The dull thud of hammering echoed through the village as Gorak made his way toward the makeshift prison where Jerik was being held. The building wasn't much more than a reinforced shed with a barred door, but it had served its purpose well enough since they had captured Jerik. Gorak's mind was heavy with thoughts of Grig's betrayal, but something about it didn't sit right with him. Grig was a weasel, sure, but the way things had unfolded, the timing of the king's knowledge of Vekara—it all seemed too convenient.
Jerik, sitting on a wooden bench inside the shed, looked up as Gorak approached. His face was pale, his once-arrogant demeanor now replaced with a weary resignation. Life as a prisoner had worn him down, but there was still something sharp in his eyes, something that made Gorak think Jerik knew more than he had let on.
The door creaked open, and Gorak stepped inside, closing it behind him. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying Jerik in silence for a moment.
"You look like a man with a lot on his mind," Jerik said, his voice rough from disuse. "Come to interrogate me again?"
Gorak's expression didn't change, but his voice was calm. "No. I'm here to get the truth."
Jerik snorted, leaning back against the wall. "And what truth are you hoping to find?"
Gorak's eyes narrowed. "Grig. You've been watching him. You know what's going on."
Jerik's face twitched slightly, a small smirk forming on his lips. "Ah, Grig. The man of the hour, isn't he? Always in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Gorak didn't respond, waiting for Jerik to continue. He knew better than to press too hard—Jerik was the kind of man who liked to play games, to draw things out. The best way to get information from him was to let him talk.
Jerik tilted his head, studying Gorak for a moment before speaking again. "You all think Grig's the one who sold the village out, don't you? It's easy to blame him. He's slippery, untrustworthy, and always looking out for himself. But let me tell you something—he's not the one who put Vekara in danger."
Gorak's gaze sharpened. "Then who did?"
Jerik sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Do you remember the night of the attack on the camp? When Rourke and his mercenaries stormed the place?"
Gorak nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Of course."
Jerik gave a slow nod in return. "That night, not all of the guards were killed. A few managed to escape, slip away in the chaos. Most of them fled in different directions, hoping to avoid the king's wrath."
"Survivors," Gorak muttered, his mind beginning to piece together what Jerik was getting at.
"Yes," Jerik continued. "Survivors. They knew about the attack, they knew about Vekara, and they knew about the slaves who were freed. But you see, they didn't stay free for long."
Gorak's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Jerik leaned back, his smirk widening slightly. "The king doesn't tolerate failure, Gorak. The guards who survived the attack? They were hunted down. The king's men found them, dragged them back to the capital, and executed them for their failure. But not before they talked. Not before they gave the king everything he needed to know."
Gorak's blood ran cold as the truth began to sink in. "You're saying the king already knew about Vekara. Before Grig made any deals."
Jerik nodded, his expression grim. "That's right. Grig may be a slimy rat, but he's not the reason the king knows about the village. He's been playing his own games, sure, but the guards who escaped that night—they were the ones who sold you out. The moment the king's men got their hands on them, Vekara's fate was sealed."
Gorak clenched his fists, the realization hitting him hard. They had been so focused on Grig, so consumed with the idea that he had betrayed them, that they had overlooked the possibility that the threat had come from elsewhere.
"The guards who survived…" Gorak muttered, his voice dark. "You're sure they're dead?"
Jerik nodded. "Oh, they're dead. The king doesn't leave loose ends like that. They were executed quickly, but not before they gave him enough information to start looking for Vekara."
Gorak's mind raced. If the king had known about Vekara all along, then they were in even more danger than they had realized. Grig had made deals with outlaws, yes, but the real threat had come from the guards who had fled. The king's eyes had been on them for longer than they thought.
"Why tell me this now?" Gorak asked, his voice low, suspicious.
Jerik's smile faded slightly, and he shrugged. "Because I've got nothing left to lose. The king's not coming for me—I'm already dead as far as he's concerned. But you? You still have a chance. If you're smart, you'll start preparing for what's coming. The king's not going to stop until Vekara is wiped off the map."
Gorak stood in silence for a long moment, his mind turning over everything Jerik had said. The truth had been staring them in the face, but they had been too blind to see it. Grig was guilty of many things, but he wasn't the one who had put them in the king's sights.
Jerik's eyes followed Gorak as he moved toward the door. "And Gorak," Jerik called after him, his voice suddenly serious. "Be careful who you trust. Vekara's survival depends on it."
Gorak didn't respond, but the weight of Jerik's words hung heavy in his mind as he stepped out of the shed and back into the daylight. The village was still bustling with activity, but now, everything felt different.
They had been playing a dangerous game, and the king already knew the rules.
As Gorak made his way back to Leon, he knew they needed to act fast. Vekara wasn't just under threat—it was already in the king's crosshairs.
The only question now was how long they had before the storm arrived.