Arywn had momentarily given up on finding Geralt and instead focusing on finding something enjoyable for herself to take her mind off Thorfinn. Arwyn had picked up enough Latin from Thorfinn to get by, enough to barter, to ask where something was, to not sound entirely clueless when people spoke to her. But here, in this place, the words hardly mattered. Gold was a language all its own. The moment she flashed it, the men standing guard at the entrance stopped caring about how her accent butchered their words, stopped caring about the fact that she was foreign, alone, and clearly out of place. Their eyes flickered to the coin, and suddenly, they were bowing their heads, speaking to her with smiles instead of suspicion, ushering her inside as if she were someone important. And the place she'd been taken inside of was incredible.
She had never seen anything like the bathhouse.
It was warm inside, steam curling through the air, filling the space with the scent of oils and flowers. Voices echoed off the stone walls, laughter from the other rooms, the gentle splash of water as people moved through the baths. The floors beneath her feet were polished smooth, the walls carved with patterns, each doorway leading into another chamber, some dark, others glowing from the light of braziers.
When they guided her forward, she hesitated. The water was strange—clear, but still, stretching out into a pool large enough to hold a dozen people. It wasn't like the cold, rushing rivers she was used to, not like the wooden tubs filled with water barely warmed over a fire. When she stepped in, heat wrapped around her skin, seeping into her muscles, loosening the knots of tension she hadn't even realized were there.
She stayed longer than she should have, letting herself sink deeper, feeling the warmth work through her, the grime of the road washing away. The attendants didn't rush her. They waited, watching from the edges, and when she finally stepped out, they moved quickly, wrapping her in linen, leading her to another room where fabrics were laid out—fine silk, woven linen, rich colors she had never worn before.
When she hesitated, they made the choice for her, draping the fabric over her shoulders, pinning it in place, tying it around her waist in a way she had never seen before. Her hair was taken from her hands, brushed until it was smooth, lifted, twisted, pinned into a style she didn't recognize. They worked quickly, hands efficient, faces unreadable, until finally, they stepped back, nodding, satisfied with their work.
They led her to a polished basin filled with still water, and when she looked down, she almost didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then she reached out, running her fingers over her arm, pressing against her own skin as if to make sure it was still her.
When she left the bathhouse, she felt different.
People stared at her as she walked through the streets, but not the way they had before. Before, they had been wary, uncertain, glancing at her with suspicion, eyes flicking to her worn clothes, to the way she moved. Now, it was different.
Men looked at her too long.
Women whispered as she passed.
She caught the way they studied her, assessing, judging.
Her hair made her stand out. Pale skin, golden hair—it was rare here. Some of the women had hair lightened by sun or powder, but it wasn't the same. It didn't catch the light the way hers did, didn't shimmer like gold under the sun. She didn't know if she liked it.
She ignored them, moving through the market, still searching, still glancing at faces, still hoping to catch even the smallest glimpse of someone familiar.
When she reached the fountain, she sighed, sitting down at the edge, stretching her legs out, slipping her feet from the shoes they had given her. She lifted the hem of the dress, pulling it just enough to dip her toes into the water. The cold was a shock against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of the afternoon.
She let herself relax, tilting her head back, letting her eyes close just for a moment.
Eowyn would have loved this.
She would have laughed, would have kicked her feet in the water, would have splashed her until she was soaked through, giggling the entire time. She would have twirled in the dress, let the silk flow around her just to see how it moved, just to feel it swish around her legs. She would have run ahead, touched everything, asked a thousand questions.
Arwyn smiled at the thought, but it didn't last. A shadow fell over her.
She turned her head and found a guard standing before her. He was tall, broad, with a thick beard and a rigid posture. His expression was firm, almost angey.
He spoke in Latin, and though she caught some words, she didn't understand the full meaning.
She blinked at him. "I don't understand."
He straightened, speaking slower but keeping his tone stern. "You cannot do that."
She frowned. "Do what?"
He motioned toward the water. "It is not allowed."
Arwyn looked at him, then at her feet, then back at him. "Why?"
"There is a fine for such behavior."
