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Princess Charlotte was a princess no more.
At a glance, she might have been taken for one among a hundred other young village women—pretty, certainly, but unremarkable. Just as Griffith ordered her to appear.
Her crown had vanished into the Hawk coffers alongside her silks, velvet, torque and jewels. In place of the Wyndham dynasty’s pilfered finery, Charlotte wore a dress of coarse linen, the color of unbleached bone. It sat too large on her, sagging where it should have draped, breaking into creases where it ought to have flowed. Beneath the skirt, she wore trousers borrowed from Casca, cuffed awkwardly at the ankle.
Charlotte’s hair did the most to unmake her identity. What had once fallen in long tresses—combed, sculpted, and pinned into ornamental styles—had been cut to her chin in a single, unsentimental stroke. Thick brown curls took to wildness, billowing outward, overwhelming her cheeks. She touched the new length often, trying in vain to smooth it down. Other times, she seemed to do it unconsciously as a means to soothe herself.
Despite nearly a month spent in borrowed trousers, Charlotte still only rode side-saddle. She sat straight-backed like she’d been born to formal posture—which, hell, she probably had. She didn’t complain. That, more than anything, made her hard to look at. She bore it well, with only a slight tremor in her chin.
The road narrowed as the forest crowded in like it meant to throttle its travelers. Pine needles slicked the ground. Old roots buckled the dirt and forced the horses to pick up their steps. Guts walked alongside his steed instead of riding like he always did when the pace was slowed by terrain like this. It kept his hands free and his head clear. When Charlotte’s mare stumbled on a hidden root, she gave a small, startled gasp and fell against the animal’s neck, reins gripped tightly in hand. Without a word, Guts reached up and steadied the horse with one hand.
The hawk banner that usually flew above them had been stowed away. Griffith had departed with Casca, Pippin and a small contingent of his most reliable men, leaving Guts behind with orders that replayed in his skull with every step he took.
She doesn’t leave your sight. Not even for a moment. Until a deal is struck, the king’s men will be searching every village and taking every road.
The words left a bitter taste in Guts’s mouth. Being left behind wasn't punishment or demotion. It wasn’t personal, he had to remind himself. Griffith was negotiating for a kingdom’s future. He was making the bet of a lifetime on what the King would ransom for his precious, only daughter. In truth, Guts had the most important task of all: Keep the leverage. Protect the leverage.
They passed the first keep by midday. It was too small to be considered for shelter. Nothing left but a stone carcass, roof burned out, banners rotted into colors no one remembered. The Hawks didn’t slow. Someone whistled. Someone else jeered. Others laughed.
Guts watched the men’s hands. Their curling mouths. The way their eyes slid towards the princess like marbles rolling along a slanted table.
Most Hawks treated their captive gently. Others soured against her. Those who, in a former life, suffered greatly under the thumb of Midland’s rule. After one too many of the princess’s retellings of her ‘kidnapping’ and rhapsodizing about how she leapt from her bedroom window and was caught by Griffith on his steed, their resentment rankled into outright hatred and they took every opportunity to be cruel.
Guts moved closer to Charlotte’s mare. When one of his raiders drifted too near, Guts shifted nearer still, broad shoulders squared, posture settling into the silent warning he used before correcting another man’s stance. No words were needed.
By afternoon the forest thinned, opening onto a long stretch of road. With distance from the capital, the formation loosened. Riders strayed ahead or lagged behind, confidence creeping back into their gait.
“Princess,” Guts said, keeping his eyes forward.
“Yes?” She turned in the saddle like she was being addressed in a hall, not on a forest road with a bunch of rough mercenaries.
“Some of the men were talkin’ ’bout passing you around.”
Her breath caught. “I don’t quite know what that means,” she said carefully, “but I fear I’m beginning to understand.”
Guts ground his teeth. “Take it seriously. The Hawks might be special but when Griffith ain’t around, we’re just a bunch of men. Some of us, beasts.”
She shook her head, quick and certain, like she was correcting a tutor. “Lord Griffith said it’s a kidnapping only in appearance. He would never let me come to harm.”
Guts didn’t harbor any particular grudge against royalty, nor did he have any fondness for their ilk, but it was only too easy to be harsh with her. Coddling such softness in this world would only open the door for worse cruelties. He snorted. “Yeah, well, Griffith ain’t here.”
“I know that. He doesn’t need to be,” Charlotte said. “His word is enough.”
Guts scoffed.
At that, Charlotte’s noble countenance faded and her face scrunched up. “Why do you laugh?“
Guts didn’t answer.
She frowned at him then. “I know my father is a despot,” she said quietly, as if admitting a flaw in an heirloom. “But this is a political maneuver. I am not totally ignorant of the world.”
“Never said you were,” Guts muttered.
“Then why warn me?” she asked petulantly.
“Because you’ll have to learn this part eventually. Men measure things by what they can take. Men are greedy, they take all they can hold in their hands and then when it seems they can’t take any more, men start imagining that their hands are bigger. Ain’t just talking ‘bout taking stuff. Could be people too.”
Charlotte stiffened in her saddle, her knuckles whitening against the reins. “Please, enough. I’ll have you know, Griffith and I have grown quite fond of each other.”
Guts gave a derisive laugh. "Fond? That what you think this is about?"
He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he stared ahead. "You ever once ask yourself what happens after? When Griffith gets what he wants from your father—kingdom handed over all peaceful-like.”
"Then Midland will have a just ruler," she said.
"And you?" Guts pressed. "Reckon you'll be sitting pretty beside him?
Charlotte put on a brave face.
"No," Guts said flatly. "That ain't how these things work. You'd be sent away. That's the deal. Griffith gets the kingdom and you go back to daddy."
The color drained from Charlotte's face. Her small hands gripped the reins tighter.
“Sir Guts, I’ve already prepared myself for exile. I’m at peace with it.”
Two weeks passed in the abandoned monastery they'd claimed as their temporary refuge. Stone walls with blank arches where stained glass had once filtered light were patched with canvas and animal hides. The Hawks settled into a restless routine, waiting for word from Griffith.
Guts found himself perpetually in Charlotte's orbit, the task of guarding her fell to him and him alone. Charlotte sat quietly in the old dormitory, mending her clothes or reading the tattered books someone had found for her. Ever so often, Guts caught her staring into the distance. Something about her quiet dignity gnawed at him.
