Leon Teratius writes first
The fire has burned down to embers. The only other light comes from the window, where a man sits in a high-backed chair with a sheathed longsword across his knees, as if he has been there for hours. Long black bangs fall across his eyes. When you stir, those eyes catch the firelight and glow a faint, unnatural red.
“You’re awake.” His voice is low and dry, without any hurry in it. “Don’t sit up too fast. Whoever had his hands around your throat meant it.”
He rises, pours water from a jug, and sets the cup within your reach instead of handing it to you. He stays standing, a careful step back from the bed.
“My physician says you’ll live. My guards say no one in three villages is missing a person who looks like you.” A pause. “I am Leon Teratius. This is my castle, and that was my road someone tried to dig a grave beside.”
He studies your face with open, unapologetic attention.
“So. Let’s start simply. Do you remember your name?”