"A fine?" She let out a short laugh. "For putting my feet in the water?"
"This is not a place for—"
"She is far too beautiful for such a punishment."
The voice was smooth, confident. The guard immediately tensed.
Arwyn turned her head and found a man approaching. His clothing was fine, his posture easy but deliberate. His dark hair was neatly kept, his belt had gold fittings, and his hands moved as if he was used to commanding attention. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but his smile was lazy, comfortable.
The guard stiffened.
The man waved a hand. "Surely, you would not find such a woman for something so harmless?"
The guard hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. "Of course not, sir."
The man gave a slow nod, watching him for a moment before turning his attention back to Arwyn. "You have caused quite the commotion," he said.
His voice was smooth, carrying amusement rather than reprimand. Arwyn tilted her head slightly, studying him the way he was studying her.
"Apparently," she said.
"A shame," he continued, stepping closer. "A woman like you should not be troubled with such things."
Arwyn raised an eyebrow. "Like me?"
His smile widened slightly. "You must know what you are."
She frowned, unsure of where he was going with this. "And what is that?"
"A rare sight," he said. "A gift from the gods, perhaps."
She let out a breath of laughter. "I doubt that."
He watched her, his gaze still fixed on her face. "Doubt it if you wish, but I know what I see."
She didn't respond, only held his gaze.
He extended a hand. "Niketas."
She hesitated before taking it. "Arwyn."
He hummed, his fingers closing around hers just slightly longer than necessary before he released her hand. "A foreign name."
"I am a foreigner."
"You wear it well."
She blinked. "That is an odd compliment."
He shrugged. "It is the truth."
She studied him for a moment before deciding to move on. "Do you make a habit of interfering with guards?"
"When the situation calls for it."
"And this situation called for it?"
"I could not let them trouble you over something so trivial."
She watched him. "You must be important, then."
He smiled. "You could say that."
"Why?"
"My family has held power in this city for generations. My father owns more land than most men can dream of, and my brother serves the Emperor himself. My name is well known, my coin is always accepted, and when I speak, people listen."
She nodded slightly. "That must be nice."
He chuckled. "It has its advantages."
She didn't say anything.
"And what of you?" he asked. "Where are you from?"
"Northumbria."
His expression shifted slightly, though not with recognition. "That is far."
"Yes."
"And what brings you to Byzantium?"
"I am looking for a friend."
"He is a lucky man."
She gave a slight shrug. "Perhaps."
"What does he look like?"
"He is tall," she said. "White hair. Golden eyes."
Niketas stilled for half a second. It was a barely perceptible pause, the kind that would have gone unnoticed had she not been looking at him directly. Then his posture relaxed again, and his expression remained neutral.
"I believe I have seen such a man," he said.
Arwyn's pulse quickened. "Where?"
He chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "So many questions."
She sat forward slightly. "I have not seen him in over a year. I need to find him."
Niketas nodded slowly, as if considering. "I can help. It will be easy."
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
He extended his arm. "Come, let us retire to my manse."
Arwyn hesitated before lightly resting her fingers against his sleeve. "Thank you."
"Anything for a woman like you."
She had only taken a step when something yanked her back.
A hand.
Strong. Unyielding. Familiar.
She turned, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Thorfinn?!"
...
Thorfinn stood still, his feet planted firmly against the stone, his eyes fixed on Arwyn. A slow, seething heat burned deep inside his chest as he took in the sight before him. Her fingers rested lightly on the stranger's arm, her posture relaxed, her expression soft. The stranger leaned slightly toward her, speaking in a low, easy voice. The fine embroidery on his tunic caught the light as he shifted, the gold in its threading glinting against the rich fabric.
Thorfinn felt something snap.
Arwyn turned at last, her gaze lifting to meet his, and in the moment she saw him—really saw him—her body stiffened. Her lips parted, but no words came. He saw the flicker of recognition, the slight widening of her eyes, the hesitation in the way she took a breath.
She flinched.
His hands curled tighter around his sword, his knuckles aching from the force of his grip.
