Fortunately, the trio's belongings were largely unscathed from the encounter, save for a few half eaten loaves of bread. Henry busied himself with repacking his and Arthur's saddles as Rebecca and the stranger tended to Arthur, who grumbled and complained as they wrapped his face in a swath of bandages.

  Mortifying shame burned at Henry. His hands moved largely on their own as his mind raced to contend with what he had done; not only had he severely injured Arthur, but he had broken a core tenet of the Codex. He had allowed his emotions to take the better of him; he had lost control, and assaulted a superior.

  His hands trembled, not from his bloodied and swollen knuckles. How could he be a knight, having disgraced himself as such?

  A touch on his hands startled him, as Rebecca had gently grasped his swollen fists and looked at him with concern.

  "You're hurt as well," she said, beginning to wrap his hands in bandages. "Let me have a look."

  "N-no. No." Henry recoiled. "Arthur. You need to patch up Arthur."

  "He's fine. Praetorus is looking after him." She nodded to the stranger, who was dabbing some sort of ointment on Arthur's face much to the latter's chagrin. "If anything, his skills are likely better than mine."

  "Can we trust him?"

  "He saved us. We're well past that point."

  Henry finally relented and sank down, allowing Rebecca to continue wrapping his hands. "I... I didn't mean to..."

  "It's okay," Rebecca murmured. "He'll be fine. At least you stopped."

  They remained silent for a moment as she carried on her work; in the bright morning light, Rebecca's dark hair, still in its neat braid, seemed to shimmer and sparkle as she worked.

  "Are you alright?" Henry finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  Rebecca paused. "Yes. No. I don't know." Her hands began to tremble. "I... I've never killed anyone before..."

  Henry delicately grabbed her hands now. "You did what you had to. And I owe you my life."

  The mage seemed on the verge of tears as she looked at Henry. "Arthur's right. I am useless."

  "No, you saved me. I'd be dead were it not for you."

  "You don't understand," she interjected. "I've never even been in a fight. I-I was useless! Afraid! I was a coward!" Tears began to roll down her face. "When you and Arthur fought those men, I just stood there. I only followed you because I was scared."

  Henry allowed her a moment to weep freely, letting go of her hands as she wiped away her tears.

  "You're wrong," he said. "If you truly were a coward, you would have let me die."

  Rebecca suppressed a sob as she shook her head. "I should have fought with you. If I had fought, we'd have never been captured."

  "We're fine." Henry gently wiped a tear from her face. "We're still alive. They're not. You did nothing wrong."

  She paused for a second before finally nodding. "... A-alright." She looked at him, her eyes still teary. "Thank you, Henry."

  The stranger - Praetorus, as Rebecca had said his name was - approached and knelt beside them. Now that Henry got a clear view of his face, he could indeed confirm that the archer was roughly their age as well; his features were smooth, pale, and slender, with those same bright purple irises now fixed squarely on Henry.

  "Your friend's face will be fine," Praetorus said, his voice soft yet firm. "The ointment will help. But I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for the poison."

  Henry and Rebecca looked at him with a start.

  "Poison?!" Rebecca blurted out.

  Praetorus nodded. "He was cut with a poisoned blade. I am not a healer, and cannot attest to its severity. But he is poisoned."

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  Henry and Rebecca got to their feet and rushed over to Arthur, Praetorus following silently.

  "How are you feeling?" Henry asked, knelt over Arthur.

  Arthur's face was almost completely bandaged, save for his left eye and mouth. He glanced at Henry for a moment before looking over to Rebecca instead.

  "Aside from my face," he muttered, "I feel fine. I don't know what our new friend here is going on about. I don't feel poisoned or anything."

  Praetorus bluntly reached past Henry and lifted Arthur's gambeson near his waist, revealing a small but deep-looking gash in his abdomen. The flesh around it was already paling, with the edges of the gash surrounded by dark veins.

  Henry felt his spine tingle as he recalled the bandit leader's words: You're a dead man walking.

  "Okay, I may have been stabbed here or there," Arthur admitted. "But it doesn't hurt, honest! I really can't feel it at all!"

  "When did this happen?" Rebecca asked. She knelt over him and began dabbing at the wound with a cloth soaked in medical spirits, as Arthur gasped in pain.

  "Last night, I think. One of them slipped a blade under my guard. Guess I wasn't as fast as I thought." Arthur tried to grin through his mask of bandages.

  "I am not a healer," Praetorus repeated bluntly. "I cannot identify what poison it is. But if he insists on his health, I will take his word for it. I will dress the wound."