"Look at our Guts, following the princess around like a lovesick hound," Corkus drawled, leaning against a crumbling column. "Remember how you used to glare at Griffith like he pissed in your porridge? Now it's her royal highness getting the same treatment.”
The other men nearby snickered. The muscles in Guts' jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the treeline beyond the monastery walls, refusing to give Corkus the satisfaction of a reaction.
"It's the same ol' song and dance," Corkus continued, his voice carrying through the drafty hall. "All contempt on the outside, but we know what that really means, don't we boys?" He sauntered closer, a crooked smile twisting his features. “First the White Hawk, now his sweet little dove."
Guts turned slowly. The abbey seemed to darken around him as he fixed Corkus with a stare that had made better men cower. "Say another word."
"What's the matter? Worried Griffith might not approve of you mooning over his woman?" Corkus pressed, his voice dropping to a stage whisper.
In one swift motion, Guts seized Corkus by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The impact sent streams of dust cascading down from the crumbling mortar. Corkus's feet dangled inches above the ground, his face reddening as Guts's forearm pressed against his jaw.
"I told you to shut your mouth," Guts growled. The main hall had gone silent, every Hawk suddenly finding interest in the floor or the ceiling—anywhere but the confrontation unfolding before them.
Corkus struggled against the iron grip, but managed to force a smirk despite his predicament. "Hit... a nerve... did I?" he managed to choke out.
Guts drew his fist back, ready to wipe that smug look from Corkus's face. The man's eyes widened slightly, but the corner of his mouth remained upturned, as if this was exactly what he'd been angling for.
"Guts, stop!" Rickert implored as he rushed between them. His boyish face was flushed with urgency. "Both of you, come on. Not now! The princess is waking up—she can hear everything!"
Guts's gaze flicked toward the chamber where Charlotte had been resting, its tattered curtain stirring in the draft. He released his grip, letting Corkus slide down the wall until his feet touched stone again.
"Lucky for you the princess needs her guard dog," Corkus wheezed, massaging his throat.
Guts heard Rickert's voice rising behind him. "What's wrong with you? She's under our protection! Do you want Griffith to hear about this when he returns?"
He pushed past the tattered curtain without caring to hear more. The dormitory was lit only by a single oil lamp that cast long shadows across the stone walls. Charlotte sat stock straight on the edge of a makeshift pallet, a worn woolen blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, face flushed with embarrassment.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
Guts stood awkwardly, suddenly aware of how he towered over her. "Everything's fine," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "Just some ugly guy running his mouth again.”
Before she could continue, Guts nodded toward the small stack beside her pallet. "So, uh, what are you reading?"
The question hung between them. Guts figured his attempt to shift the conversation had been too obvious. But Charlotte looked pleasantly surprised, as if no one had asked about her reading habits in a long time. She reached for the topmost volume, a leather-bound thing with frayed edges and yellowed pages.
"Not much of a selection, I'm afraid," she said, turning the book over in her hands. "Mostly old swordplay manuals. This one describes forms for combating multiple opponents. I've never seen such detailed illustrations for acts of bloodshed."
Guts grunted. "A whole lot of good a book’s gonna do in a fight."
Charlotte's eyes lingering on him. "Don't you think there might be something useful here? Even for someone as skilled as you?"
Guts crouched down to look, his brow furrowing. The manual was open to a page of stiff practitioners with their limbs arranged in perfect angles that bore little resemblance to the chaos of real battle.
"Nice pictures," he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "But if you’re about to die, you don't have time to remember what some book told you about where to put your feet."
Charlotte looked puzzled. “That’s strange. Lord Griffith once mentioned that he learned a lot from these. He’s read all the combat treatises.”
Of course Griffith could learn from books. It was like she was trying to piss him off.
Charlotte turned a page, revealing an illustration of a swordsman facing three opponents, his blade positioned to create a wide arc. "What about this? The text says this stance can help maintain distance."
Guts snorted. "By the time you got your sword like that, you'd already have the second guy circling around to your back.”
Charlotte's fingers traced the lines of the illustration. "I trust you in that of course, but doesn’t the theory seem sound? It says here that by positioning yourself thus, you force your opponents to crowd each other, limiting their movements. Is that true?"
Guts looked at the page again, studying the angles more carefully. The stance wasn't entirely useless, he supposed. He could almost see himself executing the move, his blade carving through the air fast enough to create the defensive arc shown in the illustration. His reach would cut wider arcs than the drawing suggested. He'd be faster, harder to predict. With his strength and speed, he could make it work. He kept that assessment to himself. No sense in giving book learning more credit than it deserved.
"Maybe," he said finally, standing back up. "Could try it sometime, I guess."
Charlotte's face brightened, as if his small concession was some kind of victory. "I could mark the pages that seem most practical," she offered, already leafing through the volume with renewed purpose.
“Hold your horses, princess.”
He thought about telling Charlotte that he was born with a sword in his hand but thought better of it when he imagined how she might take it literally and how many questions that would spawn.
"Forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well and I might've grown a bit restless. I've been reading these to pass the time," she admitted, closing the book carefully. "And perhaps... to better understand the Hawks.”
Charlotte’s eyes fixed on Guts’s sword with open curiosity.
“Sir Guts,” she started cautiously. “Might I… might I see it more closely?”
He glanced down at the blade, then at her small hands. “It’s heavy,” he warned. “Imagine what I’d have to tell Griffith if it landed on you.”
“I know. I’ve seen knights carry swords in processions all my life, but I’ve never actually touched one.”
Guts drew the blade partway and angled the hilt toward her, keeping one hand firm against the flat side to steady it. Charlotte stepped nearer, as if approaching something that could strike her dead if she didn’t show the proper respect. She extended her fingers and laid them against the metal. The cold seemed to startle her. She traced the length of the blade, staying close to the fuller, avoiding the edges, following the nicks and notches where other weapons had met it in earnest.
“It is… scarred,” she murmured.
“It’s well used,” he corrected.
Sudden agitation crawled up Guts's spine as he watched her. “You’re so damn helpless, you know that? After all this, you oughta learn to handle a blade. Even if it’s just a knife. Casca could show you the basics.”
