Esra could have passed out where he stood. His face went white, his slender hands numb by his sides. He thought, not the smithy, not that hidden torture, his anxious eyes pleading up at Umbra for some small mercy.

“The Kian boy disappeared sometime during the morn,” said the knight. His voice seemed… gentler, somehow, than when he spoke to the captain. “You two were friends?”

Esra breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself, his wildly thumping heart. “Yes,” he answered softly. “When we were children.”

“Mm.” Umbra considered that. Behind the mask, his expression was completely unreadable. “Did you happen to see him when you were about?”

Esra’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard, gaze fixed on Umbra, searching for any sign of clemency. It was no use; the knight’s face was as impassive as stone.

If only he'd thought to think of a convincing story, earlier. Even now, a quick wit could lie. But Esra's mind was blank, useless, as the powerful knight loomed over him. Just his size was intimidating. The very top of Esra’s head barely reached past Umbra’s chest. How easily, Esra could not help but think, how simple it would be for him to break a man.

“I don’t…” Esra licked his lips, his heart stuttering as his nerves failed him. “I didn’t…”

Unconsciously, he raised his hand to the side of his neck, where Kian had buried his face in him and sobbed into him by the river.

“What a useless creature,” Captain Pierce snapped from Esra’s periphery. “We can tell you know, boy.” He jabbed a cruel finger at his face. “Look how he shivers and shakes.”

“He’s a gentle thing, Captain, and we are quite frightful,” Umbra said, but there was a hint of amusement in the corners of his otherwise serene mouth.

“Kian is no friend of yours, boy,” Captain Pierce growled, his eyes flashing in anger. “Your loyalty, whatever a traitor’s loyalty is worth, is misplaced.”

Esra glanced at the captain, unsure of the man’s implications.

The captain sneered at his confusion. “We had no idea there was a son, until your friend gave up your name. That’s what broke your father, in the end. He was so afraid of us dragging you in there.” Captain Pierce spat on the floor. If the knight wasn’t standing there, he’d have spat on Esra. “You can thank your ‘friend’ Kian for that.”

Esra reeled, the world seeming to blur around him. He saw all at once the true destruction that causality had brought down upon the resistance. Kian was the one who had given up Esra’s existence. And if not for his name, the threat against him, his father might never have capitulated to Balor’s men. Marten would have passed from this world, but he’d have left the resistance alive.

His strong, proud father had given up everything to save Esra. Esra wanted to weep to think of it. He supposed the captain meant to make him angry at Kian, but Esra could only think of Kian’s ruined face, his awful grimace. Did it even matter? Whether you confessed or not, it did not stop the things they did to make you talk. It all ended up the same way, the smithy, and then...

Esra swallowed uselessly against the lump in his throat.

He could feel the knight’s gaze upon him, even if he could not see his eyes. The severity of his attention was perhaps even more noticeable when he was masked, somehow, and he took in everything: Esra's damp hair, the sorrowful guilt in his too-expressive eyes, his clothes, freshly washed, but for where the white tunic was marred by the faint smudges of dirt on the collar.

“Tell your men to search by the river,” Umbra ordered the captain, sending dread thudding through Esra's mind.

Memory rose in him, unbidden: the tales of the black knights who drank blood for sustenance and could read a man’s mind as easily as they might a book. Just a story, something meant to scare children... but with a single look, Umbra had apparently seen enough to piece Esra’s whole morning together, and Kian’s part in it.

Captain Pierce shifted to attention, eyes widening. “Sir Knight?”

“If you find him,” Umbra said smoothly, “I will be kinder in my report.”

“Yes, Sir Knight.” The captain hesitated, looking over at Esra like he wanted to say something, perhaps push the interrogation further.

But Umbra was getting impatient. “You're dismissed, Captain Pierce,” he said icily.

The soldier bowed low, and then respectfully made himself scarce.

* * *

Alone, Umbra moved closer to the youth, and reached out. Esra went immediately still, holding his breath, but the knight only brushed his thumb over the smudge on his collar. He made a thoughtful hum as Esra cringed beneath him.

He knows everything, Esra thought. He knows about Kian, about me…

“I-I am sorry,” Esra stammered, knowing that no apology would be enough to save him. What would the knight do with him, what punishment awaited-- “I…”

“He wanted you to leave with him.”