"Thorfinn?" Her voice was quiet, uncertain. Her eyes dropped to the blood drying against his skin, the streaks across his forearms, the dark stains against his tunic. "Why are you covered in blood?"
She switched to her native tongue. She knew he didn't want the man beside her to understand.
Thorfinn didn't answer. He barely felt the wounds stinging across his body, barely registered the weight of the exhaustion pressing against him. His voice came low and rough. "What are you doing?"
She straightened, hands pressing lightly together in front of her. "I was looking for Geralt."
His gaze moved lower, dragging across the expensive fabric she wore, the delicate golden embroidery, the careful curls in her hair. She looked like a noblewoman, a vision from a court. She didn't look like the Arwyn he knew, not the woman who had survived beside him through storms and blood and fire. Not the woman who had fought at his side, had cursed his name, had slept curled beside him for warmth in the desert nights.
"I wanted a bath," she added quickly. "And some new clothing."
Thorfinn's grip on his sword tightened, his breath deepening. He took a step forward. "We're leaving."
She didn't move.
He reached for her wrist, but she pulled back just slightly, enough to put space between them. "Niketas has seen Geralt," she said. "He said he would help us."
Thorfinn's eyes snapped to the man beside her, the same man who had been watching their exchange with mild amusement. Niketas was standing too close, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of his tunic, his posture casual, relaxed, confident.
"We don't need his help," Thorfinn said.
Arwyn's face twisted, frustration sparking in her voice. "Yes, we do."
Thorfinn exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing hard against the hilt of his weapon. "No. We don't."
She stepped toward him. "Why are you being so pigheaded?"
Thorfinn turned back to her, his jaw clenching, the heat rising in his chest twisting into something sharper. "Because you're being a fucking idiot!"
She shoved him, and he barely moved back before grabbing her wrist again. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, and for a brief moment, something in his grip hesitated. He thought of the nights she had leaned against him, the way she had whispered to him in the dark, the way she had held onto him when she thought he was slipping away.
Then she yanked herself free.
"This isn't your choice," she spat.
Thorfinn stepped forward again, reaching for her, but before he could take another step, a hand pressed against his chest.
Niketas.
"I do not think the lady appreciates being handled like that," Niketas said, his voice smooth. "Surely a civilized man understands that?"
Thorfinn slowly turned his head toward him. The amusement in Niketas' face flickered, just slightly. Arwyn saw it, and she felt the shift in the air.
She knew that look.
"Thorfinn."
His sword moved before he thought. The sheathed blade shot up toward Niketas' face.
A hand caught it.
Arwyn's fingers wrapped tightly around the wood, her body pressed against his arm. She had stopped him.
"You'd betray me for this stranger?" Thorfinn's voice was quiet.
"He's our only lead to Geralt," she said.
His lips curled. "He doesn't know where Geralt is. He just wants to get between your legs."
Her expression darkened, her fingers tightening against his sword before she shoved it back. "We don't know that."
"We do."
Thorfinn turned away from her, but before he could take another step, Niketas moved in front of him again.
The nobleman's hand pressed against his chest once more.
Arwyn's voice cut through the air. "Niketas, don't—"
"I am not afraid of some barbarian brute," Niketas said. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "You will not touch her again."
Thorfinn scoffed. "Take the kindness I offered you by not unsheathing my sword."
He turned toward Arwyn again, but this time, the glint of steel caught his eye, and he barely had time to step back before Niketas lunged. The nobleman's swordwork was quick and precise. The blade moved in sharp flicks, fast thrusts, each movement meant for a duel, not a kill. Thorfinn dodged the first strike, twisting his body to the side before bringing up his sheathed sword to block the next. Niketas was trained, but his movements were too light.
Thorfinn saw the opening. He snapped his blade up, smashing it against the man's throat. Niketas choked, staggering back.
Thorfinn flicked his wrist, sending the sword from Niketas' hand.
"Thorfinn!"
Arwyn's voice barely registered.
He stepped forward, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, lifting him from the ground before throwing him backward.
The sound of water splashing filled the square as Niketas hit the fountain.
Thorfinn barely hesitated before stepping in after him.