Charlotte looked up at him with alarm. “Oh heavens, I could never. Even if I were a man, I don’t think I could lift a blade against another person.”
For a moment, Guts was flooded with all the reasons she was wrong. Mercy can’t stop an arrow. High-minded ideals can’t break a siege. The world would grind her down for thinking that way. But when he saw the utterly sincere look on her face, any mounting arguments fell apart in his mouth.
He snorted instead. “You’re weirder than Griffith.”
Charlotte’s brows knit together, that small frown that made her look younger than she was. “Oh?” she said, a touch of wounded pride creeping in. “Pray tell, how is Lord Griffith so weird?”
Guts scratched at his neck, eyes sliding away. He didn’t have the words. He never did. These people and their shining convictions, their belief in something beyond survival. He loved that about Griffith, even as it carved a distance between them he could never bridge. Charlotte had a bit of that light too, just a softer kind. Maybe those two were truly meant for each other. The thought left Guts feeling small, clumsy, outclassed in a way no battlefield had ever managed.
“It ain’t a bad thing,” he said at last. “Griffith’s just… different. He was born special.”
She smiled faintly at that. “Sir Guts… may I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”
He paused. “Just ask.”
She folded her hands in her lap, fingers worrying at one another. “Do you think… people are born wanting great things?”
He snorted. “Nah, probably not.”
That surprised her enough that she looked up. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“You're asking me. That's what you get.”
She nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something she had long suspected. “I never wanted to be a queen,” she confessed. “Not once. Not even when I was a child. I find all this terribly frightening but also… quite the relief.”
Charlotte hesitated, then gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "Please, don't tell Griffith. I—I couldn't bear for him to know."
Guts shifted uncomfortably. "Ain't my business."
Seeing her distress, he added gruffly, "I won't say nothin'."
Relief washed over her face. She looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.
“Thank you. Despite that, I want to help Griffith’s dream come true. I will be a good queen, if I'm called to be.”
Night fell upon the monastery. Somewhere in the dark, a rafter complained with a noisy creak.
Guts’ hand went to his sword hilt before thought had time to intervene. He turned his head, listening and quickly ruled out timbers settling into their age or the pressing of November gusts. The sound progressed with confidence. A weight placed, then withdrawn, hastening.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chamber's shadows. The darkness beyond the single oil lamp suddenly seemed alive with possibilities. He stepped toward the wall with a practiced stealth.
Through a gap in the crumbling stone, he caught the faithless gleam of metal—a sword blade reflecting moonlight where no blade should be. Then another. And another.
"Shit," he breathed.
Guts's jaw set as he counted the moving shapes. His mind raced through the options. They were already outnumbered, outflanked, and the Hawks were scattered throughout the monastery grounds.
A soft rustling behind him made Guts whirl around. Charlotte was stirring on her pallet, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the heel of her palm.
"Sir Guts?" she murmured, voice drifting through the darkness, soft with sleep. "Is something amiss?"
He crossed the chamber in four long strides and clamped a calloused hand over her mouth, his other finger pressed to his lips. Charlotte's eyes widened, confusion giving way to alarm.
"Shut up," he whispered, his breath hot in the shell of her ear. "They're here."
He released her slowly, watching the terrible understanding settle in her eyes. A sudden crash shattered the night's stillness—the abbey door exploded inward, wood splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. Shouts erupted from every direction.
A Hawk’s voice rang out from the monastery's decrepit bell tower, clear above the chaos. "Midland! From the east ridge!"
Guts drew his sword from its hanger, positioning himself between Charlotte and the door.
The curtains of their chamber tore away and three soldiers in royal livery burst through, swords drawn.
"There she is!" one shouted, pointing at Charlotte with the tip of his blade. Steel caught the lamplight as they advanced.
Guts didn't hesitate. He swung his massive sword in a wide arc that caught the first man across the chest, nearly cleaving him in two. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as the body crumpled.
"Behind me! Now!" Guts barked, already pivoting to meet the next attacker.
Charlotte scrambled behind. Her breath came in short, terrified gasps. "How did they find us?"
"Doesn't matter now," Guts grunted, driving his blade into the second man's shoulder. The soldier screamed, his sword clattered to the stone floor.
More soldiers rushed in. Guts met them with a savage swing, his blade connecting with two swords at once, the impact sending sparks flying in the dim light. One tried to circle around, making for the princess. Charlotte ducked under Guts's cloak and wrapped her arms around his waist in a noose-like grip, her face pressed against his broad back, trembling.
"Hold tight," he snarled and swung his sword in a wide arc. Blood splattered across the stone floor, slick under his boots as he backed toward the far wall. Charlotte whimpered as her naked feet patted wetly through his wake.
The narrow doorway worked to Guts's advantage, forcing his attackers to come at him one by one. He backed up steadily, keeping Charlotte sheltered underwing. The weight of her dragging down his waist was nothing compared to the burden of protecting her life.
A crossbow bolt whistled past, embedding itself in the wooden beam above. Splinters rained down as Guts sidestepped, yanking Charlotte along with him as more soldiers poured through the doorway. The room was becoming a death trap. Through the cacophony, Guts could make out Corkus's voice calling for a retreat. Good. The Hawks knew what to do. Take to the fields, where their victory was assured.
His sword swept wide arcs that kept the soldiers at bay, but they were pressing closer, coordinating now, trying to flank him. Behind him, moonlight spilled through a low window. It faced an old storehouse the Hawks converted to makeshift stables. He could hear a frenzy of untethering horses. If he could get her to them...
"When I say go," he muttered over his shoulder, "you climb through that window and run straight for your horse. Don't look back."
A soldier lunged at his left. Guts pivoted, cleaving through the man's shoulder. Another came from the right. He kicked that one back.
"GO!" Guts roared, wresting Charlotte's arms away and thrusting her through the window frame in one violent motion. She tumbled through with a startled cry.
Pain ripped along his left side as a blade slashed through leather and found purchase in his flesh. Liquid fire sheets down his ribs. His shirt clung, sticky to his skin. The man who landed the blow grinned as he wrenched his sword free, red glistening along its edge.
"Bleed the bastard!" someone shouted.
