The Evening Star had carried them three days north, following the coast toward Free Harbor, a port city that maintained careful neutrality in matters of faith and politics. Captain Morris asked no questions beyond Elena's password, though his eyes held the wary respect reserved for dangerous cargo.
Kaelen spent those days staring at the horizon, his mind replaying Marcus's death and Lyanna's captivity in an endless loop. The sea's vastness should have offered perspective, but it only emphasized his powerlessness. Each league between him and the capital was another league from his sister, another moment she suffered while he ran like a coward.
"Brooding won't change what's done," Aldric said on the third morning, joining him at the rail. The older knight had recovered some of his strength, though torture's marks still showed in his careful movements.
"Nothing will change what's done. Marcus is dead."
"Aye. And you're alive. The question is what you do with that life."
Kaelen turned on his mentor, fury boiling over. "What would you have me do? Return and die uselessly? Join Lyanna in the deep cells? Add my screams to theirs?"
"I'd have you think." Aldric's calm was maddening. "The Council didn't move against the eastern lords on a whim. This was planned, coordinated. The question is why now? What triggered..."
A bell's clanging cut him off. Sailors scrambled across deck, Captain Morris shouting orders. Kaelen followed their gazes to see sails on the southern horizon: three ships flying the golden sun of the Church's naval forces.
"They've found us," Morris spat. "Damn their holy eyes. All hands! Prepare for speed!"
The Evening Star was built for cargo, not racing. The pursuing vessels were military galleons, designed for exactly this kind of hunt. Mathematics made the outcome inevitable, but Morris tried anyway, squeezing every knot from wind and sail.
"They'll overtake us before nightfall," Aldric observed.
"Then we fight." Kaelen's hand went to his empty scabbard, a reflex that brought bitter reminder of his weaponless state.
"With what? Morris runs a merchant crew, not marines. And we're two tortured men without armour or arms."
The truth of it burned. Kaelen had trained his whole life for combat, honed himself into a weapon for the Light. And now, when violence might actually serve justice, he was helpless as any civilian.
"The cargo hold," Morris said, appearing beside them. "We're carrying mining equipment to Free Harbor. Sledgehammers and picks aren't swords, but they'll split a skull well enough."
"Against armoured Church soldiers?" Aldric shook his head. "It would be slaughter."
"Then what do you suggest?" Kaelen demanded.
Before Aldric could answer, one of the pursuing ships fired a warning shot. The cannon ball splashed into the sea well ahead of them, a message, not an attack. Yet.
"They want us alive," Morris muttered. "That's something."
"They want us for questioning," Kaelen corrected. "For torture. For public execution."
The captain studied him with calculating eyes. "You're the Dawnblade heretic. The one they're saying murdered a child during dark rituals."
"I never..."
"Don't care if you did or didn't. Point is, you're valuable to them. Enough that they sent three ships." Morris glanced at the approaching vessels. "Tell me, heretic: can you swim?"
The question seemed absurd given their situation. "Yes, but..."
"Then here's what we do. When they board, and they will board, you go over the side. Make for shore while they're busy with my ship. It's a long swim, but possible for a strong man."
"I won't abandon..."
"You will." Aldric's voice cut through his protest. "Morris is right. They want you most of all. The rest of us are secondary prizes."
"I won't run again. I won't leave you to die for my escape."
"Who said anything about dying?" Morris grinned, gold teeth flashing. "I've been boarded before, heretic. We surrender nice and peaceful-like. They search the ship, find you gone, maybe rough us up a bit. But killing neutral merchants makes for bad politics. We'll live."
"And if they torture you for my location?"
"Can't tell what we don't know, can we? You jump ship, swim for shore, disappear. We play innocent. Simple."
Simple. Nothing about this was simple. But the pursuing ships were closing fast, and Kaelen recognized the bitter logic. Alive and free, he might eventually help Lyanna. Captured, he'd only join her in suffering.
"When?" he asked finally.
"Soon as they're close enough to board but not close enough to see you clear in the water." Morris judged the distance with an experienced eye. "Quarter hour, maybe less."
Kaelen spent that time preparing stripping to essentials that wouldn't drag him down, studying the distant coastline for the best approach. Rocky shores offered concealment but dangerous landing. Either way, it would be exhausting.
"Remember," Aldric said quietly. "Living to fight another day isn't cowardice. It's strategy."
"Tell that to Marcus. Tell that to Lyanna."