He, meaning Kian. The knight scratched at the dried dirt, so that it dusted to the ground. Esra quaked under his hand, nodded. There was no point in lying. The knight knew everything.

“Yet,” Umbra observed, “here you stand.”

Heat burned in his cheeks. The knight was so close that Esra found it hard to keep his thoughts in order. “I… I could not have gone,” he confessed. “He would be more likely to make it if I weren’t with him.”

“How noble of you,” Umbra remarked softly.

Esra couldn't tell if the knight was scornful or sincere.

In truth, he'd had no desire to leave with Kian, much like how he’d have no desire to choose certain death. The knight would have chased them down himself. There was no hiding from the Order of Balor. Sooner or later, they would find you. Even his cautious, capable father could not manage to outsmart them, in the end.

And his father…

Esra dared not ask.

Umbra smoothed down the fabric of the youth’s tunic, as if feeling the shape of his narrow shoulders. Esra could feel the warmth of the leather, that powerful hand, through the cloth, and shuddered. The knight could probably feel his trembling, but he could not make himself stop.

“Go get something warmer to wear,” Umbra said. “Can’t have you getting ill on the journey.”

Esra looked up at him with fear and confusion. The journey..? Where was he going? Perhaps Kian was right, and the knight had tired of him already, and he was to be carted off as well. Or they might take him elsewhere.

They had to take him somewhere - for he could no longer stay here, in this devastated place he once called home.

“Now, Esra,” Umbra ordered, and gave him a gentle push. “Go on.”

* * *

Esra stood at the entrance of the women’s sleeping hut, pausing out of a memory of custom. It was forbidden for a man to enter this place unaccompanied.

But the hut lay dark and empty now, devoid of all life. Esra took a deep breath and pushed the door open, crossed the private threshold.

There were no more rules, anymore.

They kept the clothing supplies in a large wooden trunk at one end of the room. Not all of the refugees arrived equipped for their journey, and the voyage across the sea could be long and treacherous. The women of the village, and when they discovered his skill for it, Esra too, would knit wool into warm clothing for the vulnerable.

Esra rummaged through the soft things with both hands shaking. He had spent many days sitting with the women, spinning the wool with them as they spun their stories of hope for those heading to the Continent. He himself had made some of these clothes, to warm and protect the refugees. These items were not meant for him.

But they would do no one any help now. He would likely be the last one to touch these things.

He came across a soft grey woolen blanket, meant for a child, and faltered. He’d had something similar when he was small. A sudden wave of memory overtook him. Crackling fire on a winter night, his father’s strong hands wrapping the blanket around him to protect him against the cold. It had all been years and years ago, and yet, he treasured that tenderness; such moments had been rare from his often-absent father.

He was unprepared for the sob that racked his body. The grief buckled him in two. Clutching at the blanket, he collapsed into himself.

Somewhere lurking in the shadows of his mind, he knew: his father was already dead. The smithy had stopped smoking. There were no other villagers left. All the houses were empty. And there was Kian’s gruesome half-smile, the mass grave filled with bodies, the staked corpses, and always, that hunger-cry of the gulls...

In the darkness, Esra shook, the hiccuping sobs rolling through him, until he felt as the beach might with the sea so far out to tide that the sand seemed to be desert sand, a smooth expanse of nothing, drained of all that made it vital.

* * *

He found a comfortable cloak that he tied around his shoulders, and a long woollen scarf that he wrapped around his slender neck. The wool warmed him wonderfully, but did nothing to comfort him.

He was like one of those runaways himself, destined for the unknown, not knowing where he was headed, and leaving his entire world behind.

Whether from dread, shame, or some other failing of his own; perhaps because of the memory of Kian’s ruined face pressed into his neck, or the sounds of the soldiers idle talk with the silhouettes of bodies staked behind them, Esra shrivelled as he stepped out of the women’s sleeping hut into the village centre, wrapped in stolen wool. Just after midday in late summer, it would have been warm, but Esra felt chilled to the bone.

He was for a moment not so recognisable, in his new colors, long hair tucked under his scarf. The bold eyes of the soldiers flicked over to assess the sudden arrival of fresh meat, before recognition hit them like an arrow and their stares darted away to land on something more innocent, the treetops, perhaps, or their own shuffling feet.

