Final mission!

"Final mission?" Rami whispered, then louder, "Abandoning the war?"

Many had done so—why was he surprised? Yet the thought of the lord of House Parma himself forsaking his sword… that was beyond imagining.

"Yes…" Matteo replied calmly. "I'm nearing forty. and I don't know if I'm a skilled knight or a successful noble. I think it's time to choose one."

Rami hesitated, then ventured, "Why not choose knighthood?" He knew he was treading beyond his understanding but pressed on. "It's not as if you'd lose your lands."

He added lightly, "Besides, your reputation as a knight far outshines your name as a noble."

This time, Matteo was the one to jest. "Because my joints groan…" He stopped himself quickly. "But look at me now, look at my current band." He gestured with his thumb towards the men, some gathered to watch Stefano's treatment and exchange words, others scanning the camp's edges.

"I don't know half the men in my own band anymore. You're the only familiar face left." He rolled his shoulders heavily before continuing. "Most of those I knew either abandoned the sword before me, or I attended their funerals—or worse, I'm searching for them to prepare their funerals."

Rami said nothing. What could he say?

"I don't have another war in me." Matteo's hand went to his left side, where an
old wound always ached in the cold. "Because I'm tired of
new faces. New wars. New funerals."

He looked at the horizon.

"I want to go home. See my wife. Watch my son grow up.
Die in my own bed instead of face-down in mud."

Rami merely scratched his bald head, then crouched silently on the ground, saying nothing. Matteo looked at him for a moment before sitting too, cross-legged in a steadier posture.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Rami nodded slowly. Not agreement. Just... understanding.

"This is my last mission, then."

"Your last."

The silence was broken only by the faint murmurs of conversation behind them. It was a deep quiet, spent watching the same shapeless cloud, until Rami echoed his thoughts: "Stefano may not be a great problem."

"We'll see…" Matteo replied. "I'll leave it to you to uncover what he's about, while I listen from the side."

"Burden me with your work, Your Grace," Rami quipped, standing and stretching his back as Matteo brush

Despite everything, Matteo smiled.

Matteo waved him off lightly, chuckling without turning. Rami headed towards the band, glancing back at the camp. Girolamo had removed the bloodied cloth, replacing it with a damp one, cleaning and exposing the woodcutter's wound. Stefano lay with his legs stretched, propped on his hands, his head tilted back stiffly, his left hand clutching his axe with equal rigidity. Nearby, Marco sprawled on his back, his right hand resting beside that same axe.

As usual, Gabrieli used his hulking frame to stand directly behind Stefano, casting his shadow over him, making it clear that the woodcutter's tension wasn't solely from pain. Of the remaining three, two fixed their eyes on the camp's edges, while Andrea, who had been eavesdropping on their talk, returned to scanning the surroundings when it ended. Rami shot him a sharp look as he passed but didn't reprimand him, certain he'd heard nothing.

Approaching the group, Rami nudged Marco's foot several times until he got the hint. Marco rolled onto his left side, making space for Rami to sit, but Rami leaned on him instead. This drew a disgruntled snort from Marco, though he didn't protest. Rami patted his shoulder mockingly without lifting his arm, and when no further complaints came, he turned his attention to the two men before him.

Stefano glanced at them intermittently, while Girolamo, less concerned, was absorbed in his work. Rami asked, "How is it?"

"Bad."

Girolamo didn't look up.

"How bad?"

"Wrong kind of bad."

He lifted the cloth. The smell hit first—clotted blood, sharp
vinegar, something else underneath. Sweet. Rotten.

Rami leaned closer.

The wound was a line. Too straight. Too thin. Like someone
had drawn it with a needle dipped in red ink.

"No blade does this,"

Girolamo muttered. He pressed the
edges. Stefano hissed. "It's deep. Deeper than it looks.
Goes straight into the muscle."

"Can you treat it?"

"Not here. We'd need to open it, drain it, pack it..."
Girolamo's voice trailed off as he looked at their supplies.

But we don't have enough for that.

"We don't have enough."

Rami chewed his lip. A choice, then. Use what little they
had on a suspicious woodcutter, or save it for themselves.

Easy choice.

Except Stefano was looking at him

with that animal fear—
the kind that knew it was being weighed and measured.

"Give it to him," Rami said.

Girolamo's eyebrows lifted. Just a fraction.

"We'll need him able to walk."