Niketas scrambled, water sloshing around him as he swung wildly. Thorfinn caught his arm, twisted it, and drove his fist into his ribs. Niketas wheezed, staggering back, but Thorfinn didn't stop. He followed, fists slamming into his gut, his jaw, his ribs again. Niketas' body swayed, knees giving out, and Thorfinn grabbed him before his head could break the surface. He shoved him down.
The nobleman thrashed, bubbles rising to the water's surface.
Thorfinn didn't let go.
Then hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him back, and in an instant, he was airborne.
His body twisted through the air before slamming into the stone.
Pain flared through his back, but he barely had time to process it before rolling to his feet.
Arwyn stood between them, her body tense, fists clenched.
Thorfinn exhaled slowly, stepping forward. "What are you doing?"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "Stopping you before you fuck this up for both of us."
Thorfinn's jaw clenched. His muscles coiled.
He moved before he thought.
His fist slammed into her face.
Her head snapped back, her body staggered.
She wiped the blood from her lip and raised her fist.
She hesitated.
Thorfinn's lips curled. "You can't do it."
Arwyn's fingers curled into a fist, her body rigid, her breath uneven as she stood before him. She could still feel the sting of his punch against her face, the dull ache pulsing through her jaw. Her body wanted to react, wanted to strike back, wanted to force him back the same way he had forced himself upon her world again and again. But she hesitated.
She had struck him before, countless times. She had sparred with him, but each of those times she knew it was playful or training, never had she actually tried to hurt him. Now that she wanted to and actually tried she found she couldn't, her arm was held up shaking and she couldn't move it anymore.
Something deep inside of her faltered.
Thorfinn tilted his head, watching her with that same blank, unfeeling stare. The ice in his eyes had not melted. His hands were still steady, his body loose, ready to move again. He wasn't worried. He wasn't angry anymore, either. He was waiting.
Arwyn's chest rose and fell, the air catching in her throat.
Hit him.
She wanted to. Her muscles tensed. But she couldn't move.
His lips curled, his voice low. "You can't do anything to me."
Something inside her cracked.
She clenched her teeth, her nails digging into her palm as her head pounded with something deeper than anger, deeper than hatred. Memories surged through her, forcing their way up from the depths of her mind, rushing like floodwaters through every part of her.
The iron scent of blood filled her nose. The thick, cloying heat of the werewolf's breath against her skin as it kidnapped her from her bed and dragged her into the forest. The screams she had tried to swallow. The years of agony, the nights she had spent alone in the dark, the dull, hollow ache that had consumed her even after she was freed.
The warmth of her sister's arms. The way Eowyn had wept when she had found her again. The fleeting joy, the false hope that she had finally returned home, only for it all to be ripped from her hands when she learned the truth.
Her family.
Gone.
Gone because of him.
Meeting Thorfinn. Hating him. Wanting to kill him.
Falling in love with him.
The warmth of his hands against her skin. The quiet, stolen moments where she had felt safe, where she had let herself forget. The way he had made her forget.
Eowyn's death.
The way Thorfinn had held her.
Hating him.
Needing him.
The memories clashed against each other, raw and jagged, forcing her to her breaking point, until all of it finally, finally shattered. The breath she had been holding in her chest burst out of her in a single, raw scream.
Thorfinn barely had time to register it before the force of her punch drove into his gut.
He hadn't braced for it.
The air ripped from his lungs, his body jerking back as he stumbled, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. His back hit the ground, his vision swimming for a moment as he gasped for air, his fingers clawing at the stone beneath him.
He coughed, trying to force breath back into his lungs.
She had never hit him like that before.
Not like that.
Not like she meant it.
Thorfinn groaned, forcing himself upright, dragging his arm against his mouth as he spat out the taste of bile rising in his throat. His ribs ached from the impact, his body sluggish from exhaustion, from the fight, from everything. But he forced himself to his feet. Arwyn was still standing, her shoulders heaving, her hands clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. She looked at him, through him, her expression something unreadable.
