Chapter 9 #3
“Eighteen! There were eighteen children! But the Aeonians were the ones who directed us to do it.”
“Eighteen children burned alive because the Aeonians suspected the village of harboring rebels.” Garrett walks to a small table against the wall. I see it’s covered with tools. Knives of various sizes and pliers. A brand heating in a small brazier, its tip glowing red.
Oh gods.
“The Aeonians gave the order, yes,” Garrett continues, selecting a knife and testing its edge against his thumb. “But you carried it out. You and the other Valorians.”
“Please!” Marcian is sobbing openly now, his body shaking in the chains. “Please, Commander, the Aeonians told us that they were traitors and animals. I was young and I didn’t understand—”
“You understood perfectly.” Garrett turns back to face him, knife in hand. “You just didn’t care. Eighteen children screaming while you stood outside and made sure they couldn’t escape. You set the fires and barred the doors.”
“We thought they were enemies.”
“They were children.” The knife trembles in Garrett’s hand. “Tell me, did you listen to them scream? Did you enjoy it?”
“I did not!” Days without food should have weakened him into unconsciousness. But Marcian is still aware and screaming. We rode to the village, searched the forest, comforted his pregnant wife. All while Garrett had him chained in the palace dungeons. The whole fucking trip was a lie.
Behind Marcian, through the open door of another cell, I can see more prisoners. More Valorians in various states of torment. All the missing knights are here.
This isn’t a recent development. It has been going on for days. Maybe longer.
I can see Garrett’s expression as he approaches Marcian with the knife. There’s no rage there. No hatred or even satisfaction. His eyes are empty. It’s like looking into a void.
“Please...” Marcian whispers.
“Please?” Garrett tilts his head, almost curious. “Like the children pleaded when they were burning?”
“Commander, please—”
“Don’t call me Commander.” The first hint of emotion cracks through Garrett’s calm facade. “You don’t get to call me that. Not after you murdered innocents and then went on with your life like it meant nothing.”
Garrett approaches Marcian with the knife and I force myself to look away. I should move and announce my presence. I have to do something to stop this madness.
But I’m frozen, watching this impossible scene unfold.
This isn’t the Garrett I’ve been protecting, the person I hold on to in a too-small bed.
But it is. It’s all the same person and I’m only now seeing the whole picture.
My foot catches on something. A loose stone in the passage floor. The scrape of leather on rock is tiny but Garrett hears it.
His head snaps toward the door, toward where I’m standing in the shadows. For one long moment, we stare at each other through the gap in the doorway. His eyes widen in shock. Then something like resignation crosses his face, as if he’s been expecting this moment.
He exhales slowly. “Wolf.”
The word is quiet, almost gentle.
I should run to get away from this nightmare and pretend I never saw it. My job is to keep him alive and not asking questions about what he does in the dark.
Instead, I push the door open wider and step into the room.
The full scene is worse than glimpses through a gap. I look at Marcian, hanging limp in his chains. The stone floor is stained dark with old blood.
Garrett is standing there with a knife in his hand and that empty look in his eyes.
“You’re torturing your own soldiers,” I force the words past the shock.
“They’re murderers who happen to wear the same uniform I do,” Garrett corrects quietly.
The pieces are falling into place. “The disappearances and missing Valorians. It was all you. You’ve been taking them.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.
Garrett sets down the knife carefully. His hands are covered in blood. “Wolf, I can explain—”
“Then explain.” I step further into the room. “Why are you doing this?”
He takes a breath, and for a moment he looks tired. So tired. “Do you know what happened in Feywildra twenty years ago?”
I shake my head.
“The Aeonians suspected the villagers of harboring rebels and plotting against the crown. They sent a Valorian unit to investigate.” He looks at Marcian. “This unit. Twelve Valorian Knights including him. They decided the entire village was guilty.”
He walks to the table and picks up a different tool. “They locked everyone in the village hall. Men, women, children. Then they set it on fire. They stood outside while it burned and made sure no one escaped. Seventy-three people died. Eighteen of them were children.”
My blood runs cold. I know this story vaguely.
“We were just following orders,” Marcian whispers through broken teeth. “The Elders commanded—”
“The Elders were wrong.” Garrett picks up a blade from the table. “And you knew it. You all knew it. But you did it anyway because it was easier than showing mercy.”
