“Show me your hand.”

The harsh command sliced through the darkness of Filip’s exhausted mind leaving him momentarily confused as the stubborn fog held tight. He blinked as his eyes shifted and found the bright morning sun. Where was he? He wasn’t sure anymore as the shifting mists twisted around the edges of his vision mixing with the ever present fevered dream of the Governor’s cruel guards. But this was no dream, and the Governor's men held no sway over him now. He squinted and raised his left hand to shield his face, searching for the source of the voice.

Filip did not have far to look; there just ahead of him was the man of shadows, Inquisitor Ash. Amid the fog and streaming sunlight Ash looked less like a human being and more like a phantom, a tall, thin silhouette wrapped in black. His eyes were dark and predatory as they watched Filip, seemingly peeling back the layers of his fear until only his raw soul remained.

Without a word, Filip held out his right hand. He did not question the order, or even think about resisting. Why should he? His better had commanded it.

The hand was a wretched ruin. The stumps where his fingers had once been were capped in inflamed scar tissue, a map of his own mortality drawn cruelly in his skin. Filip wanted to turn from the torn meat, to close his eyes and wake in his parents home. But this was no dream, and even as his heart beat faster to see the remains of his once fine fingers in the light of day, he could not look away; could not ignore the reality of what he had become.

Ash held no such reservations as he reached out, his own fingers steady as they gripped Filip’s wrist, twisting it one way, and then another as he examined the hand. There was no warmth or comfort in the touch; no, this was a scholar looking at an interesting corpse and trying to find what killed it. Ash turned it over and pressed first one place, and then another. Strangely there was no discomfort with the pressure and Filip let out a held breath.

“The contamination has run its course,” Ash said, his voice vaguely disinterested even as he let the hand drop.

“Tell me boy. Do you feel any pain?”

Filip stared at the hand, feeling the breath hitch in his chest as he braced for the phantom agony that usually flared whenever he looked too closely at his maiming. He flexed the remaining knuckles and felt a strange tingling jolt through his palm, some strange memory of parts that were no longer there. There was no pain though, the familiar debilitating agony from the infection had finally gone, but what it had left behind was ugly, and just for a moment Filip felt an overwhelming urge to sit and cry. Life had dealt him a cruel blow, what had he ever done to deserve being made a cripple?

“No,” Filip whispered. “No pain. Just... a tingle.”

He spoke the words, but he did not hear them as his mind swam with images of what could now never be. Nobility did not respect cripples who let their bodies be broken. How often had he himself watched with disgust when the old and infirm would move in public, displaying their burned and twisted faces, their missing limbs, and now he was little better than them. He felt despair swelling with him as he turned his hand, and saw the fingers sluggishly move to his commands. He felt cold inside despite the morning sun. So died his dreams; strange, he would have thought it would have been something dramatic to cut him down. Instead it had been a worthless jailer with a little knife.

“Limbs may leave an ache in their absence, but I find that there are few greater tests of strength then when something is cut from you forever. What will you become? What lessons will you learn from the loss?”

Ash spoke as if reading his mind, never turning, but there was something in the corner of the pitted face of the Inquisitor that made Filip freeze.

“Yeah, I guess. But heroes aren't cripples,” Filip muttered half hearted as he let his hand fall from his view. He couldn't look at it anymore, couldn't stand the sight of what he had become. What lady would want him now? What noble blooded house would adopt him as one of their own? The wounds on his chest and stomach he could hide, but he could not hide the failures that were forever etched in his hand.

Ash’s laugh was sharp and unexpected; not quite a cruel laugh, but there was no mirth to it either. Filip’s eyes snapped to the man who now looked at him with something akin to pity. Ash did not speak, not for a long moment, only watched Filip until he grew uncomfortable and turned away.