Thorfinn pushed himself up, feeling the sharp throb in his ribs as he straightened. He had taken worse. But this was different. Arwyn had hurt him before, but never like this, never with intent. Not when she was herself at least. When they had sparred before or she had hit him, it was done playfully or at least done with the intent to not hurt him, but this time was different. He had felt it.
His fingers curled, the ache dull beneath his skin. He should have been angrier. He was angry. But beneath it was something else, something cold, something that made his breath come slower as he looked at her and found her still standing there, waiting for him to move, waiting for him to strike. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't backing down.
He exhaled, his hands flexing. "Is this what we're doing?" The words came even, steady, his voice low. "Fine. I'll have to beat some sense into you and take you back to the inn."
She didn't answer.
He moved first, his body shifting, his feet digging into the ground as he surged forward, his fist driving toward her. She shifted to the side, her own arm coming up in response, her knuckles flashing toward him. He twisted, catching her wrist, dragging her weight forward as he spun his hip, using the momentum to throw her off balance. She hit the ground but rolled, her hands pressing down, her body shifting, her foot snapping up toward his ribs. He moved with it, stepping back, letting her regain her footing, his own stance lowering as she launched forward. Her fist swung, he blocked, her foot kicked, he avoided, his own arm coming up to strike at her side. She caught him mid-motion, her fingers curling around his wrist, her grip tightening. He twisted, driving his other elbow toward her throat. She ducked, her knee shooting up toward his ribs. He stepped away before it could connect.
They didn't stop.
Every movement pushed against the next, every strike countered, every attack met, neither giving ground. He had fought her before, he had known how strong she was, how fast, how precise, but she was not holding back now. He couldn't afford to let her grab him, couldn't afford to let her strikes land fully. If she caught him the wrong way, if she threw him with her full strength, he wouldn't get up as fast.
He swung at her jaw, she ducked, her leg sweeping toward his feet. He jumped, landing, stepping forward, his hands grabbing at her shoulders. She twisted, slipping free, moving faster, pushing forward, her fingers grasping for him. He caught her wrist, pulling her to the side, shifting, pressing his weight against her to force her back.
They stepped apart at the same time.
The fight wasn't ending.
Thorfinn's breath came steady, his fingers curling around his sword he got from the ground. Arwyn's hand had already moved to her own concealed weapon, the blade sliding free, the edge catching the light as she pointed it toward him. He mirrored the movement, iron in his grip, the edge angled toward her.
The world around them had blurred into nothing.
Then the shouting started.
Thorfinn's eyes flicked up, movement cutting through the edges of his vision. Guards, armored, armed, shields locking together, boots striking against the ground as they moved into position. Crossbows lined the tops of the buildings, bolts nocked, aimed. He counted two dozen on the ground, more above. Enough to be an issue.
"Drop your weapons!"
The order cut through the air, harsh, demanding.
Thorfinn didn't move.
Niketas pushed forward, his fine clothing damp, his face bloodied, his breath still heavy from being dragged from the fountain. He pointed at Thorfinn, his expression twisted with something that was not just anger but satisfaction. "Arwyn is innocent! This thing attacked me! He is the criminal! Take him away!"
Thorfinn's fingers twitched, his grip on his sword never loosening. He could cut through them before they had time to react. He could kill them before the bolts struck. He could fight his way out of the city. But if he did that, if he ran, if he made himself a fugitive, then finding Geralt would become even harder.
His jaw tightened. His teeth clenched. He exhaled through his nose.
He didn't look at the guards. He looked at her.
Arwyn had not moved, her fingers still curled around her weapon, her breath even, her gaze locked onto him.
The fire inside him burned.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his sword and drove the tip into the ground.
The guards moved instantly, surging forward, hands grabbing at his arms, yanking them behind him, forcing him down onto his knees. They struck him, gauntleted fists crashing into his ribs, his face. A boot slammed into his stomach, another caught his jaw. Someone spit on him.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't even move.
His gaze stayed locked on Arwyn the entire time.
She didn't look away.
Even as they dragged him off, even as the crowd murmured, even as Niketas smirked, even as the world closed in around them, she didn't look away.