His mentor gripped his shoulder. "I'll tell them you survived to avenge one and save the other. That's what matters."
The lead galley closed to boarding distance. Grapples flew, catching the Evening Star's rails. Armoured soldiers prepared to swing across, their blessed weapons gleaming in afternoon sun.
"Now!" Morris hissed.
Kaelen vaulted the rail without hesitation, plunging into shocking cold. The sea hit like a fist, driving breath from his lungs. He surfaced gasping, already stroking hard for the distant shore.
Behind him, shouts erupted as soldiers boarded the merchant vessel. He didn't look back, couldn't afford the distraction or the sight of Aldric surrendering to their enemies. Each stroke carried him further from immediate danger but deeper into exhaustion.
The coast looked impossibly far. Currents fought his progress, trying to sweep him parallel to shore rather than toward it. His shoulders burned, legs cramped, lungs screamed for air he couldn't spare.
This was its own kind of torture, saltwater searing the wounds from interrogation, cold sapping strength with every passing moment. Several times he nearly gave up, let the sea claim him. Would drowning be worse than what awaited in the Tower of Questions?
But fury kept him moving. Rage at the Council. Hatred for those who'd murdered a child and called it justice. The need to make them pay overrode everything else, transforming pain into fuel.
Hours later, or minutes; time blurred in the water, his feet touched bottom. Waves drove him against rocks, tearing new wounds, but he'd reached the shallows. Crawling more than walking, he dragged himself onto a narrow beach.
Exhaustion dropped him to the sand. Everything hurt muscles, lungs, the salt-inflamed marks of torture. But he was alive. Free. And absolutely alone.
When strength returned, he climbed the beach toward the tree line. The forest here was thick, offering concealment but little else. No supplies. No weapons. No allies. No plan beyond immediate survival.
As dusk approached, he found shelter beneath an overhang of rock, not a proper cave but enough to block wind. His stolen clothes had mostly dried during the forest trek, offering minimal warmth. Hunger gnawed, but fresh water from a stream addressed the more urgent thirst.
Night brought new challenges. Temperature dropped sharply, leaving him shivering despite the shelter. Strange sounds echoed through darkness: animals, wind, or perhaps his imagination conjuring threats from shadow.
For the first time since the arrest, Kaelen had time to truly think. The rage remained, burning constant as forge-fire, but beneath it, questions surfaced. Elena had helped him escape; why? What did she know about the Council's true motivations? Could others be working against the corruption from within?
More immediately, what now? Free Harbor was still days away on foot, assuming he could find the road. The Church would be watching for him there anyway. He needed somewhere to recover, plan, gather resources before attempting any rescue of Lyanna.
Sleep came fitfully, broken by cold and nightmares where Marcus died repeatedly, each time asking why Uncle Kaelen hadn't saved him. Dawn found him stiff, starving, but grimly determined.
He needed food first, then proper direction. The forest might provide the former if he could fashion basic snares. As for navigation, the sun gave rough orientation, but he'd need to find a road or settlement eventually.
Moving carefully through underbrush, he searched for game trails. Knight training had included basic woodcraft, skills he'd never imagined needing like this. Small successes accumulated: rabbit tracks leading to a warren, edible berries identified by remembered lessons, a sharp stone that could serve as crude knife.
By midday, he'd managed to catch a rabbit using a deadfall trap. The meat was stringy, barely cooked over a small fire he'd risked building, but it was sustenance. Survival was possible, if uncomfortable.
But survival wasn't enough. Each day in the wilderness was another day Lyanna suffered. He needed to reach civilization, find allies, gather resources. The half-formed plans felt pathetically inadequate against the Church's power, but they were all he had.
On the third day, he found a logging trail. Wheel ruts and horse tracks suggested recent use: dangerous but necessary. He followed it cautiously, ready to melt back into forest at the first sign of trouble.
The trail led to a small camp where woodcutters worked. Kaelen watched from concealment, assessing threat levels. These were common labourers, not soldiers. They might have news from the outside world, might even offer aid if approached correctly.
Or they might turn him in for whatever bounty the Church offered on escaped heretics.
The decision was made for him when one logger, answering nature's call, wandered too close to his hiding spot. Their eyes met: the man's widening in recognition or fear.
"Please," Kaelen said quietly. "I mean no harm."
The logger backed away, hand moving toward the camp. One shout would bring others running.
"You're him," the man whispered. "The heretic knight. The one who murdered..."