“Pretty faces. What do you think will happen to them as they age? Do you think that in thirty years one face will look any different than another? Do you think that a ‘hero’ is defined by physical beauty? You see powerful men and women of beauty and you assume that it is because they are beautiful that they have power. But you are wrong. Power is all that matters. Control. Master these and then your scars at worst, will be ignored, and with true power you can turn them into beauty. Don’t shy from what you are, boy, embrace it.”

Filip heard the words, and continued walking, never breaking pace with Ash, though now he watched the second most powerful man in the Empire from the corner of his eye. Looked at the Inquisitor, and in that moment Filip knew that the words were true. Strange how he could look at such a frightening visage and not have realized it. Ash was not a pretty face, but he held the ear of the Emperor, and more importantly he likely had women flinging themselves at his power, more than he could count.

Filip flushed at the thought and felt his heart rate increase, the ruined hand already forgotten. Maybe he did have a chance. Maybe he wasn't a total cripple. Another memory surfaced then, of an old farmer from his village named Garen who had lost an arm to a bear attack. But even after the attack Garen had still tilled his fields; he had still held a wife and raised sons. Perhaps the world hadn't ended for Filip. Perhaps he could still be a man of some account.

They walked on in silence now, Filip bolstered with a new energy he could not quite place. He could feel his future opening up again, and he welcomed it.

“When we next stop, wash your wounds in a river,” Ash said as he reached into the depths of his dark robes. He produced a small package wrapped in a thick cloth and passed it to Filip. “When you wash them lather this thoroughly all over the wounds. It is the root of the Gelo plant, mixed with salt and lamb fat. It will toughen the new skin and prevent another infection.”

Filip took the package without questioning how the Inquisitor had come by such things, or why a man of such terrifying station was bothering with the medical needs of a broken watchman. But Filip knew his place, and it was never to question the man who was his better in every way. His was to learn, to watch, to strive to be more like Ash. He nodded and quickly moved it into one of his own pockets. He would do as the Inquisitor told him.

They fell into silence as they resumed their trek. The cobblestone road was old and worn, the stones smoothed by centuries of Imperial boots and merchant wagons. They had been walking for three days now, moving steadily away from the smoke of Marchand, and yet Filip still had no idea where they were going. The first day had been a blur of adrenaline and terror as they escaped through Marchand’s bloody rebirth, and there had been no time for conversation.

On the second day, Ash had finally spoken of what had happened. He had spoken of Marchand’s fall as if it were a tragic inevitability, a city surrendered to the base impulses of a mob, instigated by the treachery of Lord Hoff. Ash spoke of the Empire’s order being discarded for the empty promise of ‘freedom’. He had also mentioned something more interesting then, of an ‘ancient evil’ that had crept into the city, and Filip knew what he was speaking of even though Ash hadn't explained what that evil was. Despite Filip’s desire to learn more Ash had not elaborated except that it was a darkness Ash had arrived too late to excise.

Throughout the journey so far Ash had pressed Filip, time and again, to recount the scene in the Governor’s courtyard. He wanted every detail of the grey-skinned creature with the dark metal teeth. He wanted to know the exact sound of its clicks as best he could recall, the description of the gold ringlet hovering above its head, even the smell of the air in its presence. Whenever Filip finished the story, Ash would simply lapse into a brooding silence and leave Filip’s own burning questions unanswered.

Now, as the third day began to wane, the forest grew thick and claustrophobic around the road. The ancient trees leaned over the path, their gnarled branches knitting together to block out the sun. Long shadows stretched across the stones like the fingers of reaching monsters. To Filip’s vivid imagination, every rustle in the undergrowth was a predator, and every snap of a twig was the footfall of a demon.

Despite Filip’s fears, Ash strode forward, pace unwavering, back straight, dark cloak billowing behind him. He seemed entirely uncaring of the encroaching gloom, of the twisted shadows and glistening forest eyes. Filip, desperate not to appear weak or infantile in the eyes of his savior, forced himself to keep up. His back shivered with every step, ready for some beast to leap and grab him, or some brigand to stab him in the back. But no blades or monsters appeared, except in his own mind. To drown out the oppressive quiet, Filip reached for the only comfort he knew, the stories of his childhood.

