Margon drew a baffled breath. Now I saw his eyelids were swollen like punches.
Tsk. He hadn’t been through ordinary torture either, by the look of it.
I took out the short knife, dropped to one knee in front of him, and started cutting the rope around his ankles.
“Hic—M-Margon... you’re alive.”
At the miraculous sight of a survivor from the Facility, Kallen’s eyes filled again.
But the bearded adult didn’t slide into a sentimental scene for her sake.
“Kallen? How did you get here? Where’s Leobin?”
At those three words that made the heart drop, both Kallen and I lost our tongues.
I just kept cutting. Swish-scrape, the repetitive rasp filled the hollow silence.
Even without an answer, Margon dipped his head slowly.
“Leobin is dead, isn’t he.”
“Yeah.”
I forced my voice flat.
Even at the news of a close friend’s death, Margon didn’t waver.
“Did Leobin protect you, Ceryl, to the very moment of his death.”
A laugh slipped out of me.
“The moment of death”—too short a measure for Leobin’s cursed life.
That yellow-haired idiot had tried to trail me even after he died.
I flung the loosened rope aside and looked up at Margon.
For all his calm tone, those brown eyes quivered helplessly.
“Leobin protected me bravely to the end. Thanks to him, I lived.”
“...Hah. That bastard Leobin. An honorable death, then.”
His tone played at joking, but the flash of grief couldn’t hide.
I straightened and, while he still sat, patted his shoulder.
Leobin had been under a magic like a curse. Maybe Margon bore the same spell.
“Margon. Do you also—”
But what met my palm was wrong.
Other than Varen, I hadn’t exactly made a habit of touching grown men first. I slid my hand across the emptiness of Margon’s shoulder.
“Your... your right arm...”
What should have been there beneath that broad shoulder was absent.
I grabbed the filthy sleeve—my hand found only thin cloth.
Margon frowned at the pain of my touch and still hitched one corner of his mouth.
“Damn it, stabbing with a fork left-handed is a royal pain.”
“...Who did this. Jed?”
Margon barked a laugh through cracked, dry lips. The split opened further, but he spread his shoulders anyway.
“Did you see his face? I ground off half of it.”
“Ha... Jed. I could grind him to paste and it wouldn’t feel like enough.”
“Tsk. He’s the calculating sort. Took one of my arms because I took one of his eyes.”
It wasn’t only the missing right arm.
His body was wrapped here and there in blood-soaked bandages. The fingers of his remaining left hand were raw with blood to the tips.
A grim weight pressed my chest; I covered my face with a hand and screwed my eyes shut. Even in the dark, I saw Margon’s back.
Facing Dragon Hunters bare-handed after I’d asked Leobin to guard my life.
Remembering that scene, I had to admit it was a blessing he was breathing at all. But seeing him now, worn down by torture, made my blood surge backward.
Both Leobin and Margon were men who’d sworn loyalty to the original Ceryl Aylos.
They were also the ones who’d saved my life.
“Ugh—damn.”
“Margon!”
Kallen caught him as he swayed trying to rise from the chair.
As if to say don’t worry, he forced a smile.
“Been a while since I walked... my legs aren’t listening, hah.”
He tried again to move his legs, and one knee buckled.
Kallen, half his size, propped him steady.
“Tch. This body’s the only thing I’ve got, and even that’s useless. I’ll only weigh you down, Ceryl.”
Margon, who’d survived by a miracle, calling himself my burden.
The mutter, almost to himself, sank straight into my chest. I tightened my fist around the knife hilt.
Truthfully, Margon wasn’t the “item” I’d come looking for.
Getting out whole was dangerous enough; I wasn’t sure I could take responsibility for a big man who couldn’t walk.
All at once, I remembered the first time Jed abducted me.
That back, taking on hunters with bare hands, had been so damned reliable.
“Ha... can’t even walk right. And a man who calls himself a swordsman loses his right arm. Brilliant work.”
At my jab, Margon gave a bitter smile and looked away.
Watching him, I tied off the short debate in my head fast.
There were exactly two debts I couldn’t leave unpaid.
One was hatred, and the other was grace.
I stepped in front of him, met his eyes squarely, and held out the short knife.
“You’re right-handed, aren’t you.”
“...Yes.”
“Well, there’s only the ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) left now, but you’ll manage. Leobin said you were the best swordsman he knew.”
“......”
“He believed in you, and I believe in Leobin.”
