Page 42

He couldn’t find Agnes immediately, amidst the fighting.

Not near the camp’s front. Not at the ridge where the banners were flying.

He pushed through the chaos, eyes scanning every face, jaw clenched with cold purpose.

Armstrong must’ve gotten to her first. Tav couldn’t find him or her.

And the not knowing was a blade all its own.

At first, every flicker of movement could’ve been them—but none were.

One soldier lunged from the left, catching Tav off guard, blade already mid-swing.

Tav barely twisted in time, the sword grazing his ribs.

He hissed and turned, driving his blade up into the man’s gut.

The attacker choked on blood, but even as he fell, another man came from behind, silent and fast.

Tav ducked instinctively. Steel grazed his scalp.

He turned, swung wide—missed. The attacker was trained.

Their swords clanged, their boots skidding in the mud-slicked courtyard.

Tav blocked a slash, barely, then parried hard, his muscles screaming from strain.

A second missed blow left him open, and the man lunged?—

Tav twisted, dodged by inches, then rammed his shoulder into the man’s sternum, sending them both crashing to the ground. He wrestled his blade free from the man’s grip, elbowed him across the jaw, and with a furious snarl, drove his sword straight through the bastard’s throat.

He rolled off, breathless, chest heaving.

He didn’t stop. Wiping the back of his hand across his face, he staggered up and kept moving.

He wove through the smoke and screams, heart pounding like war drums in his ears.

He yelled Armstrong’s name into the choking fog once, then again. But the roar of battle devoured it.

Then, through the din, he caught movement near the edge of the camp. Tav squinted. A man barking orders, surrounded by a clutch of scrambling soldiers trying to hold the line. His stance was rigid, authoritative.

There. Found.

Armstrong stood near the edge of the camp, barking orders at the last of his men. And beside him was Agnes. Her hands were still bound, her dress torn at the hem, and she was struggling against him.

“Let me go!” she cried, voice raw with fury and fear.

Tav froze for half a breath, from rage. It rose like a storm in his chest, hot and hollow, rattling his ribs like thunder. Armstrong. With her . Dragging her away like a spoil of war.

Then, Tav moved. No hesitation or sound, just blood and breath and the singular purpose of ending this—once and for all.

Two more soldiers blocked his path. Tav’s blade met theirs with brutal force.

The first raised a shield; Tav slammed into it, knocked the man back, then slashed down across his exposed shoulder.

The second struck him, steel along his thigh, but Tav didn’t flinch.

Pain was noise now. He growled and ran the man through, yanking the blade free with a twist. Blood sprayed his chest.

He barely noticed the sting. His mind was a furnace. And then there was nothing but Armstrong.

Their blades collided with a deafening clang, sending sparks into the fog. Armstrong turned fast—just in time to block a savage blow. Tav drove forward, striking again and again, fury guiding his hand. Armstrong stumbled back, unprepared for the sheer ferocity.

“So it’s like that?” Armstrong sneered, trying to keep pace.

Tav didn’t answer.

They circled, swords singing. Tav’s strikes came faster, more erratic, rage-fueled but with deadly precision.

Armstrong’s defenses were good. He was older, but not soft.

Every movement he made was sharp, efficient.

His strikes punished. But Tav had speed, hate, and something deeper that coiled in his bones.

A fury that had lived in him for years, buried beneath grief and silence.

Armstrong landed a glancing blow to Tav’s arm, but Tav didn’t slow. He struck low, feinted high, and clipped Armstrong’s ribs. The older man grunted, reeling. Blood bloomed dark across his tunic.

“Ye’ll die here, bastard,” Armstrong snarled.

“Then I’ll take ye with me,” Tav growled.

They clashed again. Steel to steel. Tav caught a slash across the shoulder, felt blood drip hot beneath his tunic. But he pressed in. Another hit. Then another. Armstrong faltered.

Tav didn’t hesitate. He charged, blade raised, heart hammering. Agnes was still bound behind Armstrong, blood on her lip, her eyes locked on Tav like a lifeline. Armstrong spun to meet him, sword barely up in time to block the first strike. Metal screamed against metal.

“Ye should’ve killed me the first time,” Tav growled, teeth bared.

Armstrong laughed—ragged and breathless. “Aye. Maybe. But I had other plans then.”

They circled each other. Agnes struggled behind them, trying to crawl away despite the bindings. Tav’s eyes flicked to her for half a second, just enough time for Armstrong to lunge. Tav barely twisted in time.

“What plans?” Tav spat, driving him back with a flurry of strikes. “Why keep me alive?”

Armstrong’s blade wavered, just slightly.

“I thought I could make something out of ye,” he said.

“A weapon. Molded tae me hand. Me bastard turned loyal dog.” He laughed again, sharp and bitter.

“But ye were too weak and decided ye wanted tae leave. And look at ye now. Barkin’ fer a Kerr girl.

Bleedin’ fer her.” He jerked his chin toward Agnes.

“So now there’s only one use left fer ye— gone. ”

Tav roared, shoved forward, and knocked Armstrong off balance. Agnes cried out behind him as Armstrong stumbled toward her, reaching blindly, dragging his blade with him. Tav didn’t think.

He struck.

“Nay mercy,” he said, voice like thunder.

The blade cut clean. Armstrong gasped. Blood filled his mouth. He staggered, reached out, not for Tav, but toward Agnes, like he still meant to take something with him.

Then he fell.

Tav stood there, panting, chest burning, limbs shaking. Around him, battle still howled, but for a moment, the world fell silent. Armstrong lay at his feet, the man who had haunted his past, who had stolen Agnes, who had called him a bastard, and now was nothing.

And yet, Tav felt no triumph. Only a hollow quiet where hate used to live.

He exhaled, slow and long, as if releasing a weight he’d carried since childhood. “Ye were never me faither,” he muttered. “Nae once.”

“I’ve got ye,” he whispered, reaching out for Agnes, voice low and fierce, as if saying it could anchor her back into the world. “And I’m never lettin’ go again. Nae now. Nae ever. I love ye, Agnes. Gods, I love ye so much it nearly broke me.”

She let out a breath like a sob, trembling in his arms. Her hands came up to his face, fingers brushing the dirt and blood on his cheeks like he was something holy.

“I love ye too,” she said, voice barely holding steady. Her chin quivered. “I kent ye’d come. Even when he said ye wouldnae… I kent.”

Tav closed his eyes, forehead pressed to hers. “I’d cross the gates of hell fer ye. I nearly did.”

She nodded, silent tears slipping down her face, and he kissed them away. One by one.