Chapter 4 The Cloak and the Lie

Caelen spat blood into the snow. His hands shook as he tried to rise, but Lareth pressed him back down with one firm hand.

"Don't move. You'll ruin what little brain you have left."

"I'm fine," Caelen rasped.

"You're concussed, bleeding, and stupid." The mage reached into his cloak and drew a vial. "Drink."

Caelen knocked it aside. "No more mystery brews. You remember what happened last time?"

Lareth didn't smile. "That was an accident. This is necessity."

He forced the vial to Caelen's lips. The taste was bitter, metallic, with an after-surge of warmth that set Caelen's teeth on edge. His vision steadied. The ringing dimmed.

Fires danced across the outpost behind them. Screams still echoed, farther now-near the south bunkhouse. Steel clashed. Someone was begging.

Caelen sat up slowly. "You always show up when things are on fire."

Lareth stood. His cloak was layered in soot, shoulders lined with silver embroidery that shimmered in the firelight. "You have timing. I have purpose."

Caelen struggled to his feet. "You knew they'd come."

"I suspected."

"You didn't warn anyone."

"I warned you."

Caelen turned toward the flames. The main hall was a blackened frame, caved in. Shapes moved within-men dragging bodies, checking pulses.

He took a step forward.

Lareth grabbed his arm. "Don't."

"She was still inside."

"No one walked out of that building but you."

Caelen yanked his arm free.

The snow hissed beneath his boots as he ran. Past the forge, now collapsed. Past the stables, gutted. The smell hit him first-hair, leather, blood, and smoke. Then the heat. Then the silence.

He found her by the far wall, half-buried beneath broken timber.

Rythe's eyes were open. Not surprised. Not afraid. Just empty.

One hand was curled around the musket's stock.

He knelt beside her. Touched her cheek. It was still warm.

A breath caught in his throat, sharp and shallow. He tried to close her eyes, but they wouldn't stay shut. The blood had dried that way.

Footsteps behind him.

Lareth.

"She knew," Caelen said. His voice cracked in places he didn't expect. "She knew what was coming and stayed anyway."

"Because she believed in something."

"She believed in me."

"Not anymore."

Caelen didn't look up. "You came to collect me."

"I came to give you a choice."

"I don't want it."

"You don't get to want," Lareth snapped. "The world doesn't care what you want, boy. It cares what you'll do."

Caelen rose slowly. Snow stuck to his knees. His face was ash, streaked with blood.

Lareth pulled a scroll from his cloak, unrolling it with reverence. A name in ornate ink. A seal pressed in crimson wax. A signet ring tied to a red cord.

"Lord Caelen Vaelric of the Eastern Reach. You have lands now. A title. A forged history so clean it might as well be true."

Caelen stared at the scroll.

"You want me to lie my way into Ebonhold."

"I want you to become what they can't see coming."

He took the scroll. Held it in trembling hands. The name stared back at him like a dare.

Caelen Vaelric.

"Why now?"

"Because the game is moving again," Lareth said. "And they don't remember your face."

Caelen looked down at Rythe one last time. Then he turned to the fire. The heat curled his lashes, licked his skin.

"I need a torch," he said.

"For what?"

"Because this place dies with her."

Lareth watched from the ridge as Caelen walked through the outpost, lighting building after building. The flames climbed fast-red, gold, greedy. Smoke smeared the sky like a wound.

The past burned behind them.

Ahead, only lies.