It's already dark when I step out of the main gate. The two guards escorting me retreat without a word, and I find myself standing alone on the stone bridge facing the empty market square. During the day, it's bustling with activity, but after the nightfall, you could only meet occasional drunks there, or homeless beggars searching the garbage for some edible waste.

Right now, the square is desolate. The building surrounding it stare at me with their dark windows. In some of them, light of candles or braziers flicker, but apart from that, the only illumination comes from the moon rising above the city. The breeze from the sea cools my face, but it's not enough to ease my fever.

The world shifts, and I grab the parapet to remain upright.

Loud clanging sounds come from behind me as the main gate is being closed and locked for the night. Then, the only noise that remains is the distant shouting and singing, probably coming from some tavern or brothel by the harbor.

I push off the parapet and begin to walk. Being able to see only through one eye makes it tricky to keep balance, but gradually, my stride becomes more confident, and my back straightens up. I will not fall. They got my eye, but I still have my life, and I will pledge it to bringing them down. I pay no attention to the dark streets I'm walking through, nor to the occasional belated passers-by who recoil away from my bandaged face. I'm going home.

On the Carpenters Street, all the workshops are closed, but there's light coming from the tavern on the corner, and there's voices and singing inside. I walk along the other side of the street until I reach Ashley's place.

I knock and wait, leaning on the door, taking in the familiar view of carriage wheels placed on display along the wall and the flower pots on the windows. It's so familiar it hurts. Nothing has changed—except for myself.

As the door opens, the remainders of my strength leave me abruptly, and I nearly fall inside.

I come to my senses by the fireplace. Someone's hands are keeping me in a sitting position. I blink and find Ashley's withered, concerned face staring at me. There's numerous feet and skirts surrounding us, and as I look around, I recognize some of the faces.

Oliver crouches in front of me.

"Damn it," he says, and hands his candle to someone else. "What have they done to you? What's this?" He reaches out to my bandage.

"Don’t," I say. "You'll have to part with your supper if you see this."

He pauses, then carefully slips the bandage off my head. Some people gasp. Oliver's face distorts as if in pain.

"Told you," I say bitterly.

He shakes his head. Then, he leans forward, cups my face with both hands and plants a gentle kiss on the disfigured left side of my face. It hurts a little, but not as much as the tears that suddenly burn my good eye, demanding release.

"They'll pay for it," he says, moving away.

Together with Ashley, they pull me up to my feet and help me to the stairwell. Oliver puts my hand around his shoulders and leads me up the stairs. The familiar creaking of the timber steps is reassuring, and so is the smell and the interior of the little room that I've been occupying for the last twelve years.

Oliver puts his candle on the table and helps me sit down on my bed. Then, he kneels down and takes my shoes off.

"I can do it," I say, but he doesn't listen. He gets to his feet and tries to take my shirt off but pauses when I groan in pain. He steps back, then proceeds to removes it more carefully. Then he stops, staring at my back. He stares at it for a long time.

"Damn it, Bruno," he says in a choking voice. "I told you to leave if you were in danger. What have you done?"

"Saved someone's worthless life," I say.

He steps away, his fists clenched. He looks thinner than he had just a week ago, and his usually neatly trimmed beard seems a little overgrown.

"It's because of me," he says. "I asked you to stay in the castle."

"It was a good idea. Not your fault it didn’t work."

He shakes his head. "Can you stand up? I must undress you."

I obey, allowing him to pull off my pants. Then he stops, probing at something in their inner pocket. "What's this?"

I frown. While in the castle, I have never carried anything in my pockets, and yet now he is holding what looks like a folded piece of paper. It resembles the paper with the map, which, come to think of that, we have received in a similar fashion—planted in Oliver's clothing after he was freed from detainment.

He unfolds the paper, brings it closer to the candle and squints at it.

"It's a note." He looks at me. "It says: 'Sunday. Midday. Market square. He will die. Be ready. May the justice prevail." He flips the note, checking the other side. "It's signed 'Justice', just like the map was."

Perhaps it's my fever, but I can't make any sense of this. And who could have planted it? There's no way to know, really, since I have been unconscious for so long.

"On Sunday, at midday," Oliver says thoughtfully. "Isn’t it when the royal party usually goes hunting?"

"Right," I say, "but who will die?"

He stares at me, his eyes glistening in the flickering light. "I don’t know. But all things considered, couldn't it mean…the King?"

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