didn't open his eyes. "Save your herbs. The Inquisitor's blessing runs deeper than flesh. Your potions would only feed it."
Bennett hesitated, then produced a small, crystalline fruit—its surface etched with frost-patterns, cool to the touch. "Iceberry. A pinch under the tongue numbs pain. Less poison than relief, if used sparingly."
The knight's gaze sharpened. "You'd peddle siren's tears to a drowning man?"
"It's not peddling if I'm giving it freely." Bennett met his glare. "You think I don't know what this is? The risk? But watching you grind your bones to dust won't save either of us."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in Hussein's eyes—not gratitude, but recognition. A predator acknowledging another's survival instinct. He took the berry without thanks, snapping off a sliver with his teeth.
Beneath the Storm's Skin
Nightfall found them sheltering in the lee of a glacial boulder. Bennett fed the fire while Hussein sat motionless, his silhouette etched against the flames. The Iceberry's effect was subtle: a loosening of the knight's jaw, a fractional easing of tension in his shoulders.
"Why?" The word startled Bennett. Hussein rarely initiated speech.
"Why what?"
"The sled. The salves. This." He gestured to the half-eaten berry. "I've given you no cause for loyalty."
Bennett poked the embers, watching sparks spiral into the dark. "Because if you collapse, I'm next. Because Darnadil saved my life when bandits cornered us at Frostspire Pass. Because—" He hesitated. "—because even monsters deserve respite."
Hussein's laugh was a dry rasp. "Monsters, boy, don't need respite. They thrive on pain." Yet when he spoke again, his voice lowered, almost to himself: "The Temple's curse… it isn't just the wound. It's the memory. Every second, I relive the Inquisitor's blade. His smile as he whispered the incantation. The way his eyes glowed when my blood hit the altar stones."
Bennett stilled. "You remember? Even now?"
"Always." Hussein's hand clenched around his sword. "Curses are more than spells. They're stories. And this one… it wants me to drown in its telling."
The Price of Mercy
Dawn broke iron-gray, the storm unrelenting. As they trudged onward, Bennett noticed the Iceberry's missing portion—a crescent bite marring its perfect frost.
How much did he take? The question gnawed at him. Iceberries were capricious: a sliver could soothe; a nibble, addict.
Yet when Hussein stumbled—a rare misstep—Bennett said nothing. The knight righted himself swiftly, but not before Bennett glimpsed the sheen of sweat beneath his collar.
He's rationing it, Bennett realized. Using just enough to stay functional. A grudging respect warmed his chest. Even chained to agony, Hussein's will remained unbroken.
But as the hours bled together, Bennett began to notice other things:
The way Hussein's pupils dilated in the firelight.
The restless tapping of his fingers against his thigh.
The occasional, too-swift glance toward Bennett's pouch, where the remaining Iceberry lay.
Chapter 71 (Part 2): The Thorns of Memory
Hussein stared at the Iceberry in his palm, its crystalline surface glinting like frozen starlight. For a moment, his fingers tightened—a warrior's instinct to reject aid—but then, with a shuddering breath, he scraped a sliver free and let it dissolve on his tongue.
The effect was immediate.
The perpetual tension in his jaw softened. His shoulders, perpetually braced as if against an invisible blade, slumped by a fraction. When he opened his eyes, the usual glacial disdain had thawed into something resembling gratitude. "It… eases the noise," he admitted, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "This damned pain hasn't let me sleep in days."
Bennett watched him warily. The knight's momentary relief felt fragile, like thin ice over a chasm.
Veils of Truth
"You've studied magical pharmacology," Hussein observed, turning the Iceberry between his fingers. "Rare for a mage. Most waste their days chasing spells, not herbs."
Bennett shrugged. "Then you've guessed right. I'm no mage—just a pharmacist. No robes, no staff, no fancy titles."
"And the old fool?" Hussein's tone sharpened. "What binds you to him?"
"You first. What's your tie to him?"
The knight's gaze darkened. "We share a teacher. A master long dead. He's my… senior disciple, in name only." He spat the word senior like a curse. "Now answer. Why does a boy of fourteen—a Loring, no less—traipse through this frozen wasteland?"
"Thirteen, actually. And I didn't choose this." Bennett's smile was bitter. "Your 'senior disciple' dragged me here at knifepoint."
"Loring…" Hussein's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something colder. "Ah. The idiot heir. Even in the Temple's cloisters, your infamy reached us. Lords whispered of canceling betrothals. Knights laughed at your father's shame."
Bennett met his gaze evenly. "And?"
"And nothing." Hussein's voice dropped. "Until I met him."
Bloodstained Brotherhood
The fire crackled. Shadows writhed across the knight's face as he spoke names like incantations:
"Luke. Kaili. Geofit. Strath…" Each syllable trembled with suppressed agony. "Brothers. Comrades. Men who shared my bread, my vows, my blood." His hand clenched around his sword hilt. "I cut them down. Split their hearts. Severed their spines. Watched their eyes dim as they cursed my name."
A tear traced a jagged path through the grime on his cheek. Bennett froze, unease prickling his spine.
"Why?" Hussein surged to his feet, eyes wild. "You want to know why? Because the Pope—that rotting puppet—declared it 'divine will'! Because the Temple demanded sacrifices to feed its lies!"
Bennett edged back. The Iceberry's crescent bite glinted in Hussein's palm—too much, too fast. The plant's narcotic haze was unraveling him.
"Sit," Bennett urged, voice steady despite his racing pulse. "You're not fighting now."
Hussein swayed, then collapsed onto a snow-dusted log. "The Sacred Vault… that's where it began. Where I saw the truth."
Echoes of the First
"Before my knighthood, I guarded the Sacred Vault—a hollow honor, they said. A rite of passage." His laugh scraped like steel on stone. "But within those cursed walls… I found him."
"Him?"
"The First Under Heaven." Hussein's voice trembled with reverence. "Aragorn the Unbroken. Emperor. Mage. Saint. The only man in a millennium to bear that title."
Bennett leaned forward. "What title?"
"The Supreme Champion Beneath the Stars." The words rang with mythic weight. "Aragorn was no mere king. He wielded magic to shatter mountains, swordsmanship to cleave armies. And yet—" Hussein's fist slammed into the ice. "—the Temple buried him. Erased his legacy. Because he dared to see."
"See what?"
"The rot. The hypocrisy. The lies." The knight's pupils dilated, black swallowing gold. "His crest still hangs in the Vault—a relic they worship while gutting his teachings. And when I questioned it… when I demanded answers…"
He trailed off, chest heaving. The Iceberry's remnants crumbled in his grip.
Fractured Vows
Bennett's mind raced. Aragorn's crest—could it hold secrets? Power? But survival came first. He gentled his tone, mimicking the cadence of healers calming rabid hounds. "What did they do to you, Hussein?"
"They called me chosen." The knight's laugh curdled into a sob. "Pledged me as the Temple's blade. Then, when I refused to slaughter innocents in their 'holy wars,' they sent Luke… Kaili… my brothers… to carve the heresy from my flesh."
Wind howled through the pines. Somewhere, a branch snapped—a sound like breaking bone.
"I killed them." Hussein's whisper was raw. "Not in battle. Not with honor. I butchered them in corridors where we once sparred as boys. Their blood stained the altars they'd sworn to protect."
Bennett said nothing. There were no words for such grief.