It was the twenty-nine in the third Shift of the Section of Reward. After Darkness would come the day everyone had been waiting for — the Day of Reward. People were already whispering about it in the streets, excited and nervous, but Cassian had no room in his mind for celebrations.
He was in Lord Roberto's workroom, helping a maid place papers and stack old books that smelled like dust and candle smoke. Arsia — the maid — read the titles aloud, her finger sliding along each spine, telling Cassian where every piece belonged. He hadn't told anyone he could read. Technically, he couldn't — but the man in his memories could, and those memories felt more like his own with each passing light.
As they worked, shuffling parchment and wood scraping against shelves, the door suddenly swung open with a loud bang. A tall man barged in as if the room belonged to him. He was like a thick, black-furred bear wrapped in plate armor. Across his broad shoulder he carried a flag — a tree with a green leafy crown and a sturdy trunk stitched onto the fabric. He held it sideways so it wouldn't scrape the ceiling beams.
"Where is Roberto?" roared the man, his bushy eyebrows dancing as he scanned everything.
"My lord Gregor, long time no see," Arsia said, wiping her hands on her apron as if preparing for trouble. "The lord is at the training yard. I will bring him in a breeze."
"Go for them — and hurry. I'm not one to wait. This is an important matter."
Arsia rushed out, skirts brushing against Cassian as she passed.
Gregor took Lord Roberto's chair behind the counter, leaning back as though he owned the estate. Cassian stared, unsure if the man was brave or just rude.
"Well? What are you waiting for, boy? Bring me wine — the one on that shelf."
Cassian looked up. The shelf was high, too high for him, but he dragged a chair over. The wood creaked under him as he stretched, fingers barely hooking the bottle.
"Here," he said quietly, setting it down.
Gregor's eyes followed him with the attention of a hawk. He bit the cork out with his teeth and spat it on the floor, then drank half the wine in one deep gulp.
"Ueeegh," he sighed loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "So beautiful it is. Have you tried, boy?"
Cassian shook his head.
"Of course you haven't. This is for men like me, not for boys like you."
He laughed — a shaky, trembling sound that made Cassian think of a drunk bear.
By the time Lord Roberto entered, the man was on his third bottle.
"What's the meaning of this, Gregor?" the lord barked, his boots hitting the floor with sharp steps. But Gregor only smiled as if the question amused him.
"Meaning? None. Orders. Orders is what I bring, Roberto — no meaning," Gregor said with a wave of his hand.
The lord's stern expression shifted, something behind the words made sense to him.
"Leave, Arsia," Roberto ordered.
Cassian stepped to follow, but the lord raised a hand without looking at him.
"You stay."
"What are these orders you bring, sir?"
Gregor glanced briefly at Cassian, then leaned forward.
"From the crown — or the lack of it." He chuckled at his own joke, but Roberto's face hardened. "Calm yourself, Roberto is jester. Just banter. But yes, word has arrived. A new banner. A new host. We march through the Green and past the Tail, all the way to the Tall Forest."
He lifted the flag slightly, the fabric rustling.
Roberto rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed.
"Who is the commander of this host?"
"Does it matter?" Gregor answered.
"It does."
Gregor scratched his thick beard, tiny crumbs of dry bread falling out.
"Lord Devante — the bastard son of Lord Folia."
Roberto looked truly surprised.
"It is our opportunity, Roberto," Gregor said, voice lowering. "Let us join his host and become true knights. No longer peasants."
But the lord did not look convinced.
"I don't have that many men, Gregor. I sent more than I should have to the king, and they all died before reaching the front lines. All I have left are boys and farmers."
He dragged his hand down his face, tired and ashamed.
"Worry not, my friend," Gregor answered, raising the bottle again. "Bring those boys of yours and as many farmers as you can muster. The lord is searching for numbers — sellswords, farmers, boys."
His eyes shifted again to Cassian.
"It doesn't matter. Even this little kid, who struggles to reach for a bottle, can be useful."
"I don't see the usefulness of a six-year-old boy," responded Lord Roberto, his voice flat.
Lord Gregor paused, thinking. "They would not be useful right away," he admitted, "but they will be in the future. Kids raised in battle, with fear of hunger, raised by spear, swords, and bows. Think, Roberto. Not only would we become true knights, but the young ones would grow into seasoned fighters."
"Or dead," Lord Roberto cut him short. "Listen, Gregor, I understand, but I can't risk that many lives."
Gregor's thick brows tightened with contempt.
"You understand nothing, Roberto. You never did."
He reached for the massive longsword strapped to his back. Metal scraped loudly as he drew it. With a heavy motion he planted the point into the wooden floor. The desk rattled when his fist slammed against it.
"I told you, didn't I? Orders. These are orders."
"Leave us, Cassian," Lord Roberto commanded quietly.
"No," Gregor snapped. "The boy stays. If you try anything foolish, you both die."
Roberto's face did not change — no fear, only exhaustion. He closed his eyes for a moment.
"When are we marching?"
"The light after Reward," Gregor replied.
"You brute," Roberto muttered under his breath.
"That's what I'm known for," Gregor answered with a humorless grin.
Cassian stood silently as the tension drained from the air. The two men leaned over maps, speaking of routes and strategy as though the threat of violence a moment ago had never happened. But Cassian's mind was elsewhere:
Marching toward the Tall Forest meant moving toward the World's Head. And the World's Head of Raumhant was close to the Stering Empire.
Stering…
Were any of the people from the older Cassian's memories still alive? The last memory he held was from year two hundred and thirty-two, in the Section of Origin — a Darkness spent with his wife. She had been young. She could still be alive now.
He wasn't sure whether to feel hope or fear.
When Cassian reached home, the door creaked open to a different battlefield. Aylin was crying. Eduardo knelt beside her, a hand pressed against the left side of his face. A long cut crossed from cheek toward his eye, already darkening with a sick rot spreading around it.
"Who did this?" Cassian rushed to Aylin, but Eduardo answered instead, breathing uneven.
"Her father. He's still furious about our compromise. He tried to kill me. I dodged most of it but… the point got me in the face."
Cassian stared at the wound.
"Is that Nightbane?"
"It is," Eduardo confirmed.
Then that eye is as good as gone, Cassian thought. Darkness could no longer heal it. Nightbane — the steel soldiers used to make sure enemies stayed dead. Even small amounts left in flesh could kill a man during Darkness, leaving scars where none should remain.
The Scratch of a Thousand Wounds — that was its other name.
"We need a healer," Cassian urged, grabbing both of them by the hands. "Darkness will only make it worse. We still have orange fire — there's time. Lord Eduardo will help us. Come on, quickly."
They were still so shaken they had forgotten how close the lightness was. If Darkness descended with that much Nightbane in Eduardo's face… the result would be horrific. His whole body could tear apart from unseen wounds.
If the healer worked fast, maybe only his face would suffer.
Maybe he would live.