Weak justification. They both knew it.

But Girolamo nodded and stood.

"How were you wounded like this?"

Stefano shifted his foot several times, testing it, then stopped as the pain sharpened. Colour returned to his face, reassured he wouldn't face treatment alone. He answered, "I'm not even sure. I was fleeing something, tripped over something, and fell on my face. I didn't realise I was hurt until I'd run a distance."

Rami gave him a long look, weighing his words before letting them slip. "And what were these 'things'?" Stefano's fingers slid over his axe's handle, gripping it until his knuckles whitened.

"It was… ordinary at first," Stefano said, his voice tense. "I returned from the forest as usual, but the gate guards weren't at their posts."

Rami noted how he clutched the axe tighter. "Is that usual?"

"No, not usually. But not strange either… the strangeness was…" His words quickened. "Everyone was staring at me, despite their tasks. Whether my old neighbour and his wife weaving a cloth, or children playing with sticks… all of them watched me, unrelenting."

Gabrieli broke in suddenly, his voice harsh: "What did you do to provoke them?"

Stefano's voice quavered. "Nothing, I swear! It was just an ordinary day, and I've known them for years."

Gabrieli seized the word from the roof of his mouth. "Years? How many?"

Stefano's lips pressed together for a moment. "Six years… troubles piled up in Rania, so I returned to my hometown."

Rami waved a hand, steering away from that path. "Focus on what happened next. What did you do when you entered your home?"

Stefano caught his breath. "I shut the door and tried to calm myself. But before I could set down my bundle, I saw my neighbour, the hunter, peering… through… my window." His words slowed, his gaze dropping to his lap in stunned silence before he continued, "He whispered for me to run." Rami noticed Marco's back stiffen abruptly. Even Gabrieli paused his probing for a moment.

"I ran," Stefano went on, his words trembling on the edges of his lips. "I abandoned everything that might weigh me down and ran without thinking." He rested his head in his hands, his voice muffled by his palm. "Then I heard a choked scream… When I turned, I saw my neighbour's head rolling on the ground, his body still standing."

Rami gave him a moment to compose himself. "And then?"

"What could I do?" Stefano replied. "I ran faster, shouted, warned, screamed. But no one listened—they only watched. No one stirred, then I heard a tapping sound behind me…" He gestured with his chin towards his injury as he finished. "I turned, but saw no one. I kept running until my foot caught on something, and I fell."

Rami noticed Stefano trembling from exhaustion and pain, so he glanced at Girolamo, who had been observing the exchange from a distance, and signalled him. Girolamo approached, carrying a warm bowl. "Drink this first, Stef."

Stefano took the bowl, bewildered. "What is it?" But Gabrieli had already placed a hand on his shoulder. "That thing you tripped over. What was it?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anything."

"So…" Gabrieli pressed harder on his shoulder with each word. "You didn't see what killed your neighbour, didn't see what chased you, didn't see what wounded you."

Girolamo answered the earlier question, trying to ease the tension. "It's white willow. It'll dull the pain a bit."

Gabrieli prepared to press further, but Rami cut him off. "Enough." Gabrieli's hand lifted from Stefano's shoulder at once.

Stefano rubbed his palm across his chest, then groaned as Girolamo took his foot, threading a piece of twine from a spool in his pocket and wrapping it tightly over the wound to staunch the bleeding.

Marco edged back slightly, satisfied the interrogation was over. He hoped they'd leave the woodcutter and move on. Whether his story was true or false, it wasn't their concern. Their mission was to find a dead knight, and they'd failed four times already. Why add a fifth?

But he knew from Matteo's distant gaze, listening intently, that this wouldn't happen.

Rami said to Girolamo, "Tend to him. We'll continue later." He pushed himself off Marco and stepped away. The more he listened, the less he hoped this mission would remain routine. Part of him whispered to dismiss the woodcutter as mad, to leave him or at least ignore his tale, riddled with gaps, and carry on as usual. Yet another part insisted on taking his words seriously, not rushing just to fulfil one man's wish.

Rami stopped abruptly, catching the sound of footsteps behind him. He didn't turn but slowed his pace until Marco caught up, standing silently beside him for a moment, glancing sidelong. Then Marco turned his head towards the camp, where the woodcutter sat under Girolamo's care, before looking back at Rami, speaking low. "What do we do with him? Take him with us, or let him return alone?"