Pain gathered at the core of him the way a storm focuses the sky. Heat flooded his skull as his vision tunneled, the edges dimming to shadow until only the men before him remained. His mouth peeled back from his teeth as he set both hands on the hilt. The soldiers hesitated. Without conscious thought, his body shifted, sword positioned like a scythe before the harvest.
"Come on, then," he growled.
They rushed him at once. Guts pivoted on his back foot, his massive blade carving through the air faster than the eye could follow. Where the manual had shown precision, Guts brought raw power. Blood painting the stone wall in a crimson spray.
One man fell in two pieces. Another staggered, opened from collar to ribs. The last dropped at Guts’s boots, choking on what remained of his throat. Guts stood in the apex of carnage, chest heaving. Bodies lay strewn across the chamber like broken dolls.
He lurched toward the window, tripping over a corpse, boots skidding on the slick floor. He hauled himself through the narrow opening, splintering the frame and sending shards of glass down with him. Cold night air struck his face as he collapsed onto the trampled grass. His side burned. His blood felt molten, seeping beneath his jerkin, pulsing in time with his heart. He pushed himself upright anyway.
The yard had dissolved into chaos. The Hawks rallied with superior horsemanship, hooves thundering against the packed earth. Swords flashed in the moonlight as they cut down the royal soldiers like wolves falling on routed sheep.
"Princess!" The cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate. Panic clawed at his chest—a foreign sensation he hadn't felt since...
A soldier rushed him from the side. Without breaking stride, Guts swung his blade in a low arc that severed the man's legs at the knees. The man collapsed with a shriek, but Guts had already moved past him, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of the princess.
Then Guts saw her.
Charlotte's slight form bounced atop her white mare. Her face shone pale beneath the moon, hair wild as a leaf eddy in the autumn sky. She was seated properly astride the horse, not perched side-saddle as she'd always insisted before. Two Hawks rode close at either side, swords drawn.
Relief surged through Guts with such force that his knees nearly buckled. Even from this distance, Guts could see her face twist with concern as she scanned the field. The mare wheeled beneath her, restless and wide-eyed, hooves pawing at the churned earth while Charlotte tugged at the reins, trying to steady her.
Then their eyes met across the battle-strewn lawn, and Charlotte's features transformed. Her arm shot up, finger extended toward him as she shouted something. The Hawks nearest her turned sharply in their saddles, following her line of sight.
“He’s hurt,” she insisted in a litany the whole way over.
“Later,” Guts managed, forcing the word out between breaths.
Another group of Hawks moved to meet them. One opened his mouth, caught the look on Guts’s face, and thought better of it. Another reached for the reins. Guts waved him off with a short motion.
“Get a fire ready,” he said. “And hot water. Clean cloth.”
The man nodded and ran.
Charlotte slid from the saddle. Her feet struck the ground unevenly; she swayed and caught herself against Guts’s arm before she could stop. He went rigid at the touch—more reflex than discomfort. What little energy he possessed he used to resist the urge to shove her off.
“I can walk,” she said, flustered.
“Whatever, just follow me,” he replied, already scanning across the flurry of action at camp. Every sound scraped at him—the hammering of tent stakes, the rasp of flint, the low murmur of voices. His pulse beat loud in his ears.
They reached the open storehouse together. Guts ducked inside first, eyes sweeping the dim interior before he gestured her in. He set his sword in the corner, angled just so, where his hand would find it even if he slumped. Only then did he allow himself to lean heavily against a wooden beam.
Charlotte hovered at the entrance, then stepped fully inside, clutching her cloak closed in a fist at her throat. Light from the hanging oil lamp illuminated Guts and made him squint. Charlotte sucked in a sharp breath. He looked down and saw a red smear spreading along his side.
“Oh, Sir, Guts. Please sit down,” she said in a trembling voice.
“You sit down first. Ya look like you’re gonna pass out.”
Charlotte fell to her knees by a low stool, looking at him with huge, anxious eyes.
He obeyed then, not particularly compelled by the weight of one little princess’s expectations, but because the world tilted unpleasantly when he tried to stay standing. He lowered himself halfway down to the stool and fell heavily the rest of the way onto the seat. With some effort, he pulled off his bloodstiffened jerkin and shirt. Charlotte averted her eyes. Stripped to the waist, Guts shivered at the way his skin cooled in the night air even as his muscles started to ache. He looked over the damage. Blood had gone tacky and dark along his ribs. The cut was shallow but long. Another welt bruised his shoulder from where he bashed against the window frame.
Someone arrived at the doorway with water and rags which Charlotte leapt up to collect. When the canvas flap fell back and the sounds of the camp dulled Guts let his shoulders sag, his gaze lifting to the slivers of moonlit sky that peeked through gaps in the roof. He exhaled noisily through his nose to slow the laboring of his breath.
Charlotte flitted around him like a nervous little bird unsure of where to land. Her sleeves were already rolled, slim forearms as pale as swans greeting the dawn. She had washed her hands; he could smell the sharp bite of vinegar beneath the steam rising from the linen cloth she carried.
“May I?” she asked, though her hands were already moving, hovering just shy of his skin.
Guts braced himself. “Do whatever you want.”
She dabbed first. The cloth came away red, then pink. She swallowed but did not stop. The amber light caught the scars that mapped him. Old slashes that healed into crooked, pale lines seemed to startle her more than the fresh wounds.
“I think this will sting,” she said apologetically, and pressed the soaked cloth along the cut.
He hissed through his teeth. His muscles jumped beneath her fingers.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said. “Hurts less than it looks.”
Charlotte didn’t seem to believe him. After cleaning, she reached for the small bowl of thick salve. Honey to keep rot away, followed by grease to protect the wound. She frowned, concentrating. Guts almost admired the effort; he doubted she’d even made her own breakfast before. She reached for the linen bandages and pressed the first length gently against his side to hold the salve in place. Her fingers were warm. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and stared hard at the wall.
Then she began to wrap.
Guts held himself rigid, afraid that if he moved at all he’d knock her off balance. Every turn of the bandage seemed to pull her nearer. Her body pressed against him apologetically, slim shoulder brushing his chest, bushy hair tickling his cheek. He was acutely aware of how small the princess was, and yet how carefully she tried not to rest her weight on him.
She reached around him again, fingers grazing his spine as she searched for the end of the wrap. His jaw clenched. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, unsure where they were supposed to go.
