Bystander

"The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis."

— Dante Alighieri

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The torn page fluttered against the stone like a wounded bird trying to escape. Rhys almost walked past it—another piece of academy refuse blown free from some careless scholar's research. But something about the careful script caught his eye, and he found himself kneeling beside the weathered parchment.

Iron-Root (Ferrum Radix): A rare herb found in temperate woodlands, recognizable by its distinctive rust-colored stems and metallic sheen on the underside of leaves. Primary alchemical component in strengthening tonics and mana-enhancement potions. Market value: 15-20 silver per ounce in major cities, significantly higher in remote regions where transportation costs apply.

Rhys's calloused fingers traced the words as if they might vanish at his touch. Twenty silver. An ounce of this herb could buy Elara's medicine for an entire month. The weight of possibility settled in his gut, heavy and uncomfortable. His throat constricted as he read the botanical description again, committing every detail to memory.

Found in clusters near oak groves, particularly in areas with iron-rich soil. Harvest during late afternoon when mana concentration peaks.

The page included a detailed sketch of the plant and a notation about the western woods beyond the academy grounds. Someone had meticulously recorded additional observations in the margins—notes about soil composition and growing conditions that suggested extensive fieldwork. The handwriting was the work of someone who understood the value of what they'd documented.

Rhys surveyed the empty grove, his sharp green eyes scanning for witnesses. The hardened part of his mind, the part forged in border skirmishes and honed through academy politics, raised immediate objections. Venturing beyond academy grounds without authorization was strictly forbidden. Discovery meant potential expulsion, his scholarship revoked—and with it, any chance of saving Elara.

But twenty silver per ounce...

He folded the page with deliberate care and tucked it inside his worn leather vest, next to Elara's locket. The parchment pressed against his chest as he retrieved his spear and set off toward the shadowed edge of the forest. Each step felt like a decision he couldn't take back.

The western woods extended past the academy's cultivated boundaries into untamed wilderness. Towering oaks stood like ancient sentinels, their interlocking branches creating a ceiling so dense that sunlight penetrated only in scattered golden droplets. The rich scent of loam and decaying vegetation filled his nostrils, stirring memories of his distant home. Of his family. Of Elara.

After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, doubt began to creep in. Rhys consulted the torn page once more, comparing its descriptions with his surroundings. Iron-rich soil. Oak groves. He knelt and gathered a handful of earth, noting the reddish tinge that indicated high mineral content. The dirt crumbled between his fingers, leaving rust-colored stains on his skin.

Then he spotted it—rust-colored stems partially hidden among a massive oak's exposed roots. His heart jumped as he approached, moving with the caution of a hunter. The plants matched the illustration perfectly, down to the metallic sheen on the underside of each leaf. A small cluster of perhaps twelve stems, each as thick as his thumb and heavy with distinctive coloration. In the fading afternoon light, they seemed to glow with an inner vitality that spoke of potent alchemical properties.

His hands trembled slightly as he harvested them, using his belt knife to cut each stem cleanly at the base. The plants had unexpected weight, as if laden with concentrated mana. Even with his limited knowledge of alchemy, he recognized their exceptional quality—premium Iron-Root that would command top prices in any market.

Hope. The feeling was almost foreign after months of grim acceptance. Yet here it was, warming his chest with dangerous possibility. Enough herb to purchase Elara's medicine for months, perhaps even fund specialized treatments from southern healers.

Rhys wrapped the stems in a spare cloth, his mind racing with calculations. Each stem would fetch at least five silver pieces from an honest merchant—double that from an alchemist who recognized their true worth. If he could find a trader in the nearby town who wouldn't ask questions about academy students selling herbs...

Voices cut through the forest stillness. Several people approaching from the academy grounds. Rhys froze, pressing the precious bundle against his chest as he controlled his breathing.

"—most embarrassing thing I've seen in years. His swordwork? Like watching a three-legged dog try to climb stairs."

The arrogant drawl of Vance Thorne carried clearly through the trees. Rhys sank into a crouch behind the oak's massive trunk, peering cautiously through gaps in the underbrush as four figures emerged into the small clearing ahead.

Vance strutted at the center, his House Aurum uniform pristine despite their woodland trek, golden trim catching what little sunlight filtered through the canopy. Garrett Wells and Marcus Finn walked beside him—second-year students who followed Vance everywhere, laughing at his jokes and enforcing his will. And stumbling ahead of them, occasionally being shoved forward, was Kaelen Leone.

The Leone boy looked even more miserable than usual. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his uniform torn at the shoulder where someone had clearly grabbed him. His eyes darted frantically between his tormentors and potential escape routes, his entire body language screaming trapped animal.

"I'm sorry," Kaelen pleaded, voice cracking with genuine fear. "The training dummy was an accident—I tripped. I'll have my allowance sent directly to cover a replacement, I swear by whatever's left of my family name—"

"Your family name?" Vance let out a bark of laughter that held no humor. "House Leone is a joke. Your father drinks away what little respect you had left, your stepmother claws desperately at social invitations nobody wants to send, and you..." He waved his hand as if swatting something unpleasant. "You're not even worth describing."

Rhys adjusted his grip on his spear, the worn leather wrapping familiar against his callused palms. Border village instincts kicked in—assess threats, identify exits, prepare for violence. This situation wasn't his problem. Kaelen Leone was just another pampered noble who'd never known true hardship, never watched a loved one waste away because medicine cost more than a year's wages.