"I murdered no one. The charges were false, the trial a mockery." Kaelen spread empty hands. "I seek only food and directions. I'll trouble you no more."
The logger hesitated, clearly torn between fear and something else curiosity, perhaps, or sympathy. "They say you killed the boy. Your own nephew."
"My nephew was murdered by the Inquisition during questioning. A three-year-old child." The words came out raw, edged with grief that surprised him. "I tried to save him. Failed."
Something in his voice must have convinced the logger. The man's posture relaxed fractionally. "My brother's boy disappeared last month. Asked too many questions about the new tithes, they said. Haven't seen him since."
A shared loss. A common enemy. Kaelen saw the opening and took it. "The Council grows ever hungrier. For gold, for power, for those who dare question their authority."
"Aye." The logger glanced back at camp. "Wait here."
He returned minutes later with a bundle: bread, dried meat, a worn cloak, and most precious of all, a proper knife. "Can't offer more without raising questions. But there's an old hunter's shack, two miles north along the ridge. Abandoned but solid. Might serve for a time."
"Why help me?"
"Because someone has to." The logger's face hardened. "Because they took my nephew too. Because maybe the heretic knight isn't the real enemy here."
Kaelen accepted the supplies gratefully. "I won't forget this."
"Best if you do. Never saw you, you never saw me." The logger turned back toward camp, then paused. "They say you're cursed now. That the Light has withdrawn its blessing, marked you for damnation."
"Perhaps it has."
"Good. Maybe the damned are the only ones who can fight the blessed these days."
The hunter's shack proved everything promised: shelter, solitude, and time to think. Kaelen spent a week there, recovering strength while planning his next moves. The church would expect him to flee further, perhaps leave the kingdom entirely. Instead, he'd go where they'd least expect back toward danger.
Not to the capital. Not yet. But the eastern provinces held others wronged by the Council, other families destroyed by false accusations. If rebellion was brewing, and the logger's words suggested it might be, that's where it would start.
The decision made, preparations followed. The hunter's shack yielded unexpected resources: old traps that could be repurposed, a rusty but serviceable hatchet, even a few silver coins hidden beneath floorboards. Someone else's emergency cache, now serving his desperate need.
He travelled by night when possible, avoiding main roads and settlements. The Church's reach was long but not omnipresent. Rural areas, especially those far from cathedral cities, often harboured resentment toward ecclesiastical authority. Careful questioning in taverns and markets, his face obscured by hood and dirt, revealed an undercurrent of anger.
New taxes justified by phantom threats. Young men conscripted for holy wars that enriched church coffers. Ancient rights overruled by religious decree. The eastern provinces seethed with suppressed fury, lacking only a spark to ignite rebellion.
Kaelen wasn't ready to be that spark. Not yet. He needed allies, resources, something more than rage and empty hands. But he began to see possibilities in the gathering discontent.
Near the border of Blackmoor territory, he encountered his first real test. A church checkpoint blocked the road: armed soldiers questioning all who passed. Turning back would attract attention. Going forward meant inspection by men trained to spot fugitives.
He chose audacity over caution, affecting a limp and hunched posture. Just another broken peasant seeking day labour. The soldiers barely glanced at him, more interested in merchants who might carry contraband goods.
The ease of it rankled. These holy warriors, so alert for threats to their authority, couldn't see danger standing before them. Their training prepared them for armoured enemies, not the hatred they'd cultivated through oppression.
Beyond the checkpoint, Blackmoor lands stretched autumn brown beneath clouded skies. Lord Blackmoor had been among the arrested, his fate unknown. But the territory showed signs of quiet resistance: church banners torn down, tithe collectors traveling with extra guards, whispered conversations that died when strangers approached.
In a market town called Ashford, Kaelen learned more disturbing news. The arrests continued, spreading beyond the original targets. Anyone who questioned, who complained, who showed insufficient enthusiasm for church doctrine faced scrutiny. The Tower of Questions had expanded, new wings added to accommodate the flood of accused heretics.
"It's madness," an old merchant muttered over ale. "Half the eastern lords dead or imprisoned, their lands seized by the church. And for what? Because they asked why cathedral's got gold while common folk starve?"
"Careful, old man," his companion warned. "Such talk leads to dark places."
"Where darker than where we are now?" The merchant drained his cup. "They took my son last week. Said he'd been heard doubting the new Doctrine of Absolute Faith. Boy always asked too many questions."