“You should sleep soon,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Charlotte also clearly had no conception of what ‘a lot of blood’ was. He'd lost more blood when he first met Griffith.
“Can’t,” he answered. “I’m taking the first watch.”
Her hands paused. “You can’t be up all night like this.”
“Never bothered me before,” he replied.
Charlotte touched his bruised shoulder, then hesitated. “May I at least say a prayer for you?”
He shrugged, too exhausted to say otherwise.
She bowed her head, lips moving soundlessly. It was not as courtly and refined as Guts would’ve expected, but something halting and earnest. Her fingers rested on his arm as if to press pure, unadulterated, divine love inside of him. She thanked God for him.
When she finished, she looked up, eyes wet, bright in the lamplight. “And thank you for protecting me, Sir Guts,” she said.
He shifted, uncomfortable. “Sure.”
Her movements were steadier when she gathered the rags, rinsed them, folded them again.
“Try to sleep,” she said softly. “At least a little.”
He watched her step back, the lamplight catching the rough linen of her dress, the wild curve of her hair.
“I’ll rest,” he said. It was easier than arguing.
She nodded, satisfied, and sat back down on the ground. She looked like a pilgrim at his feet. Guts sat there a moment longer, listening to the camp breathe, the bandage warm against his skin where her hands had been.
“You’re a nice girl,” he said abruptly.
Charlotte tilted her head.
“You’re a decent person. I hope you’re queen someday—” He paused, scowling faintly. “I mean, if it means marryin’ Griffith. Otherwise… I hope you’re not queen at all. On account of not wantin’ to be.”
Charlotte blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Thank you. I only hope I might be made a Hawk after all this.” She glanced down at her borrowed clothes. “I may not look like it, but I think I’m much like you. I would lay down my life for his dream.”
Guts huffed. “Nah. Better than me. I ain’t dyin’ for no dream.”
He didn’t say the rest aloud. I would die in Griffith’s place. For him only. There is a difference.
“Of course you would say that,” Charlotte replied gently. “You protect people, Sir Guts.”
“For the coin,” he shot back. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with chivalry.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Why do you argue every time I try to praise you?”
“Because I’m nothing like you. I’m not a good person…at all.”
She seemed to consider that. “You are Lord Griffith’s most trusted friend. There must be good in you. Only someone who cares about goodness worries so much over whether they have it.”
Before he could answer, she spoke again, quieter now, as if to herself. “Griffith believes in you, so I will as well.”
The words struck Guts, more jarring than the wound in his side. What had Griffith told her? What conversations had passed between them in those gilded halls where he scarcely set foot? The thought of Griffith speaking his name to her—defending him, perhaps—sent warmth through his chest.
Charlotte studied him, her head still tilted, those eyes far too perceptive for someone who'd spent her life behind palace walls. "Do you doubt his judgment of you?"
“No,” Guts answered softly. "Anyway, he, uh—he talks about me?" The question escaped before he could stop it, rougher than he intended.
Charlotte's eyes widened slightly. "Often, yes.”
To be remembered when absent—it was a strange kind of existence Guts had never considered. What was his shape when crafted by Griffith’s tongue? The shape of a friend?
“And Griffith truly believes in his dream.”
“Yeah,” Guts said.
“I believe in it too.”
Guts met her eyes. “...Yeah. I know.”
Her gaze dropped to his cloak, to where the feather was pinned, frayed and bloodied. “I want a feather of my own.”
A short bark of a laugh escaped him. “You’re not as spoiled as I thought, I’ll give you that. One day, I’ll get you your feather.”
Her eyes lit. “You promise?”
“No,” Guts said. “I don’t make those.”
Her mouth fell into a small, wounded pout.
He looked away.
“But I will, Hawk princess,” he added. “I will.”
Guts startled awake from a deep sleep he couldn’t remember entering. His body hardened at once, his hand already closing on the sword hilt before his eyes had fully opened. Darkness pressed around him, the night still deep. Something was wrong.
“Princess?” he called, keeping his voice low.
Charlotte didn’t answer. He didn’t see her anywhere.
A coldness took hold. He rose without sound and searched the small interior. Her cloak was missing. Her roughshod boots stood where she’d left them, side by side near the hay.
"Damn it," he muttered, gathering his shirt and cloak.
Then he heard the soft sounds of weeping.
He chased it out to the ruined doorway and found Charlotte at once, huddled just outside with her legs drawn tight, forehead resting on her knees. She was wrapped in her cloak like it was the last thing left to her.
“Princess! Fuckin’ hell, scared me half to death,” he admonished even as relief flooded him.
She looked up with a face full of shame, like a child discovered awake after hours. Then the look fell apart, and what she had been holding back gave way.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was only a nightmare.”
“Get back inside,” he said brusquely. “You can tell me about it there.”
She rose, reached for his arm, and didn’t release it as they returned to her blankets over the unbaled hay.
Guts leaned back against a beam. Charlotte stared down at her bright red feet curled in the straw.
“Please don’t do that again.” Guts said gruffly. “Freaks me out.”
Charlotte wiped her eyes.
Guts considered being a little softer. “So, uh… bad dream?”
“It was about Anna. I keep thinking I hear her voice,” she said at last, wavering. “She was more than my handmaid. She was my closest friend and I miss her… so much.”
“Sorry, but uh, tough shit… I’m sure you’ll see her again one day, at that country house of yours.”
Charlotte shook her head. “She’s dead, Sir Guts.”
Guts stared at her, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Dead. He'd assumed maids went forgotten in the chaos of the abduction. Griffith hadn’t said anything to him about casualties.
“I didn’t know,” Guts said quietly.
"Before Lord Griffith left to meet with my father, he learned the truth from a turncoat guard.” she said, her voice barely audible.
Guts lowered himself to one knee, bringing his face level with hers. The bandages pulled at his wound, but he ignored the pain.
Charlotte's fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress. "When Lord Griffith came for me that night, Anna insisted on staying behind. She put on my nightdress and my bonnet and lay in my bed. She told me to hurry, that it would all be alright and this would buy us time."
Charlotte’s voice broke and she gasped.
"My father discovered the deception. He had her hanged before the court like a traitor. They—they said he was in a rage unlike any they'd seen before. He wouldn't even allow her a proper burial. So, I’m sure you can understand, I’ve come to hate my father."