Blood still dripped from beneath the nails of his unhealed left hand.
Even so, he moved that wrecked hand and took the hilt I offered.
“Don’t betray Leobin’s trust. Prove your worth yourself.”
“Ceryl...”
“Margon, I’m walking out of here. So follow me.”
Light crept back into those brown eyes.
He had nothing but his body, the best swordsman—now a one-armed cripple with a limp.
But the light in his eyes was as fierce as ever.
“If my lord goes, I’ll follow to the end of hell—”
“Is that your catchphrase now? Don’t follow me that far.”
I cut him off, frowning at the tired line.
Hell, hell, hell. Maybe we should all go on a group tour and be done with it.
“You’ve saved me again, Ceryl.”
Speaking of a past I couldn’t know, Margon looked at me with tear-bright eyes.
My insides twisted; nausea rose. I looked away.
“No time to mope. Margon, how long have you been here.”
“Ah... they moved me here about a week ago.”
“You’ve had it rough. Tell me everything you know about this place.”
I questioned him while my eyes combed the room.
Unlike the cell I’d been in, this one had a cot and a desk. A decorative shield hung on the wall.
I rummaged the furniture without delay, but found nothing useful beyond a plump pillow and writing tools.
Even with time to think, Margon only rolled those double-lidded eyes around.
“I said talk.”
“Uh... it’s a tall tower.”
“I know. Useful information.”
“Mm... the bastards mostly stay on the first floor.”
“That, too.”
“Gasp—how did you know?”
A week in here and he’d learned nothing?
I shot him a glare full of annoyance—then at his dopey face, my shoulders dropped.
I’d forgotten for a moment. Right—brown-haired idiot.
I’d been expecting the wrong things from Margon.
“You—rehab and use your body. That’s where you shine.”
“Hah, thanks for the blessing. I’ll meet your expectations.”
Good grief. My forehead throbbed; I pressed it with my palm.
Just then, Kallen—standing close, propping Margon—sniffed.
“Hm? That’s Luberra leaf. It’s a hemostatic herb.”
In her field, Kallen’s encyclopedia never failed. She examined the bandages on his body.
“They’re bloodstained, but the bandages themselves are fresh. Someone’s been treating you?”
“Ah! Right, there is.”
At that, I scanned the room again. The cot looked like something out of a ward. For wounds this bad, his color wasn’t awful.
Kallen’s eye made my shoulders lift for no reason.
“They said they needed me alive, to use me as bait to bait you.”
Bait for the bait.
Jed really was the sort who knew how to parch a man’s veins with the most textbook, effective methods.
Just picturing that unlucky gray head sent my pressure up again. Even so, my heart thudded.
Maybe—maybe what I needed would roll right to my feet.
“There’s a doctor here? One?”
“Yes, one. He comes to see me three times a day...”
“When? When does he come?”
Knock, knock, knock.
Instead of Margon, the answer came from the other side of the door.
All three of us flinched at the small sound. We turned to the wood and set ourselves to guard.
Margon slid in front of me and raised the short knife.
I took the leather thong I had and pulled it taut between both hands.
Kallen gripped the herb-stuffed cloth bag tight.
A ragtag bunch if there ever was one.
Creak— the door opened, and a figure stepped in.
“Margon, are you hurting any—”
The tall man froze at the unexpected visitors.
My jaw and Kallen’s eased down in unison. We hadn’t rehearsed it, but we said the same name at the same time.
“...Jed?!”
Gray hair and eyes. Slashed, sharp eyes and thin lips.
No silver-rim glasses—his signature—and not a uniform, just plain clothes.
But anyone would have called him Jed Kardo.
He knit those familiar eyes and spoke in an unfamiliar cadence.
“Humans from the Facility look at me like that every time.”
He stepped in without hesitation.
We retreated without meaning to, and Margon lowered his voice.
“That’s him. The one who treats me.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes. Jed’s—”
“How many times must I tell you I’m not a doctor!”
At his thunderclap of a voice, Margon shut his mouth.
A man who looked exactly like Jed wore an expression Jed would never make.
I clicked my tongue, looked at his face, and something dawned.
Ah. Now I got it. Fantasy worlds really do have everything.
“Wow—first time seeing a doppelgänger.”
“Don’t call me by something strange. My name is ‘Theo.’”
When the short self-introduction ended, Margon whispered.
“Jed’s blood brother...”
“...Oh, for—”
One Jed is too many, and there are two? What did I do to deserve this.
