"Hold!" Edwin commanded, and the knights hesitated, their weapons still raised but their attacks stalled. "I think we've seen enough to know that Marcellus isn't to be underestimated. Now, what's the meaning of this?"
Marcellus felt his muscles relax slightly. He knew he had been lucky, catching the knights off guard and exploiting their surprise. Even now, as he stood panting and ready, he was acutely aware that more knights could spill out from the mansion at any moment.
"I was willing to comply until one of your men decided to make a move on me," Marcellus retorted, keeping his weapon ready but lowering it slightly as a sign of cautious goodwill.
Edwin met his gaze. Could he be useful? he thought briefly. "Fine. No more blood tonight."
As Marcellus stood there, his short sword still gripped tightly in his hands, he was a portrait of ruthlessness.
His eyes met Edwin's, and although he had just incapacitated one and killed two of the knights, there was no triumph in his gaze—only a steely resolve and an unspoken understanding that he would fight to the bitter end if pushed.
Marcellus had to live!
His mother was at home, cousins and
Kenric would die before me bloody damn!
Edwin, no longer just an aloof figure of authority, suddenly seemed to exude an air of newfound respect. He gestured for the knights to lower their weapons. "Stand down, men."
The knights looked at one another before reluctantly obeying, lowering and sheathing their blades only Edwin, Marcellus, and Captain Crowe stood in the centre of the torch-lit training ground.
Crowe seemed to wear an expression of mixed emotions: frustration at the disrupted transaction, perhaps, but also a begrudging admiration for Edwin's calm.
"So, Marcellus," Edwin began, sheathing his own sword, "It's not every day that one man takes on kills knights and lives to tell the tale. Speak, what was it that made you lash out? Surely you understand the severity of your actions."
"I sensed an attack, a dagger to the back, or something to that effect," Marcellus replied, sheathing the stolen sword but not taking his eyes off Edwin and Crowe.
"And my 'Captain' just betrayed me, how can I trust any of you and behold he was closing in on me"
Edwin's eyes lingered on Marcellus for a moment before shifting to Captain Crowe. "You have an uncanny sense of self-preservation, it appears."
The tableau of the night was perfect for such contemplation.
Crowe simply shrugged.
Marcellus pulled out the book he thought of holding it ransom but on second thought that seemed foolish; such tactics only worked if you could protect the book or keep it from their reach.
Dangerous grounds, Marcellus thought. But instead of admitting to the theft, he hurled the book at Edwin, who caught it deftly.
Maybe he's the one to watch out for.
Marcellus just was testing Edwin's reflexes, sadly Edwin passed full marks.
Edwin pulled the book from a satchel at his side and let it hover between his fingertips as if the object itself were hazardous. "You do realize this tome is no trivial matter, Blackeye. Rare breathing techniques for knights are designed to amplify one's capabilities. You had it in your possession, benefiting from its knowledge. That's not something one simply walks away with."
The book, bound in unassuming leather, looked ordinary to the unknowing eye. But it was far from a manual on knightly breathing techniques—it was a diary, filled with personal entries, secret escapedes, and clandestine information. A journal that traced back to the root of his own mysterious lineage and power.
Does he not know? Can he know?
Marcellus wondered in the depths of his mind. His eyes flicked to Captain Crowe, who stood at the edge of the torchlight, his face as unreadable as ever.
Had Crowe betrayed him? It seemed unlikely now; if he had, surely Edwin would have known the true value of the book. But Crowe's unreadable expression left Marcellus unsettled.
If Edwin had this mistaken belief about the book, then Crowe had kept Marcellus' secret intact. For now.
Maybe Crowe himself does not Know. Marcellus dared to hope.
The noose around his neck loosened a bit.
"Speak, welp. Compensation is in order for what you've gained," Edwin pressed, still holding the book as if it were a bargaining chip of insurmountable value.
"Do I?" Marcellus shot back, recalling earlier words 'Trust no one.'
The weight of Edwin's ignorance was both a gift and a curse. On one hand, it gave Marcellus an edge; on the other, it hung before him like a trap waiting to be sprung.
Marcellus felt his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour as he considered the layers of meaning and implication in the exchange.
Marcellus felt the weight of the situation. Lives were on the line—his especially.
To correct Edwin would mean to unveil secrets that could lead to far-reaching consequences, a maze of inquiries and likely imprisonment. The truth about the book would lead to the truth about Marcellus, and some stones were better left unturned.
"What? Cat got your tongue?" Edwin shot, eyes locked on Marcellus. "You've stolen from us; now you pay."
Time hung suspended, a fragile silence above a chasm of uncertainty. Marcellus felt the weight of his choices, each fragile as glass.
Finally, Marcellus broke the silence. "You speak of compensation as though the scales can be so easily balanced. What's inscribed in those pages may indeed be of immeasurable value. But you should also consider the worth of the life that stands before you, capable of wielding whatever power that book may hold. If we're talking about immeasurable value, then perhaps we're already even."
"I stole nothing from you!" he added, challenging the notion he'd been backed into a corner.