Guts placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The gesture felt clumsy. It was all he could think to do.
Charlotte didn't look up at his touch. "Everyone who comes near me dies.”
It was as if the ground had dropped away beneath him.
"Death has followed me since I was a child. My mother died when I was so small I can barely remember her face. Last year, my uncle Julius and dear cousin Adonis, murdered in their own chambers. And then Her Majesty, taken by that terrible fire!” Charlotte looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve brought a terrible curse upon my house! I’m truly—"
"Stop it," he interjected, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "You ain't cursed."
The taste of guilt on his tongue, Guts pulled away from her, unable to bear the touch. His hands felt stained. The final moments of her family flashed behind his eyes. He saw the terror in the young boy's face, meeting death in that darkened corridor. How many losses had he inflicted on this girl who now looked to him for comfort?
"Trust me on this. I would know," he continued, the words tumbling out before he could check them.
"How can you be so sure?" Charlotte asked, her eyes wide and desperate for reassurance.
Guts gave a bitter laugh. "Cuz it's my fault. I'm the black omen. Always have been. Whatever curse is on your house started when the Hawks first came to Midland, cuz I was with em."
Outside, ravens cawed and croaked in the night fog. He stood abruptly and paced the small space like a caged animal. The wound at his side pulled with each step, but he welcomed the pain. It felt deserved.
"I'm sorry," Guts said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "I got too close… to Griffith, to you... to everyone. And you think you’re the one at fault? Ha! If only you knew what became of my own family… "
Charlotte rose from her place in the straw, the cloak falling away from her shoulders. She reached out, catching his arm as he turned to pace back. The touch was light, but it stopped him as surely as if she'd thrown a rope around him.
Guts looked down at her small hand on his forearm, at the delicate fingers that had no business touching someone like him. He wanted to pull away but found he couldn't.
"I've misjudged you terribly," Charlotte whispered, her eyes searching his face. "This whole time, I thought you were cold, distant. But you're not, are you?
Dampness still clung to her lashes, her lips quivered.
Her hand slid to his wrist. “Sir Guts…”
Guts heard the exhaustion in her voice and realized too late that he should’ve put distance between them.
She reached up, her lips brushed his cheek, then pressed again, trembling, like she was waiting for something to happen to her.
Guts froze.
Griffith would still bed this woman one day, wouldn't he? Guts never dared to imagine it before: the tilt of that kingly head, the erotism of Griffith’s lips joining with another's. The thoughts made an ugly impulse rise up. He almost jerked away from it, but the ugliness had already made its home in his blood. He kissed Charlotte on the mouth as hard as he could.
Her gasp was suffocated as Guts pressed forward like this was proof that he could stand within Griffith’s dominion and not vanish. A dark thrill of power slid bare against his skin like an unwelcome bedmate. He dared Griffith, wherever he was, to contest the theft.
Too long had Guts stood upon the scales, awaiting the measure of his worth. In the ancient days, souls were weighed against feathers. Griffith probably belonged to that bygone era. Nowadays, souls are weighed against iron, and every other hellbound defiler skirts their own devouring. His heart would always be a profane thing, no matter what was set against it. At least like this, Griffith would be made to see him, even if just by the marks left upon Charlotte’s back. Guts lorded over her like the Hawk himself, on the edge of achieving.
Charlotte moaned against his mouth, a sound so unintentionally arousing that Guts felt himself falling deeper into his haze. Her fingers clutched at his arms, as if she'd been waiting for this—for someone, anyone, to show her that passion existed beyond courtly words and distant promises.
No. That wasn’t quite right. Her strength might’ve been feeble, but Charlotte was…pushing him away.
He jerked back, a rush of air filled his lungs like he'd been drowning. Charlotte echoed him with her own starving gasp. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and stunned. A flush spread across her cheeks, turning her pale skin the heated color of dawn. She touched her parted mouth with trembling fingers.
"I—" she began, then stopped as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I shouldn't have...I’m sorry.”
"Princess," he started, his voice rough as gravel. The word hung between them, incomplete. What could he possibly say? That he'd kissed her in defiance of a man who wasn't even here? That for one moment, he'd wanted to carve out something that belonged to Griffith and claim it as his own? Wanted to mix their curses together to see if they canceled out?
Guts took a step back, putting distance between them, unable to look at her flushed face. "Don’t you dare apologize."
“Please, Sir Guts. Do I still have my honor?”
“Of course you have. You did nothing—without Griffith, we’re just a bunch of beasts, remember? Me included.”
He turned away. Shame moved through him, slow and venomous. The kiss lingered on his lips and he wished he could spit it out. This treason against all kings. Worse, this mundane betrayal of a good and gentle woman.
“Nothing happened," he said.
“Nothing happened,” Charlotte agreed.
Dawn broke over the camp in a wash of pale gold. When the scouts reported Griffith's approach, relief washed through the camp like a fever breaking. Men straightened their postures, checked their weapons, brushed dirt from their cloaks. Charlotte's transformation was the most striking—her face brightened, her shoulders squared. Her entire being seemed to unfurl like a flower turning toward the sun. She preened at her tousled hair with nervous hands, trying to tame it into something presentable.
Guts stood apart from the others, arms crossed over his chest. The wound at his side had begun to itch, a sign of healing that irritated him more than the original pain. He scratched at it absently, watching the tree line.
When Griffith finally emerged from the forest, the sunlight illuminated his hair like a silver mirror. He rode at the head of his contingent, regal even without a crown. Behind him, the rest of the Hawks spread out in formation—Casca's dark silhouette recognizable among them, Pippin's massive form unmistakable.
Men called out greetings, some rushing forward to hear the news. Charlotte took a half-step forward, then stopped, composing herself with visible effort.
Guts stayed where he was, watching as Griffith dismounted in one fluid motion, handing his reins to a waiting Hawk. His eyes scanned the camp, taking in everything at once—the defensive positions, the state of the men, the provisions. When his gaze landed on Charlotte, his face softened in a way Guts had seen only rarely, a genuine warmth that made something twist inside him.
"Fall back," Guts ordered the men nearest him.
The men took their cue, backing away to give their commander a wide berth. Yet their eyes darted toward their commander and the princess when they thought no one was looking. Guts didn't pretend. He watched openly.