“Is it true, my Lord?” Filip asked, his voice small against the towering oaks. “The stories they tell in the provinces... is it true that the Lord Emperor slew the last dragon?”

Ash did not answer immediately. He didn't even break stride, though his head tilted slightly to the side as he considered. There was the briefest pause, a half-turn to look back at Filip as he surveyed him with an unreadable mask. He turned back to the road and continued on.

“The stories are true in the broad strokes,” Ash said eventually. “Though the details have been lost to time, scattered like dust in a hurricane. Legend has a way of polishing the rough edges of reality until the truth is unrecognizable.”

Filip wanted to ask more, about the Emperor’s golden armor, about the knights who could fell monsters with a single blow, but the Inquisitor’s silence returned, and Filip dared not interrupt it.

Finally, as the last of the light bled from the sky, Ash veered off the road into a small clearing. It was a neglected campsite, marked by the blackened stones of an old fire pit. Ash dropped his pack with a soft thud and gestured for Filip to do the same with the heavy pack he had been given to carry at the start of their journey.

“Collect branches,” Ash commanded. “Dry wood from the standing deadwood, don’t waste your time with any branches from the ground. I will provide our evening meal.”

By the time Filip had gathered a respectable pile of wood, his breath huffing in the chill air, Ash was already back. In the center of the clearing, the Inquisitor was kneeling over a half-skinned rabbit. Filip stared in awe. He hadn't heard a trap spring, and the man had no bow and arrows that he could see. There were no tools visible save for the sharp, obsidian knife Ash used to peel the pelt from the meat. The man moved with a terrifying efficiency, his hands clearly accustomed to removing the skin from lesser beings. Filip involuntarily swallowed and took an unconscious step back, suddenly reminded that he was in the presence of the Empire’s foremost torturer.

But the fear passed, and soon, a modest fire was crackling in the pit, the rabbit hissing on a makeshift spit, lean body darkening in the flames as it cooked, while a few thick roots Ash had found nestled in the hot embers below. The orange light from the fire played across Ash’s face, carving deep, hollow valleys into his cheeks and making him look truly terrifying.

“Why do you ask of the Emperor and the dragon, Filip?” Ash asked. The question was unexpected, his tone softer than usual.

Filip shifted on the log he had claimed as a seat. He looked into the flames, feeling the heat flush his face. “Well... he’s a hero, isn't he? I grew up hearing the songs. My father used to tell us about his Knights, and the Great Purge. They gave me something to aspire to. When I joined the Watch, I thought... I thought I could be like them. A protector, a hero. Someone the stories and songs would be written about, and maybe I could even go on my own purges. Maybe the Northmen, drive the bastards back into the wastelands where they belong.”

Ash’s expression hardened. “Heroes aren't always what our minds make them into, boy. A hero can be many things, and his nature changes depending on who you ask. To the rabbit, the fox is a monster; to the fox’s kits, a hero; to the forest, merely balance.”

Filip looked down at his feet, a strange sting of embarrassment rising in his chest. He felt like a child caught playing with wooden swords. “I’m sorry. I know it’s just... stories. Silly things, I don’t know why I asked.”

He wanted to make excuses, to make Ash understand that he wasn’t just a boy looking for a bedtime story, that he wanted to hear about the Emperor’s exploits so he could be like him, so he could become like Ash. But words did not come, and his mind betrayed him, left him floundering in an uncomfortable silence that he could not escape from .How could he have been so childish?

Ash watched him for a long moment, the firelight glittering in his eyes. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Well,” Ash said, his voice dropping into the rhythmic cadence of a storyteller. “Who is to blame you for wanting a story? And if one must hear a tale of grandeur, who better to hear about than the Emperor himself? He is as close to a god among men as these degraded times allow.”

