Chapter 7: The Blade

We reach the edge of the forest, still breathless from the run through the ruins, and it is there, among the first trees, that Bethenah decides how we will proceed.

"He's going in the wagon," she declares, pointing at me, indicating a decision already made and not open to debate.

"I can walk," I insist.

"You might get recognized," Sela retorts, shoving a battered hood at me that she’d pulled from one of the bags.

"I can keep my head down," I say, annoyed.

"You’ll be spotted in no time by the first peasant who’s heard your description." Catarina steps in, appearing at my side, and finishes pulling my hood up before I can voice another objection. Together with Sela, the two of them shove me toward the transport, pushing from behind with strength disproportionate to their size. "Better bored in a cart than dead in a ditch."

I hear laughter from the men in the group as they watch the women scold me like a spoiled child.

"Get up there before they make us carry you." Doran walks over and teases me, and I accept defeat. Silently, I settle in among the sacks of grain and crates of supplies scavenged from the ruined village, acknowledging that I have no better argument against them.

The wagon has no roof, but the wooden walls on either side are close enough that I cannot swing my sword in a full arc, not to one side nor the other. I wouldn't be able to react quickly to a fight in a space like this, and that is one of the reasons I opposed the decision to put me here. Still, I try to sit in a position that offers the widest possible field of view. It is a habit that persists, no matter how many times I decide I no longer need it.

We start rolling, and along the way, I measure the daylight, the angle of the sun, and the approximate speed at which we are going by the spacing between the bumps. I pull the sword from its sheath out of habit, looking for something to do with my hands.

The cloth slides over the blade. Now matte and dull, it seems to reject any reflection of light. A holy sword should reflect. Mine just absorbs it, as if holding a grudge.

I clean, all the same. The ritual calms my nerves, even though it seems to make no sense anymore.

"That must be the hundredth time you’ve cleaned that," Catarina remarks, her tone lightly teasing. She walks alongside the wagon, giving a sidelong glance as I run the cloth over the metal.

"One hundred and three," I reply. She lets out a short laugh through her nose, almost inaudible over the creaking of the wheels, but I see the corner of her mouth lift slightly.

"Bram said that only you can wield that sword. Why?" she asks, showing genuine curiosity. "I’ve seen other paladins with similar blades. Can’t you just swap them among yourselves?"

"A blessed sword is consecrated to a specific wielder. The paladin's mana flows through the steel when they wield it, and this is what activates the blessing. If it senses a different wielder attempting to use it, its mana will react adversely to direct contact with the consecrated steel."

"And the power you have now?" Catarina asks quietly, kicking a few pebbles on the ground. "Do you think that’s related to mana too, or something else?"

"I don't quite know how to describe it." I stop cleaning for a moment and look at my own open hands. "It’s as if, for an instant, the whole world decided that gravity belonged to me, and I had no choice but to carry that weight somewhere."

"That sounds terrifying."

"And it is."

The silence that follows stretches out between us, heavy enough for Catarina to realize she has come too close to a door I am not yet ready to open.

The cart jolts over a rough patch of road, and the movement makes the sword slip against my palm. It doesn't make a cut, just pressure, but it hurts in a way that a regular blade wouldn't. I feel heat rising through the steel, briefly, as if the metal itself is deciding, every second, whether it still recognizes me as someone worthy of holding it. I clench my teeth and continue cleaning.

"I called you to the chapel earlier because I know you still pray."

"It's a habit."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

Catarina grumbles, sounding as if she questions whether what I’m saying is really true.

"Anyway, thank you for saving my life. I hadn't had a chance to tell you that yet."

The image of that day in the cell comes back, but all I can see are the guard's eyes the moment my power swallowed him.

"Murderers don't deserve gratitude or forgiveness, Sister Catarina," I spit out the words, trying to turn my attention back to the blade, searching for a stain that is no longer there.

For some reason, Catarina seems to get angry with me.

"You should stop fighting with yourself all the time."

I realize that I don't believe I have the right to do so.

"I was trained to locate corruption and remove it without hesitation. I was an instrument, like this sword. And then, one day, the instrument became what it was meant to destroy."

"That's not what I see."

"And what do you see?"

"I see a man who spent his entire life being told what to feel and now doesn't know how to experience anything without permission," Catarina says, lifting her gaze from the ground and looking directly at me. "That is different from being a monster, Elias. Very different."

I do not respond. I do not know how to argue against someone who refuses to use the words the Church taught me to describe myself.

Perhaps I really do prefer to shoulder it all alone. I’d rather carry the weight of being the Eighth Sin on my own back. I’d rather have every patrol and every rumor hunting only me, because the alternative is her and the rest of this band of strangers paying the price for their proximity, a price that ought to be just mine. If I had stayed in that cell, if I had let them take me to the official prison without a fight, none of these people would have a target on their backs right now.

A good commander never lets the troops pay for his own miscalculation. I used to believe that with enough conviction to repeat it to the newest recruits. Now, I am the miscalculation, and I have no command over those who decide to stick around anyway.

The blade rejects my hand again as I attempt one last adjustment to the edge. A surge of heat travels from the steel to my wrist, strong enough, this time, to make me swallow a sound that shouldn't have escaped. I look at my own palm. A thin line of blood is already trickling between my fingers, painting red against the pale skin, even though I hadn't even felt the cut happen.

I quickly hide my hand, clenching my fist, wondering if she saw it.

Catarina says nothing. Her eyes are once again on the stones on the ground, as if something there were more interesting than it actually is.

Her silence is different from mine. Hers seems to cost me something.

We continued like this until the wagon lurched violently and came to an abrupt halt, its wheels locking against the earth with a screech that echoed across the empty road.

A new village awaits us, but the surrounding scenery is not what I notice first.

The first thing I register is Catarina’s face, turned back toward me the instant we braked, her eyes fixed on my clenched hand. Specifically, on the red thread that had slipped between my fingers before I could properly hide it.

She saw it.

Even so, I keep my fist clenched.