Kaelen left silver on the table: enough to pay for information indirectly received and sorrows shared. Outside, he pulled the worn cloak tighter against evening chill. Each story added fuel to the furnace of his anger. The Council had moved beyond eliminating political enemies. They were reshaping society itself, creating a climate of fear that would crush all dissent.
That night, camping in ruins of an old watchtower, he made a decision. Running and hiding served no purpose. Lyanna remained prisoner, Marcus unavenged. The Council grew stronger while he scraped for survival like a vagrant.
If he was already damned as a heretic, why not embrace the role? Begin gathering others pushed beyond the Light's grace? The church created enemies with every arrest, every execution. Perhaps those enemies could be forged into something more: a weapon aimed at the corruption's heart.
The thought should have horrified the knight he'd been. Instead, it felt like destiny. The Council had tortured him, murdered his nephew, imprisoned his sister. They'd stolen his faith, his honour, his very identity.
Time to show them what grew in the ashes of their cruelty.
As if in answer to his resolution, footsteps approached through darkness. Multiple figures, trying for stealth but lacking professional training. Bandits, perhaps. Or desperate locals who'd turned to robbery.
Kaelen gripped the stolen knife, positioning himself in shadow. The old knight would have called out warning, offered peaceful resolution. That man was dead.
Three figures entered the ruins, weapons drawn but held uncertainly. Not bandits: their clothes, while rough, showed careful maintenance. Rebels of some sort, or scouts for a larger group.
"Empty," one reported. "Fire's cold. Whoever camped here..."
Kaelen struck from darkness, knife finding the speaker's throat before sound could emerge. The body dropped, arterial spray-painting stone walls black in moonlight.
The others reacted with shock, not training. One swung wildly at shadows while his companion tried to flee. Kaelen caught the runner three steps from the door, blade punching through kidney into vital organs. A wet gasp, a convulsive shudder, and another corpse joined the night's tally.
The last man had found composure, sword raised in proper guard stance. "Yield! In the name of..."
"In whose name?" Kaelen emerged into moonlight, letting his hood fall back. "The Light? The Council? The same authorities who murder children and call it justice?"
Recognition flickered across the man's features. "You're him. The heretic knight. Dawnblade."
"I am. And you are?"
"Robert Fletcher. Lord Blackmoor's man. Or was, before..." He lowered his sword slightly. "We heard you were dead. Executed with the others."
"The others?"
"Your father. Lord Ravencrest. Six more from the eastern alliance." Fletcher's voice carried bitter sorrow. "Public executions. Examples for any who'd question church authority."
The news hit like a physical blow. Father dead. Another good man sacrificed to the Council's ambition. Kaelen had suspected, but knowing for certain...
"Why are you here?" he asked when voice returned.
"Scouting. There's a gathering: those who escaped the purge, their supporters, common folk pushed too far. Lord Blackmoor's son leads them. We're organizing resistance."
Resistance. The word tasted of hope and futility together. What could scattered rebels do against the church's might?
"Take me to them," Kaelen heard himself say.
Fletcher glanced at his dead companions. "You killed my men."
"They drew steel first. Next time, announce yourselves properly." No apology. The knight would have apologized. The man he was becoming felt only cold satisfaction at proven capability.
Fletcher studied him with mixture of fear and calculation. "They say you've changed. That torture broke something inside you. Made you harder. Darker."
"They're right."
"Good. We don't need another noble knight. We need someone willing to do what must be done. Someone who understands that fighting monsters requires becoming one."
The truth of it settled over Kaelen like a cloak. Yes, he'd changed. The Light's cruelty had burned away mercy, leaving only purpose. Save Lyanna. Avenge Marcus. Destroy those responsible.
Everything else, honour, faith, the moral constraints of his former life, had become obstacles to discard.
"Lead on," he told Fletcher. "Let's see what your resistance has to offer."
They buried the bodies hastily before departing. No prayers. The dead had served their purpose, proving Kaelen capable of killing without hesitation. The Council had wanted to break him through torture. They'd succeeded, but not as intended.
They'd broken the knight's restraints, freeing something more dangerous. Something that looked at necessary violence without flinching. Something that could match their cruelty with darker purpose.
As they moved through forest toward rebel encampment, Kaelen touched the heretic's brand on his shoulder. Once, it had been the mark of shame. Now it felt like promise. The Council had marked him as enemy of the Light.
Time to prove them right.