Ash leaned back, the shadows of the forest seeming to draw closer to hear him. “You know the common songs, no doubt. But those songs were written nearly an age ago. Before the Empire was forged in its current glory, before even I was brought into the throne’s service. It was a time when the world was younger and viler. Giants walked the northern peaks, and things with wings ruled the high crags. A time of raw magic and reckless adventure.”

He paused, rotating the rabbit. “But it was no dragon he fought, Filip. A true dragon is a creature of intellect and ancient malice, larger than a village, and something that even I fear. What the Emperor faced was a wyvern. Smaller, yes, but far more vicious, for while a dragon understands its own mind, a wyvern knows only hunger.”

Filip leaned forward, a thrill running through him as his mind began to run wild with the images of their god Emperor in the presence of one of the demons of old.

“He cornered it in an old, rotted barn,” Ash continued. “The beast had made a lair there after devouring the family who owned the land. It was a foul thing, its scales the color of blood even before it killed them. It didn't breathe fire, but a chill so profound it turned the air to needles of frost. That breath killed the Emperor’s only companion in a heartbeat, freezing the man where he stood. But the Emperor did not flee, not he. He was clever, and far more dangerous than even the wyvern could have anticipated. He saw that the barn was held up by rotted pillars , and several had already been weakened by the beast’s nesting.”

Ash’s eyes locked onto Filip’s, the intensity of his gaze making the boy forget the cold.

“He tricked the wyvern. He baited it, dancing just out of reach of its talons, until the creature lunged with all its weight against the central pillar. The roof came down in a thunder of thatch and timber. The beast was pinned, its wing broken, its neck trapped beneath a massive beam. It cried out then, a haunting, chittering screech that echoed through the valley for hours even after it died. As the story goes, the Emperor walked into the ruins and slew it. Not with a magical sword, but with a single, well-placed arrow through its eye, piercing the brain.”

Ash fell silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl.

“What happened to them?” Filip asked, his voice a whisper. “The giants? The wyverns? The things of old?”

“What happened to the mythic trolls and the witches of the deep wood?” Ash countered. “They are myths, Filip. Folklore with only the barest scrap of truth to sustain them. How much weight can you give to something you cannot prove? What practical impact does a ghost have on your life even if they were real at one point? They are stories, nothing more. The Emperor is a hero because he brought order, not because he killed monsters. He makes no claims to fairy tales, and nor should you.”

Ash’s voice took on the tone of a lecturer scolding a misguided student. “These tales... they are dangerous. They use the word ‘hero’ to misconstrue the truth. They take agency away from the real heroes, the men who do the Emperor’s work in the dark, with no expectation of a song or a reward. They make people wait for a miracle instead of doing what is necessary in the moment.”

He leaned forward, the heat of the fire between them. “The world is a place of order, Filip. To dwell on archaic myths is folly. We must focus on practical matters. We must look at the bigger picture, look to the betterment of the Empire, the stability of the borders. That is the true work of a hero. Rooting out the rot in the shadows. Supporting the just cause. Punishing the miscreants and the enemies who mean to spread their flawed philosophies and teachings.”

Ash continued to talk long into the night, his voice a steady stream of imperial philosophy and cold pragmatism. He spoke of the necessity of the Inquisition, of the burden of those who see the world for it truly is. Filip listened, nodding along as he gnawed on the rabbit meat, feeling the strength return to his limbs, and with it the absolute certainty in Ash’s words.

As the fire died down to a bed of glowing red eyes, Filip felt a strange new resolve hardening within him. The romantic dreams of his youth, the shining knights and the dragon-slayers, felt distant and thin in that moment. As he looked at Ash, the man who had saved him, Filip realized that he didn't want to be a character in a song anymore. He wanted to be something more, to be someone who could make real changes, and who would be able to hold the lines against the corruption of foreigners.

He curled up on his bedroll, the warmth of the embers at his back. As he drifted into a dreamless sleep, the last thing he heard was the wind whispering through the trees, no longer sounding like monsters, but like the steady, iron breath of an Empire that would never sleep.