  "That doesn't look promising at all," Henry said. "We need to find you an apothecary."

  Again, Arthur ignored Henry entirely as he fixed his gaze on Rebecca and Praetorus. "Alright, dress it as you please. Just make it quick, will you?"

  Rebecca gave Henry a sympathetic look as she and Praetorus began to dress the wound. Regret stabbed at Henry's gut as he stood and walked off, unable to look at Arthur.

  After Arthur's wounds were fully bandaged and dressed, Praetorus led the group away from the bandits' campsite and into a more obscure patch of woods. Henry tried to help Arthur onto his horse, but the knight-apprentice knocked away his helping hand and clambered into his saddle himself. With Arthur as wounded as he was, he was in no condition to travel as far as they had wanted; they only traveled for an hour or so before Arthur's pained gasps elicited them to make camp.

  The new campsite was more trees than clearing, as Praetorus prepared a small campfire with a handful of brush and twigs. Henry watched with amazement as the archer's fire blazed, yet no smoke trail wafted from the flames.

  Praetorus helped Arthur down from his mount, and Rebecca eased him into lying down not far from the fire. Henry fetched some cool water from a nearby stream in his goatskin and handed it to Rebecca, not wanting to risk Arthur's ire further.

  As Rebecca tended to Arthur by the fire, Henry spied Praetorus crouched further away, his back to them as he gazed into the woods. Curious, he walked over to the archer, kneeling next to him.

  "Praetorus, right?" Henry smiled, trying his best to be friendly.

  The archer said nothing, but merely nodded, his eyes still fixed on a point deeper into the woods.

  "I'm Henry," the squire went on. "I wanted to say thanks, again. We owe you a great debt."

  Still, Praetorus said nothing, but nodded again.

  Henry hesitantly continued. "I was wondering... how did you find us when you did? Your timing couldn't have been better."

  Praetorus finally turned his head to meet Henry; his brilliant purple eyes seemed to flash when he spoke. "I had been tracking you for two days. I thought you were the bandits roaming these woods of late."

  Henry's brow cocked. "'Two days?' That long?"

  "Indeed. I picked up your trail when I heard your friend's battle cries yesterday afternoon."

  Henry stifled a laugh; he was referring to Arthur's singing. He coughed instead, masking the guffaw that threatened to burst out. "So... you saw us pitching camp last night?"

  "I did." Praetorus was expressionless. "I very nearly thought you had spotted me last night as well. I relocated afterwards and avoided your attackers."

  The squire felt his heart leap into his throat as he recalled the pair of eyes he had seen last night, right before he had gone to sleep; it wasn't a hallucination, after all. "When we were surrounded and attacked, why didn't you help us?"

  "It was not my fight," Praetorus responded succinctly. "I did not know if you were bandits as well. Infighting among bandit groups is common here."

  "And yet you helped us. Why?"

  Praetorus paused, his face finally showing an ounce of emotion as he pondered the question for a moment. "You do not seem to be bandits. You are... knights, correct?"

  "Aye." Henry nodded. "Well, not quite. I'm still a squire, and Arthur is a knight-apprentice in training. Rebecca is a mage friend of ours."

  "I see." Praetorus dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Mages, I am familiar with. A... squire... I do not yet know what this is."

  "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "I am not. My clan has only occupied this wood since last year. We have yet to fully accustom ourselves to this land."

  "Your clan?" Henry raised his brow.

  "Indeed. I am of Clan Ashenbow." Praetorus fixed a passive gaze on the squire, as if gauging his reaction.

  Outwardly, Henry didn't react, but internally his guard was raised. Clan Ashenbow was a transient clan, migrating to different lands to call home every few seasons; they were renowned archers and rangers, known to sell their services to any who paid them well enough no matter their employer's principles or allegiance.

  "You think me a mercenary." Praetorus' expression was tight; Henry's silence was held a second too long. "A sell-bow."

  "Perhaps," Henry admitted. "Then again, you haven't yet asked for a reward or bounty for our rescue. If you're a mercenary, you've the patience of a saint."

  The edge of Praetorus' mouth cracked and curled up slightly, his face wearing the faintest of smiles. "I see."

  "Why are you here, anyway? Where's the rest of your clan?"

  Praetorus turned back away. "I am on a quest of my own. For now, I shall escort you to the edge of the wood, which I presume is your destination."

  Henry looked at the archer pensively. "Why help us now?"

  "Maybe I am holding out for my reward. Or maybe I will require your help sooner than I think." Praetorus resumed his gaze into the forest. "You will just have to trust me."