___________________________
Thorfinn sat on his knees, hands resting on his thighs, his breath slow and measured. He focused on nothing, his mind quiet, his body still. This was what Geralt had taught him, to sit, to breathe, to empty his thoughts and control them rather than let them control him. He had mocked it at first, had scoffed at the idea that stillness was useful to a warrior. But now he knew better. It was not about peace. It was about control. He had lost it in the square. He had let his anger take him, had let it dictate his actions rather than the other way around. He had thought he was past that. He had thought he had learned.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Arwyn.
The moment had been coming for a long time, but he had not expected it there. He had not expected her to stand against him. The thought still made something burn in his chest, though now he could see it clearly. He had been jealous. It was not the man himself, it was the fact that she had listened to him. That she had believed him over Thorfinn. He had let that jealousy fester, had let it drive him into a fight that never needed to happen. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have taken the lead Niketas offered, would have followed it even if it led nowhere. Instead, he had let it spiral. And now he was here.
"I'm a fool," he muttered.
He stood, his joints cracking as he stretched his shoulders, before lowering himself onto the cot. He had thought about leaving. The cell was nothing to him. The door could be broken, the guards could be killed. He could use magic, could escape before anyone realized he was gone. But that would make things worse. If he ran, he would be hunted. If he killed his way out, he would be marked. If he made himself a target, finding Geralt would become impossible.
So he would wait.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A door creaked open. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls. The key turned in the lock with a sharp scrape.
The door swung open.
Thorfinn squinted against the sudden brightness, his vision adjusting. When it cleared, he saw her standing there.
Arwyn.
The guard beside her spoke. "You have an hour."
She nodded. The guard stepped back. She stepped inside, placed the torch in the stand, turned to face him.
He watched her, arms crossed.
She hesitated.
She wore different clothing. No less fine than before.
"Enjoying yourself in the man's home?" he said.
Her frown deepened. "He was kind enough to let me stay while we looked for Geralt."
He scoffed.
Her eyes narrowed. "Why is it so difficult for you to believe? Why can't people be kind and genuine? Not everyone is evil."
"Because that is the way of the world," he said. "If you are not bound by love or blood, you are nothing to them."
"I refuse to believe that."
"Then you are a fool."
Her jaw clenched. "Whose blood was on you that day?"
He didn't answer.
"Tell me."
"No one's," he said. "Just some people who tried to steal my sword."
Her expression darkened. "Niketas told me there were seven bodies in an alleyway. All of them mutilated. One of them a child with his neck snapped. Was that you?"
He didn't answer.
She knew the truth already.
She exhaled sharply. Then her hands clenched. Then she started hitting him.
Fists slammed into his chest, his arms, his shoulders, wild and unrelenting.
"He was just a child!" she screamed.
He caught her wrists, shoved her back. "So what?"
She stared at him, breath coming hard and fast.
"He accepted the risk going in," he said. "He never should've done it if he couldn't face death."
Her head tilted back, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Not everyone lives the way your people do."
He said nothing.
"You think this world is nothing but strength," she said. "That the weak die and the strong take what they want. You think that's how it's supposed to be." She shook her head. "You're wrong. That isn't strength. That's cowardice. That's taking the easy path because you're too afraid to believe in something else."
His hand clenched into a fist.
"You are a coward," she said. "Just like every other Viking who thinks killing makes them gods."
He grabbed her by the arm, fingers digging into her skin.
She shoved him off.
"He was weak," he said. "That is why he died. If you can't protect what is yours, then you don't deserve to have it. Just like your father and brothers. They tried to fight to protect your mother and sister, but they were too weak. And they died."
Her eyes burned.
"So it's your fault Hild died," she said, stepping closer. "And Morgyn was taken." Another step. "It's your fault Eowyn died." Another step. "How many more will die because of you?"
"Elijah?"
"Floki?"
"Gyda?"
"Rebekah?"
Then she paused.
"Freydis."
His body moved before he thought.
His arm lashed out.
The back of his hand struck her face.
She stumbled into the wall.
Silence.
She pressed her fingers to her lip, looked at the blood, then let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"After all this time, I thought you'd changed," she said, voice low. "That Geralt's lessons had made you a better man. But underneath it all, you're still the same old Viking."
