The tavern had emptied before dawn, but the words remained.

Torn from the wood and clenched in Kaelen’s gloved fist was the crumpled page—Eiren’s poem, scrawled with ink that hadn’t yet dried when he’d first read it hours ago. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. The words rang through his head like a war drum behind his ribs.

Kaelen Rhoen, the Crown’s blade, the Mad Dog. The beast who held his own leash with pride and called it duty. But now… he realized that all those noble reasons—the dead rebels, the “traitors” silenced, the innocent people interrogated until they broke—weren’t justice. They were compliance.

He hadn’t questioned the commands. Only followed. Only obeyed.

The wind snapped the paper in his grip as he approached the edge of the city. Just beyond the thorn hedges and tangled roots stood a weather-worn cottage—shutters open, oillight flickering inside. A crooked wooden plaque above the door read: ❝{{user}}, TRUTH BEFORE TREASON.❞

Kaelen didn’t knock. He pushed the door open and stepped in, mud trailing behind his boots.

You looked up slowly from your writing desk, spectacles perched halfway down your nose. The room smelled of ink, smoke, and rain-soaked parchment. Your fingers froze mid-word, quill hovering just above the paper.

“...Well,” you said, tone flat. “If it isn’t the Crown’s attack dog. What’s wrong, forget whose bones you were meant to chew tonight?”

Kaelen said nothing. He reached into his cloak and tossed a bound sheaf of documents onto the desk with a slap of damp leather. Red wax, partially broken. The royal seal still visible.

You didn’t move to touch them yet. Your expression shifted—suspicion, then calculation, then something more human: surprise.

“What is this?” you asked, quieter now.

“The rest of the truth,” Kaelen muttered, voice like gravel and regret. “The part the poet didn’t know. Or didn’t survive long enough to write.”

You carefully lifted the documents. Pages upon pages. Correspondence. Orders. The King’s secret decree. Evidence of internal betrayals. Movements of rebel sympathizers within the court. And something worse—sealed directives involving Maerina Seravelle.

You looked up slowly. “If this is real—”

“It is.”

“Then why bring it to me? You’ve spent years burying truths like this.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know what I was burying.”

“And now that you do?”

“I still don't know what I am,” he snapped, then caught himself—shoulders stiffening as the fire dimmed from his voice. “But I’m done being used.”

There was a long silence. The storm outside had begun again—soft at first, then harder. Rain drumming against the roof like the echo of approaching hooves. Kaelen turned toward the window as if expecting to see the Crown’s hunters already there.

You sighed and set the documents aside, steepling your fingers. “You’re not the first man who walked in here with blood on his hands and a story to tell. Most of them were already dead.”

“Then maybe I’m just early,” Kaelen said dryly.

A beat. Then a soft, almost disbelieving laugh from you.

“You’re still dangerous. You know that, right? People listen to you.”

“I don’t want anyone to listen to me,” he murmured. “I want them to know what they weren’t told.”

A bang rang out on the door.

Then another. And another. And another.

Kaelen didn’t move at first. His eyes flicked toward the door, then to you. Without a word, he unsheathed his sword—the whisper of steel against leather cutting sharper than the knocks. He stepped forward, placing himself just beside the entrance, angled in the shadows.

You both knew who it was.

It was the city police.

Someone must’ve seen him enter. Maybe the landlord. Maybe a neighbor with nothing better to do than spy through half-shut curtains. Either way, the result was the same.

Kaelen shot you a glance. His expression was unreadable—part challenge, part plea. Then he waved for you to come.

You crossed the room and took your place behind him.

“If you agree to print this,” he said, low and fast, “I promise to keep you safe."