The silence that descended was thicker than the plains' dust, broken only by the ragged breaths of the wounded bandit and the fading echo of fleeing footsteps. Retour stood rooted, his chest heaving not from exertion but from the violent internal struggle to re- cage the beast his anger had unleashed. The red mist coiled back into his pores with visible reluctance, leaving behind a film of grimy residue on his skin and the faint, coppery scent of old blood hanging in the air. A pounding headache bloomed behind his eyes, each throb a sharp reminder of the cost. The curse whispered seductively in the back of his mind, its promises of effortless power a stark contrast to the aching void its use left behind.
He became acutely aware of the weight of a stare. Ile had not moved. The scholar's initial shock had been refined, filtered through his analytical mind into an expression of pure, rapt fascination. He observed Retour not as a man, but as a living, breathing historical document, one that contradicted every official record.
"Fascinating," Ile murmured, his voice cutting the quiet like a scalpel. "The emission is clearly psychosomatic, a direct physical manifestation of heightened emotional states. Yet it demonstrates distinct corrosive and kinetic properties on inorganic matter. Note the differential reaction: aggressive, rapid decomposition upon direct skin contact with the spear, but a more defensive, dissipative effect against the projected threat of the arrow. The level of conscious control you exhibited was notable, though the physical feedback suggests a significant strain on your system."
Retour finally turned, his body coiled tight. The headache made his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "Your words are noise. Be silent."
"Observation is my profession," Ile replied, utterly unfazed. His grey eyes cataloged the slight tremor in Retour's hands, the sheen of sweat on his brow. "And my current observation is that you are a walking historical paradox. The royal archives state unequivocally that the Monarc bloodline was extinguished, consumed. You are living proof of a cover-up. They classify the red mist as an atmospheric plague, a natural disaster. You are proof it is a heritable trait, a biological inheritance. This doesn't just change history; it rewrites it."
"It changes nothing," Retour snapped, the flare of anger sending a fresh, painful pulse through his skull. A single wisp of crimson smoke escaped his lips as he spoke. He clenched his jaw, forcing a calmer rhythm into his breathing. "It means I am a ghost. A monument to a dead kingdom that should have stayed buried."
"A ghost cannot do that," Ile stated, gesturing with a slender hand toward the blistered bandit who was now stumbling away into the gloom. "A monument is inert. You are a strategic asset of incalculable value. The question is, why now? After a decade of successful concealment across the continent, why return to this graveyard? What could possibly be here for you but ghosts and a death sentence?"
Retour looked away, toward the jagged teeth of the ruins silhouetted against the starless sky. The truth was a cold, heavy stone in his gut. He had exhausted his refuges. The Usurper's long reach, in the form of hired knives and whispered bribes, had found him in the farthest port cities and the deepest mountain villages. And the dreams… they were the true captors. Not just nightmares of his family's end, but vivid, painful memories of his father in the great hall, dispensing justice, of his mother's laughter in the gardens a life so whole it made his present existence feel like a pale imitation. He had returned to confront the source of the haunting, to either silence the ghosts or finally join them. He offered none of this.
"My reasons are my own," he said, the words final and hollow.
"I do not doubt it," Ile said, not pushing but simply acknowledging. He nodded in the direction the bandits had fled. "They will talk. Fear is a potent currency in the camps. They will trade the story of the 'red demon' for a warm meal and safe passage. Kora's informants are everywhere, listening in taverns and around campfires. They sift through rumors like panning for gold."
The name 'Kora' landed with the force of a physical blow. The Usurper's Hound. Retour had memorized the sparse, terrifying dossier during his exile. A woman of relentless efficiency, a master tracker, and utterly devoid of the mercy that made most hunters hesitate. Her presence on the plains changed the calculus of survival entirely.
"Then my path is clear. I move, and I move alone," Retour declared, turning to leave.
"Alone?" Ile's question was a sharp, precise instrument. "A man with a continent-wide price on his head, carrying a curse that broadcasts his location and emotional state to anyone with eyes? That is not a path; it is a suicide sprint. You possess a weapon but lack a map. You need a guide. Someone who knows the current topography of power, the safe routes, the hidden streams. Not the faded cartography of a dead prince's childhood."
Retour halted. Every instinct, honed by years of betrayal and flight, screamed that this was a trap. This scholar was a spider, weaving a web of logic. Yet, the spider's web was undeniably strong. Ile was correct. Retour's knowledge was a relic. He was a master swordsman blindfolded in his own home.
"And you propose to be this guide?" Retour asked, the skepticism dripping from his words. "What is your true price, historian? More data points for your research? A firsthand account of the final, bloody footnote to the Monarc dynasty?"
Ile's expression remained a mask of clinical detachment. "My price is the unedited truth. The complete and accurate history of the fall of Asterfell, from the only primary source who survived it. You are that source. Therefore, ensuring your continued existence and relative safety is, at this juncture, the most logical and efficient path to obtaining my objective. It is a symbiotic alliance, nothing more."
A symbiotic alliance. Retour almost laughed at the cold, transactional nature of it. He was agreeing to travel with a man who viewed his deepest pain and most dangerous secret as data points in a research paper. But the alternative was wandering the plains until Kora's hounds ran him to ground. A blade, no matter how sharp, was useless without direction. Even if the hand that guided it was cold and calculating.
The darkness was now absolute, a suffocating blanket over the plains. The ruins were a deathtrap after nightfall, said to be haunted by things that were once men, twisted by the lingering mist.
"Guide, then," Retour bit out, the concession tasting bitter. "But cross me, historian, and you will become just another data point in your own research. A very final one."
"Naturally," Ile replied, completely unperturbed. He adjusted the strap of his heavy satchel. "There is a derelict watchtower to the northeast. It was decommissioned after the fall. The stone is unstable, but the lower chamber is sound and, more importantly, it lies off all current patrol maps. We can rest there without immediate interruption."
Without another word, Ile turned and began to walk, his steps sure and silent on the unfamiliar terrain. He did not look back, his confidence a silent testament to his claimed knowledge. Retour stood for a long moment, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He had just willingly chained his fate to the one man who saw him not as a person, but as a puzzle. It was either the most brilliant tactical move of his life, or the final, catastrophic error that would end it.
He took a final, long look at the distant ruins, then turned his back on them and followed the grey-clad scholar into the consuming dark.