Outside the town hall, the knight was at the head of the most enormously tall horse Esra had ever seen. A glossy jet black all over, with feathered hooves and a long lustrous mane and tail, it had a proud, intelligent face with such a striking appearance that it seemed a different creature from any horse Esra had seen before.

He didn't know it, but he was looking at a Valian warhorse, specially bred in size, strength and temperament to serve the knights of the Order. All Esra could think of was the stories of he’d been told: the black knights of the seabeast, who rode on dragons to battle. The creature was, perhaps, as close to dragon as a horse could get.

Umbra, catching sight of him, beckoned Esra over with a slight smile. Esra hesitantly obeyed, but there was nothing cruel about the knight now that business with the captain had been done. He had a calm, masterful confidence about him, and his smile for Esra was gentle and private.

It caught Esra off guard.

“This is my stallion, Vaughn,” Umbra explained, stroking down the horse's nose. Vaughn was watching Esra's approach. He was alarmingly attentive, for a horse. “Vaughn is a little unruly, but he has a good nature. He is young.” Umbra shrugged, but there was fondness in his words. “He will grow out of it.”

The magnificent horse whickered softly, swishing his tail. Under his saddle he carried Umbra’s paperwork and his provisions.

“Do you want to pet him?” Umbra asked, sensing Esra's awe.

Esra nodded, and carefully reached forward his hand.

“Don’t be nervous around him, or he’ll bite you.” Umbra's tone was almost teasing.

“He won’t bite me,” said Esra quietly. Beasts had always liked him. He stroked between the horse’s neck and shoulder, the midnight hair silky smooth and luxurious to the touch under his palm. “Hello, Vaughn,” he whispered sweetly, and the horse swished his tail.

At his back, Esra could feel Umbra's attention on him, almost burning.

He turned to the knight with a questioning look, and froze when Umbra reached out an elegant hand and, very gently, tucked a strand of the youth’s inky hair behind his ear. Beside them, Vaughn shifted on his hooves and started chewing on the grass.

His skin tickled where the black leather brushed over it. Esra's mind went blank as he stared up at the knight, confusion and fear flooding him.

Umbra considered him. “What beautiful eyes,” he said, almost to himself, like he was observing an inanimate object that had happened to catch his attention. “Only now in daylight can I see the true color.”

Esra blinked hurriedly, and bit his lip, suddenly shy. He ducked his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been complimented. He let out a tiny gasp when that warm gloved hand pressed beneath his chin, tilting his head up again, forcing him to look up at the knight’s masked visage.

Esra’s skin heated. He could so easily recall sitting next to him in the darkened meeting hall, that surprisingly gentle hand at his jaw, how startlingly handsome Umbra had been, his silken mouth meeting Esra's own. Just the memory of it had his stomach swooping.

“Have a piece of deep purple quartz that I dug up in the Vale sitting in my office back home,” Umbra said, after his examination, releasing Esra’s face. “It’s so dark that it seems to swallow the light. Would swear that your eyes are the exact same color.”

Esra’s mind was muddled by the compliment. He forgot where he was, who he was speaking to.

“The fae used to tell me--” he started, before realising his mistake. He stared fearfully at Umbra, who smiled dangerously at his innocent slip of the tongue. “I’m sorry, Sir Knight. I didn’t mean to say it.”

“What did they tell you?” he asked, in a rich, low voice.

“Th-that they,” he stammered, “that my eyes were a gift from…” He swallowed nervously, not sure if he should ask or not. “Sir Knight, what is Danu?”

Umbra paused for long enough that Esra felt dread rise in him. He started to apologise again, but Umbra cut him off with a dismissive wave. “The mother of all the fae deities,” he explained curtly. “The goddess who granted them their witch magic. Danu isn’t real, of course. She exists only in their stories.”

Esra bowed his head.

“Balor is real,” the knight continued above him, “and he is the rightful ruler, which is why the fae have been so miserably defeated.”

“Yes, Sir Knight,” Esra murmured, thinking of the fae he had met, how different they’d been in their customs, the kindnesses they’d always shown him.

“They’re not a gift from anyone, Esra,” said the knight, his voice softer now. “Look at me.” He ran a thumb over Esra’s cheek, just under his lower lashes. “They are your eyes, and they are beautiful.”