Charlotte approached Griffith with small, hesitant steps. The distance between them closed like a wound healed. When they met, Griffith took her hands in his, bending slightly to speak to her in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. Charlotte's face bloomed with her smile, radiant and unrestrained. She spoke rapidly, her hands gesturing as she told him something that made Griffith tilt his head with that particular attentiveness he reserved for things that truly mattered to him.
Guts leaned against a tree, arms still crossed, the bark rough against his shoulder blades. He felt the weight of his own presence, heavy and intrusive. He should turn away. He knew he should. But his eyes refused.
What did they say to each other when court decorum was immaterial?
Guts watched as Griffith's gloved hand reached up to brush an errant curl from Charlotte's cheek, tucking it behind her ear. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, the gesture so tender it made Guts's chest tighten. Then Griffith’s hands rose to cradle her jaw, thumbs resting just beneath her ears, and tipped her face upward. He kissed her, soft and unhurried. Charlotte's eyes fluttered closed, her hands trembling slightly as they came to rest against his chest.
Something cold and leaden settled in Guts's stomach. He looked away, then forced himself to look back. This was the dream made flesh and then lead to the block. He had no right to flinch from it.
They parted. Charlotte said something and Griffith responded with a nod, then gestured toward where Casca and the others waited. Charlotte excused herself with a small curtsy—a gesture that seemed absurd in her peasant clothes—before turning away, walking with newfound confidence toward the returning Hawks.
One thing was clear. Griffith returned victorious. The deal had been struck.
As Griffith turned from the last of their junior comrades, Guts caught him by the arm with a firmness that brooked no evasion. He walked his commander back several paces from the others, set his heel, and pivoted them so his back was to the campfire. Their shadows stretched long across the frost-hardened earth, reaching past the tethered horses, which stamped and breathed pale steam into the morning air.
Close up, in the slanting light, Guts finally saw how different Griffith looked.
He’d lost weight. The planes of his face seemed sharper, casting shadows that weren’t there before. A darkness pooled beneath his eyes, lending his gaze a bright, fevered clarity. His beauty remained, but it had taken on the austere cast of a carven bust.
What fresh hell had visited him in the witching hours? Had parley consumed him so completely?
Griffith’s gaze dropped to the large hand clasped around his elbow. When he looked up again, his expression was smooth as still water, betraying nothing of what lay beneath.
“Speak,” he said.
Guts had meant to greet him as a captain should and then press his concern privately as a loyal confidant. Instead the words broke from him unbidden.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “She’ll carry that shitty promise with her into the grave.”
Peals of laughter erupted in the distance, followed by the clang of a kettle overturned and a chorus of friendly shouts. The noise rolled through the camp like a cleansing surf. Guts stepped closer, until he could smell the road dust on Griffith's cloak, narrowing the space between them so their words wouldn’t carry.
Griffith looked affronted at first but then his eyes gathered into a winter storm. “Now is the time you choose to question the worth of my word?”
Guts released his arm, though his jaw remained set.
“Your word? You saw her face. You feed her promises like she’s some poor invalid.”
“I won my kingdom,” Griffith said, authority settling into his voice. “I preserve the Hawks. And one day, I swear I shall return for Charlotte and restore her to her rightful place. Which of these charges would you have me answer for?”
Guts felt the rebuke like a pommel blow to the ribs. Heat climbed his neck despite himself. It was damn rare for Griffith to cow him like that. He looked out beyond Griffith’s shoulder, teeth grinding.
“You’re givin’ her too much credit,” Guts muttered at last. “No one lives long on words alone. She can’t go back to him.”
“Perhaps you give her too little,” Griffith replied. “Charlotte is more resilient than you think. As long as she has hope, she will survive.”
“Only as long as you’ll let her!” Guts shot back. “I was with her this whole damn time. I know she’s tougher than she looks but hope ain’t even worth a new pair of boots when the road turns to shit.”
“Speak for yourself,” Griffith said coldly.
Guts sighed. “Listen… All I’m sayin’ is that it cuts both ways. Hopin’ for somethin’ can keep ya alive for a bit, or it can kill ya.”
“Guts, what is really going on? What happened? I thought you understood my calculation. From the beginning I told you this would be a battle of wills. One misstep and the Hawks would’ve faced annihilation before they ever got to the castle. I did what I must.”
Guts searched Griffith’s unnervingly composed face for any hint of guilt and found none. Only that same conviction that had drawn men to his banner from the beginning. Griffith had never once lied about his ambitions and Guts had always known he would prevail. It truly seemed the kingdom could be won only at such a cost: a young woman’s body set between the grinding cogs of power, her devotion leveraged like currency. In these bloodless wars, a man might walk away whole in limb and yet be slain all the same. Perhaps Griffith was such a casualty already. Perhaps they both were.
"Couldn’t you have refused anything less than her hand?" Guts asked.
Griffith’s shoulders lowered a fraction. "I could not. The king agreed to my terms and I to his."
"So we really are sending her back to a killer, huh," Guts growled, stepping closer until he could see the fine lines of exhaustion etched around Griffith's eyes. "Right back to the man who had the girl dressed as his own daughter hanged."
Griffith's brow twitched. "So she told you about that.”
“He’s gonna do somethin’ to her, Griff.”
“A king would not harm his only heir."
"Sure, except he isn’t a fuckin’ king anymore, is he? Do you really believe he wouldn’t lay a hand on her?" Guts pressed.
Griffith's lips parted slightly as a cold tremor ran its course. Then his lips pressed together in a thin line. “The terms are explicit.”
“Then just tell me it weighs on you. Tell me your conscience is tearing you apart. Please.”
If there was agony toiling within Griffith, it had submerged beyond sight, but his voice rang hollow like bones without marrow. “I can’t do that.”
Guts swept a hand across his scalp. “But you can kiss her like that? Let her believe? That’s just cruel. She loves you, ya know?”
His voice had thickened. The words pressed hard against his teeth. He wanted to cast them like a stone. She loves him. Why should it matter to me?
"I regret that this outcome causes you pain, truly. But it’s settled now," Griffith said as though he'd already lost his kingly stature before his reign had even begun.