But something in his gut tightened as he watched. They'd brought Leone deep into the woods, well beyond where academy patrols would pass. This wasn't ordinary bullying anymore. This was something darker.

"Strip," Vance commanded suddenly.

Kaelen's face went white. "What?"

"You heard me. Strip. Let's see if you're as pathetic under those fancy robes as you are with a sword."

"I won't—"

Garrett stepped forward and shoved Kaelen backward. The smaller boy stumbled, barely keeping his feet. "You will, or we'll do it for you."

Rhys's jaw clenched. He'd seen this before—the moment when cruelty stopped being about dominance and became about destruction. In the borderlands, such men were put down quickly, before they could spread their poison. The village elders would have them flogged, or worse, left outside the palisade at nightfall when the beasts from Whisperwood came hunting.

"Actually," Vance continued, his tone turning conversational, "this reminds me of something. Rhys Blackwood was watching this morning when you made a fool of yourself. Tell me, does he enjoy the show? Does he cheer when commoner trash like himself gets to see real nobles brought low?"

Rhys's vision narrowed, the forest around him fading until only Vance remained in focus. The noble's sneering face became as clear as a target painted on straw during spear practice.

"I heard his sister's dying," Vance went on, oblivious to the danger gathering in the shadows. "Some wasting disease. Shame, really. Though I suppose it saves the family the embarrassment of watching her grow up to be another border whore—"

Rhys moved.

The spear's butt struck Garrett's temple with a wet crack. The boy dropped like a felled tree, his expensive sword clattering uselessly to the forest floor. Marcus spun toward the attack, hand reaching for his weapon, but Rhys was already there. The spear's shaft caught him across the throat, cutting off his startled cry and dropping him to his knees, gasping for air.

Two strikes. Two seconds. Two bodies on the ground.

Vance stared in shock, his face cycling through confusion, fear, and rage. "You— You can't— Do you know who I am?"

Rhys stepped into the clearing proper, his father's spear held at ready position. The weapon felt alive in his hands, eager for the violence that had been building in his chest for months. Every slight, every condescending glance, every whispered insult when they thought he couldn't hear—all of it coalesced into cold, focused rage.

"Vance Thorne," he said, his voice flat as winter stone. "Second son of House Thorne. Mediocre duelist. Worse human being."

"I'll have you expelled," Vance sputtered, backing away. "Arrested. My father will—"

"Your father's three days' ride from here." Rhys advanced, the spear's iron point tracking Vance's movements. "Your friends are down. And you're alone in the woods with someone who's killed goblins since he was twelve."

The truth of it seemed to penetrate Vance's panic. His hand fell away from his sword hilt, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked genuinely afraid. The noble's eyes darted between Rhys and the forest path, calculating his chances of escape.

Rhys could end it here. One thrust, and Vance Thorne would join his ancestors in whatever hell awaited men who tortured the weak for pleasure. The borderlands had taught him that some problems only had permanent solutions. His father would have approved—a clean kill, justified by the threat.

But this wasn't the borderlands. This was the academy, with its rules and consequences and political implications. Killing a noble's son, no matter the provocation, would mean more than expulsion. It would mean Elara's death sentence when the treatments stopped coming.

Instead, Rhys stepped back and lowered his spear. "Get out."

Vance blinked. "What?"

"Take your friends and get out. Now. Before I change my mind."

The noble boy scrambled to help his groaning companions to their feet. Garrett needed support to walk, blood trickling from his temple, while Marcus clutched his throat and wheezed. They stumbled away through the trees like wounded animals, Vance shooting venomous glares over his shoulder.

"This isn't over, Blackwood," he called back. "You'll pay for this."

"I already am," Rhys muttered to the empty forest.

Only then did he remember Kaelen Leone.

The third son sat slumped against a tree trunk, his torn robes hanging loose around his shoulders. He stared up at Rhys with something that might have been gratitude, if gratitude could look so pathetic. His grey eyes seemed oddly focused for someone who had just faced such danger.

"Thank you," Kaelen whispered. "I don't know what would have happened if—"

"Nothing good." Rhys planted his spear butt in the soft earth and leaned on the shaft. His hands were steady now, the combat rush fading into familiar exhaustion. "But it's over."

"I owe you—"

"You owe me nothing." The words came out harsher than Rhys intended. "I didn't do it for you."

Kaelen's grey eyes searched his face. "Then why?"

Because Vance had mentioned Elara. Because some lines couldn't be crossed without consequences. Because the borderlands had taught him that predators who weren't stopped became worse predators. Because sometimes standing by was the same as being complicit.

But none of those reasons felt like something he could explain to a noble brat who'd probably never seen real violence before today.

"Get up," he said instead. "If you invite trouble like this, you deserve what you get."

Kaelen struggled to his feet, his movements clumsy with shock and relief. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. For a moment, something in his expression shifted—a flicker of calculation that seemed out of place on such a pathetic face.

Rhys turned to leave, then paused. Something about the encounter felt off—too convenient, too perfectly timed. As if he'd walked into a scene already in progress. But exhaustion and the weight of the Iron-Root in his pack made thinking difficult. The precious herb that might save his sister took precedence over any suspicions.

"Don't expect my help again," he said without turning around. "Next time, learn to fight your own battles."

He walked away through the darkening forest, leaving Kaelen Leone alone among the shadows and scattered leaves. Behind him, he could hear the other boy gathering himself, preparing for the long walk back to the academy.