He draws the blade across Marcian’s chest in a shallow stroke. The scream echoes off stone walls.
“Stop,” I say abruptly.
Garrett turns to me, and his eyes in the torchlight are empty. “Why?”
“This isn’t…” I struggle for words. “I thought you were better than this.”
“Better?” He laughs, broken and bitter.
“Your parents,” I say, desperate to understand. Desperate to find something that makes sense in this nightmare. “They love you. You have everything. Why—”
He rounds on me and for a moment I see something raw in his expression.
Something hurt and angry and lost. “My parents love the son they see at dinner. The Council respects the Commander who wins wars. The people adore the knight who fixes their problems and remembers their names. But none of them know what I really am.”
“Which is?”
He doesn’t answer and turns back to Marcian. “Someone has to balance the scales and make the guilty pay when the system protects them.”
Marcian spits blood at him. “Fuck you.”
“You were the one who barred the doors, weren’t you? Made sure no one could escape when the fire started. You made sure those children burned.” The crack of breaking bone. Marcian’s scream echoes through the chamber.
“Stop,” I say again, stronger this time.
“Why should I?” He doesn’t look at me, his eyes focus entirely on Marcian. Would you stop if these were the men who killed your family? Wouldn’t you want justice?”
“What you’re doing isn’t justice. This is fucking revenge.” The distinction matters even if Garrett can’t see it.
He finally looks at me, and there’s something almost like amusement in his empty eyes. “Call it whatever you want. They’re still guilty. Does it matter which word we use?”
“Yes.” I step closer. “Justice is measured. This—” I gesture at the torture chamber around us, at the broken knights in chains, “—this is madness.”
“They burned children alive for the Aeonian elders,” Garrett says flatly. “If that doesn’t deserve punishment, what does?”
“You need proof before you destroy someone’s life.” My voice hardens with each word. “You’re a commander, not an executioner.”
“I have proof,” Garrett interrupts coldly.
“What proof?”
“Records hidden in the old palace archives where no one would think to look.” His jaw clenches.
“Detailed reports from years ago. The massacre at Feywildra village. Seventy-three people burned alive when Valorians locked them inside the village hall and set it aflame. The reports list every soldier present.”
His knuckles go white around the knife handle.
“Twelve names. Twelve Valorians I’ve been leading, trusting, fighting beside for years. Twelve monsters wearing my colors.”
The conviction in his voice is absolute. It’s the truth and Garrett is certain of it.
“Every single one of these men participated. They’re guilty, Wolf.” A flicker of sadness flashes in his eyes before the emptiness returns. “Whatever you think of my methods, they are absolutely, unquestionably guilty.”
I believe him.
“And you decided to kill them all,” I say quietly.
He meets my eyes without flinching.
“I decided to make them answer for their crimes,” Garrett mutters. “The Aeonians won’t touch them. They gave the orders. Those council members still sit in their gilded seats, passing judgment on thieves and petty criminals while their own hands drip with children’s blood.”
“Perhaps you should report this to your queen,” I try.
“The crown won’t act either,” he scoffs, bitterness coating every word. “It happened years ago. The witnesses are dead or scattered. And who cares about peasant children anyway? No one.”
He turns back to Marcian, who’s stopped screaming and now just hangs there, barely conscious.
“The system that should deliver justice is broken beyond repair,” Garrett says softly. “So I will deliver it myself. Someone has to make them pay for what they did.”
I’ve killed hundreds. I have no moral high ground here. But there’s something different about what Garrett is doing. It feels less like justice and more like self-destruction.
“You’ve been torturing them for weeks, listening to them scream and watching them suffer,” I say quietly, stepping closer. “This isn’t punishing them. It’s poisoning you. Every hour you spend down here, you become more like the ones you’re torturing.”
Garrett flinches like I’ve hit him. “Whatever monster I am, they’re worse. They deserve this.”
“Maybe they do.” I step even closer, close enough to see the fractures in his eyes. The exhaustion. The pain he’s trying to bury under cold determination. “But this is destroying you, Garrett. Whatever you were before you started this, you’re losing it. Piece by piece. I can see it.”
Silence falls for several beats.
“I know.” The admission is quiet, almost a whisper. “But I can’t stop. Not until they’ve all paid.”
“Will those children be any less dead after you’ve tortured every man who killed them?” It’s a cruel question, but he needs to face it.