Griffith’s gaze shifted away and Guts followed it toward where Charlotte sat among the Hawks. She looked as though she’d always belonged among them. Her pale hands gestured in earnest while she spoke to Casca.
When Guts looked back, a wistful smile had claimed Griffith’s mouth.
"I hadn’t expected it either,” Griffith said. “It’s quite easy to form a bond with her. I have grown rather fond as well, as fate would have it."
“She’s a nice girl,” Guts said lamely.
“Guts, I’m very tired,” Griffith confessed at last. “After all this, I’ll have an even greater need of—”
Gut cut him off with a flustered sound halfway between a curse and a sigh and turned away. He was tired too. He felt empty.
“We’ve been through it, huh?” he said over his shoulder. “We must both look like hell.”
“We’ve seen better days,” Griffith agreed.
“For what it’s worth, Griff, it's good to see you."
“You’ve done well.” Griffith answered.
Gut didn’t feel the swell of pride that usually came with Griffith’s praise.
The men had drunk themselves into contentment, reassured by Griffith’s presence as dogs are reassured by the return of a master long absent. Fires guttered low. Horses were sent to pasture to graze in peace. Hawks shuffled to their tents in a haze of dreamlike bliss.
Guts was awake. He turned onto his back and stared at the canvas above him, where firelight breathed faintly through the weave.
He knew where Charlotte had retired for the night. A separate tent had been given over to her. A place no one would disturb. Tonight, she was with Griffith.
Guts shut his eyes.
Charlotte’s hands were soft. She would lift them to Griffith’s brow, smoothing the line of strain there without fully knowing the gift she gave. She would rest her palm on his chest as if to reassure herself his heart still beat. When she spoke his name, it would carry the same hush she used for prayer.
Would he draw her close? Offer her consolation before exile? Charlotte would not refuse him if he did.
Guts imagined the lamplight dimmed to amber, shadows sliding along canvas walls. Pale bodies unburdened in private. Griffith’s hand at her nape, his cheek against her wild hair.
The thought came unbidden and would not be dislodged. Guts pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes until sparks flared behind them. He felt like a stray in a stranger’s camp.
In the far distance, a lone wolf’s howl carried thin and hungry over the plain.
Guts listened to it with a dull ache in his chest. He hoped for the wolf to find him. Lead the whole pack into his tent. Finish what their distant kin had failed to do. Their teeth in his throat would be cleaner than the slow agony of rotting away in this yearning. This awful regret.
Charlotte had spoken of the Wyndham summer residence more than once, describing a place half-remembered from childhood. It lay beyond the low western hills, in a state of disuse, given how few were left now to occupy it. Laid down by her forefather, before the Tudor wars, built of pale gray stone veiled in ivy, its slate roof pitched steep against the weather. Cypress trees stood in dark rows along the garden walls, and winter grass had gone wild between the flagstones. The road to it was narrow and seldom used. The kind of place meant for comfortable retirements. The former king would be sitting there alone, amongst the dust-coated furniture. Awaiting her arrival.
Guts accompanied Charlotte to the edge of camp. They stood in mutual silence, her cloak drawn tight and hair pinned plainly at her neck. She looked like someone who had stepped out of a storybook and found the world terribly unfamiliar.
With the old man’s abdication, the deal was all but sealed. Charlotte was to be moved like a piece cleared from the board. Secreted away like a pawn to join her disgraced king.
Griffith arrived sometime later, dismounted from his steed and crossed the distance to meet them, ignoring the restless Hawk eyes on his back. When Charlotte saw him, her breath caught. Whatever self-possession she’d gathered unraveled in an instant.
“Lord Griffith,” she whispered.
He placed a hand over hers. “Charlotte, take heart. The countryside will suit you. There will be gardens. Peace and quiet. Time enough for your needle arts.”
She nodded, clinging to every word. “Will you—when will you come?”
“I am sworn to never again entreat the former king. But I will come as before…as soon as possible.”
Guts watched it all: the way she leaned toward him, the way Griffith angled himself to block the wind and the way he lifted the edge of his cloak to wipe her eyes.
Griffith’s hand lingered a moment longer over Charlotte’s. Then, with surprising reluctance, he released her.
Griffith stepped back, already turning his face toward the assembled Hawks. Whatever softness had touched him a moment before receded behind sharper purpose.
From the road below came the muted clatter of wheels and harness, the low command of drivers urging their team forward.
“I’ll be departing soon,” Charlotte said, bowing her head to Guts. “Thank you… for all you’ve done, Sir Guts. And I’m sorry. For the times when I was a burden.”
Guts frowned, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “You of all people don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry, for everything I put you through.”
He hesitated, then reached up and tugged at his cloak. The pin came loose with a soft snap of metal. He pulled free the frayed hawk feather.
“Here,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “Don’t let your pa see it. He probably knows what it means.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oh—but this is yours,” she said quickly. “What will you do without it?”
“Just take it.” He waved it off, gruff as ever. “This one’s all torn up. I’ll get another.”
She held the feather like it might vanish if she loosened her grip. For a moment she only stared, lips parted, as though she’d been given something sacred. Looking at Charlotte’s joy, it was easy to imagine Griffith in his boyhood, picking feathers from the ground, turning them over in his fingers as if they were signs left just for him. Like he’d found breadcrumbs to heaven before ever looking up.
Charlotte slipped the feather into the bodice of her dress, close to her heart, and wrapped her arms around herself. A small, involuntary sound escaped her, almost a coo, full of comfort and ache in equal measure.
Handing her a piece of her hero, extracted from his own cloak was a strange feeling. Something twisted in Guts’s chest and suddenly, the gift felt like a reckless mistake, as though he’d given away a precious resource without knowing its true worth.
When it was time, Guts helped Charlotte into the carriage. She looked back once, hope pressed to her heart like debris packed into a wound.
Guts tried to smile at her. Charlotte equally failed in the attempt. She started to cry, softly, no longer able to keep anything hidden.
The horses rallied, the wheels turned and the road pulled her away. Guts watched until the carriage vanished beyond the hills into obscurity.
“So long, Charlotte.” He said her name, just to feel its sound inside his head.
Then he mounted his horse and rode in the opposite direction to rejoin Griffith and the others, toward the future.
The wind rattled the empty clasp on his cloak and Guts wondered how many things could be lost without ever being claimed in the first place.