He looked at her, his gaze cold.
"You're right..."
"I am a Viking."
Silence stretched between them. The torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that danced and swayed, but neither of them moved. Arwyn stood against the wall, fingers still grazing her lip, the cut red and fresh. Thorfinn sat, arms resting on his knees, gaze unwavering. After a long moment, she pushed off the wall and walked toward the cot. She sat at the farthest end, away from him, her hands resting in her lap. Her shoulders were tense, but her face was unreadable.
"I feel different," she said.
He didn't reply. He only watched.
She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers as if testing them. Then she reached into her cloak and pulled out a dagger.
Thorfinn didn't move.
"When my hatred first started to build for you, I thought about killing you," she said, voice even. "But every time I had that thought, it slipped through my fingers. After Dahlia controlled me, it was easier. I could draw my weapon on you. I could move against you. But if I wanted to hurt you—truly hurt you—it felt like I couldn't. My arm would freeze. Like I was a puppet and something else was pulling my strings."
She turned the dagger in her fingers, the blade catching the dim light.
"But after that day in the square."
She moved.
The blade flashed.
A line of red appeared across Thorfinn's cheek.
He didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He only stared at her.
"I am free," she said.
His voice was quiet. "Will you kill me?"
Her grip tightened.
"I killed your family," he said. "I slaughtered them like cattle and stole their belongings."
She breathed, slow and steady.
"I took your sister against her will."
Her jaw clenched.
"You watched and did nothing as she begged you to leave with her."
Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt.
"If you had left with her, she would be alive."
Her chest rose and fell faster.
"You killed your sister," he said, his voice cold, cutting. "Though I think eventually you would've killed your entire family too, even if I hadn't shown up."
Her breath hitched.
"You would've shown up in your wolf form and torn them apart."
The dagger in her hand trembled.
"You should be glad I spared them that fate."
She lunged.
The blade was faster than he expected. A blur of movement. But it didn't hit him.
Iron bit into stone.
The dagger was buried in the wall beside his head.
She was breathing hard now, her shoulders shaking.
"I am not like you," she said.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"I'll never be like you."
She yanked the dagger from the stone, turned on her heel, and walked to the door. She knocked once.
It swung open.
She stepped out without looking back.
Then the door shut, leaving Thorfinn alone in the dark.
...
Thorfinn lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. He had lost track of time. The air in the cell was thick with dampness, the only sound the occasional drip of water from somewhere beyond the stone walls. He had told himself he didn't care, that Arwyn could do as she pleased, that it made no difference to him. But it was a lie. It gnawed at him, deeper than he wanted to admit.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts away. It didn't matter anymore. He would figure out a way out of this, one way or another.
A noise from outside the cell made him shift his gaze toward the door. Heavy boots against stone. A key slid into the lock, metal scraping metal. The door creaked open, torchlight spilling into the small room.
"Get up," a voice ordered.
Thorfinn sat up and swung his legs over the cot, looking at the two guards standing in the doorway. He didn't ask questions, didn't protest. He had a good idea where this was going. With a sigh, he stood and let them pull him to his feet.
They led him through the barracks, through winding corridors and out into the cool night air. He stepped into an alleyway, the walls high and narrow, shadows stretching across the cobblestones. He rolled his shoulders, already preparing himself.
He saw them before they spoke. Half a dozen guards, standing in a loose formation, their hands on their weapons. And at the center of them, standing with a smile on his face, was Niketas.
Strangely, he didn't look like a man who had taken a beating in a fountain. His face was smooth, his clothes pristine, his stance as relaxed as if he were about to sit for a banquet rather than oversee an execution.
"Ah, Thorfinn," Niketas said, spreading his arms. "Thank you for joining me on this wonderful night."
Thorfinn didn't reply, just stared at him.
Niketas sighed. "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself properly this time. Niketas Doukas. A pleasure."
Thorfinn still said nothing.
"Arwyn speaks well of you," Niketas continued. "Says you're quite the warrior. Says you're not like the other brutes from the North, that you actually have a mind. It's an interesting thing to say about a man who tried to cave my skull in with a sword."
