Chapter 3

I went into a tavern, wanting a drink. The tavern keeper saw me and froze before he started wiping the bar with frantic energy, rubbing so hard that he was about to wear a hole in the wood.

"A mug of ale," I said.

He poured it so slowly, as if he were stalling for time. The ale overflowed, spilling onto the bar, before he finally noticed and fumbled to wipe it up.

I placed a copper coin on the counter.

But he didn't take it.

"It's on the house, my hero," he mumbled, and I could hardly hear him. "Enjoy."

I took the mug and sat in a corner.

The tavern began to empty one by one, then in clusters. They abandoned their ale and left their bread half-eaten, passing me with heads bowed. Some were practically sprinting by the time they hit the door.

Soon, I was the only one left in the tavern.

I sat there with that mug of ale for a very long time.

It was sour.

On the forty-third day, I was summoned to the royal council chamber.

It was snowing lightly.

Flakes drifted down from a grey sky, landing on my shoulders and in my hair, cool against my skin. I walked through the palace gardens. The meticulously pruned roses had all withered, leaving only bare branches dusted with a thin layer of snow.

A fire blazed in the council chamber's hearth, its light dancing and warming the great hall. The King sat on his high throne, flanked by the High Bishop and the nobles.

They were dressed in heavy robes, holding steaming goblets, and their faces were illuminated by the fire.

I stood in the center of the hall and waited.

The snow on my shoulders melted, soaking into my cloak. Water dripped from the hem, forming a small puddle on the floor.

"My hero," the King began. He used the title, but his voice was devoid of warmth. "There are accusations that you used forbidden magic in the northern territories, resulting in the destruction of three villages."

I was stunned. "I have not been to the northern territories."

"The witness is here," the King said with a wave of his hand.

A farmer was brought in. He hung his head, trembling in every limb, clad in rags that were more patches than cloth. The knees of his trousers were worn white from use.

He was held up by two guards, his feet barely touching the stone because they practically dragged him in.

"It was him," he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me, his voice cracking like a dying bird. "It was him. He burned our village with black flames. I saw it with my own eyes."

Black flames were a dark art belonging only to the Demon King.

"You're lying," I said calmly.

The farmer trembled even more violently, but he persisted, his shrill voice repeating, "I'm not lying. It was him. It was him."

I looked at the King. "You believe him?"

The High Bishop stood up. He wore deep red robes embroidered with gold thread that glittered in the firelight. He unrolled a scroll of parchment and cleared his throat.

"My hero, this is not the first time. Over the past month, we have received seventeen similar accusations. Some have seen you frequenting graveyards at night. Others claim you have dealings with demons. And some..."

He paused.

The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows on his face.

"Some say your eyes sometimes turn red."

The council chamber fell so silent that I could hear the crackle of the logs in the hearth, the soft hiss of the falling snow outside, and the beat of my own heart.

I stared at the Bishop and let my gaze sweep over the nobles on either side. They had the same look as the crowds outside: defensive, suspicious, and edged with a subtle fear.

That fear stung like a thorn, burrowing under my skin.

"So?" I asked. "Are you going to put me on trial?"

No one answered.

I suddenly laughed.

The sound echoed in the vast hall, and everyone's expression shifted. The King gripped the arms of his throne. The Bishop took a half-step back. The nobles all looked down.

"I have not been to the northern territories," I said. "I did not burn any villages, I have not been in any graveyards, and I have had no dealings with demons. But..."

I turned and walked toward the door. My cloak billowed out behind me, stirring the air. "If you want me to be the villain, then fine. I'll be the villain."

When I walked out of the council chamber, the snow was falling harder.

The snow drifted down in thick flurries, blurring the distant spires of the cathedral and swallowing the city whole. I stood on the steps, reaching out a hand to catch a single flake.

It melted in my palm, leaving a single drop of water.

It was cold.