He laughed, shaking his head. "She begged me to let you go, you know. Said you'd be harmless, that you wouldn't cause any trouble." He chuckled. "We both know that's not true, don't we?"
Thorfinn clenched his jaw.
"But I am a generous man," Niketas went on. "I'd be willing to let you go. More than that, I'd be willing to offer you work. Gold beyond your imagining. Or knowledge, if that's what you seek. I have both."
He lifted his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "All I want in return is a little information."
Thorfinn narrowed his eyes.
"Tell me everything you know about the Witcher," Niketas said. "Arwyn tells me much, but she met him after you. You knew him before she did. I want to know everything."
There was something in his voice, something behind his easy smile. Excitement. Desperation.
"Why?" Thorfinn asked.
"Does it matter?" Niketas tilted his head. "I'm helping you find him, aren't I?"
Thorfinn exhaled. He didn't like this man. Even if he put aside his personal feelings, even if he ignored the jealousy, it was obvious that Niketas was hiding something. And now he was asking about Geralt. That only confirmed it.
"Fuck off," Thorfinn said.
Niketas' smile flickered, and for a moment, something dark flashed across his face. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "You barbarians are all the same," he muttered. "So stubborn." He composed himself, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. I don't need your information. I'll find him myself, eventually."
He turned to the guards. "Make it look like he tried to escape."
Thorfinn growled and lunged, barging past the guards, moving straight for Niketas. The man didn't even flinch.
Thorfinn reached for him, but before he could, Niketas' hands shot forward, catching his wrists.
Thorfinn froze.
The grip was like iron. His arms locked in place, his muscles straining, but Niketas didn't budge.
"Oh?" Niketas said, tilting his head. "Are you confused?"
Thorfinn gritted his teeth, trying to wrench free, but the man didn't even struggle.
"Did you really think I lost to you for real?" Niketas said. "To a barbarian like you?"
And then, without warning, he moved.
He twisted Thorfinn's arms, spun, and threw him.
Thorfinn's body left the ground, hurled through the air like he weighed nothing. He slammed into the stone wall of the barracks with a sound like splitting wood. The impact cracked the stone, sent dust and debris falling around him. He fell to the ground, his vision blurring, his head throbbing.
Blood dripped down his forehead.
Niketas dusted off his hands. "Hurry up and kill him," he said, turning. "I'll be in my carriage."
Thorfinn gritted his teeth, blinking away the haze as he saw the guards stepping toward him, weapons drawn.
Then he saw something else.
A shadow moved behind the last guard in the line.
Thorfinn blinked. His vision was still spinning. Had he imagined it?
Then the guard at the back stiffened. A hand wrapped around his mouth. A blade slid across his throat. He slumped, the sound of his body hitting the ground muffled.
Thorfinn turned his head, just as another figure moved between two guards. A flick of the wrist. Twin blades sprang from hidden mechanisms, stabbing into their necks. Neither of them made a sound before they dropped.
The remaining three turned, startled, hands flying to their weapons. But before they could react, another figure descended from above, landing atop them, his arms flashing. The same blades pierced them, ending them before they could so much as cry out.
The last guard saw what was happening and reached for his sword, opening his mouth to shout.
A blade flashed through the darkness.
His head hit the ground before his body followed.
The alley was silent.
Thorfinn blinked again, his vision clearing. The figures moved, stepping into the light of a flickering torch. One of them walked toward him.
His hair was white. His eyes glowed like molten gold.
"Looks like you've had a pretty eventful few days," Geralt said.
(AN: Constantinople is a big place and there are so many characters and things I wanna do with it which is why it gets a part 2. Most of that is training for Thorfinn both in magic and swordsmanship. This chapter was a little dramatic but I think it was needed. They needed to have this fight before they can heal. But yeah next chapter will have lots of training and lots of fighting and cool stuff. And sex. And no you're not wrong those were assassins, don't worry I didn't add them for the sake of it. The templars are important in this as they are the human side of the Masquerade if that makes sense. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it.
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