Ulrich stood in the dark corner of the room, hoping that if he kept still enough, he might just escape notice. It had worked thus far. He had not meant it to, he had not meant to keep so still and quiet. But he had been seized by a fear so terrible that it had fixed him to the spot and choked the voice from his throat.

  He could hear the crunching of boots along the wooden floors, the sound of metal scraping against the walls, the muttered curses of the men who had made their way inside. Ulrich did not close his eyes, much as he wanted to. Instead, he kept them fixed on the doorway, the one that led into the room in which he stood trembling in the darkness. Something gleamed in the dark, a sabaton, and Ulrich recoiled further into himself as he watched someone stepped across the threshold.

  Ulrich slowly lifted his eyes, tracing the form of the knight who stood in the doorway. The man was clad foot to neck in plate, a sword slung low at his side and one hand resting on the hilt. Ulrich felt his heart begin to race, his breath coming quick and shallow, as the man stepped through the splintered doorframe and closer to where Ulrich stood.

  The knight paused, his eyes surveying the room, until at last they fell on Ulrich. A crease formed in his brow, and he crossed the room in three swift strides. “You alright, lad?” he asked. But Ulrich could not bring himself to answer—not a word, not a nod—all of it was trapped inside his throat, unable to escape, and the only thing he could do stand there trembling. The man dropped to a knee and placed a gloved hand on Ulrich’s should. “Answer me lad, are you alright?” he asked, giving Ulrich a gentle shake.

  Ulrich felt the shake of the man's hand on his shoulder loosen the grip of fear. He nodded.

  More men had come in the room now, knights all, clad in arms just like the first. They were murmuring to one another about the state of the place and the bastards that had put it such, covering their mouths and noses with gloved hands, and swearing beneath their breath as they picked their way through the ruins of the broken home.

  The knight who knelt before Ulrich did not rise straight away. Instead, he held Ulrich’s gaze, searching it for something. Until at last, something seemed to stir him, and he rose to face the others. It was only then that the other knights seemed to notice Ulrich at all, standing there, small and trembling, in the dark.

  “We’ll take the lad with us,” the knight said, an answer to the silent question on the men’s faces, as he kept a hand firmly planted on Ulrich’s shoulder. He’ll ride with us to Crestfall, and we can take matters from there.” And with that, he led Ulrich out of the room as the others watched, moving to the side to make way as Ulrich stepped over the body of first his mother and then his father.

  Ulrich leaned forward on the bench, his feet dangling just shy of the floor as he shoveled warm spoonfuls of soup into his mouth. He was so hungry, he scarcely noticed the others who sat around the table watching him.

  “Braques, it was,” said one of the men, tearing a hunk of bread from the dark loaf that sat in the middle of the table. “Monsters they are. Not a doubt as far as I’m concerned.”

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  “Careful, Adel,” said another. “There may be some doubt yet. Why don’t we ask the lad?”

  “Aye, lad,” said the first, “tell us what you saw.”

  Ulrich froze, his eyes on the spoonful of soup that hovered above his bowl. They were looking at him, all of them. He didn’t need to look up; he could feel it.

  The man next to him, the knight who had found him, leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “It’s alright, lad,” he said. “You tell us when you’re good and ready, hmm?”

  Ulrich brought the spoon to his mouth, sucking it clean before lowering it back to the bowl. Still, he did not look up.

  “They were Braques, weren’t they?” asked the man across the table. “You know the ones, don’t you lad? Boiled leather, splint mail, nasty looking fellows. Like something that crawled out of the gutter.”

  “Like something out of a nightmare,” said another.

  Ulrich let his spoon sink to the bottom of his soup. He shook his head.

  “No?” said the man, the surprise evident in his voice. “What did they look like then?”

  Ulrich lifted his eyes now, finding the man across the table who sat leaning forward on his elbows, a torn chunk of bread in his hand.

  “They looked like you, sir,” he said.

  Ulrich burrowed into the straw bed nestled in the corner of the room, pulling the blanket up around him. His clothes had been taken to the wash, and he’d been given a tunic that fell nearly to his ankles. Even if it was made for a man four times his size, he was glad to have something clean to wear. His skin had been starting to itch

  The knight who had found him came over and kneeled beside him. “You get some rest now, lad,” he said. “That’s what’ll do you the most good.” He pulled the blanket up under Ulrich’s chin. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, “nothing to fear. Just a good night’s rest and onto the next.” He gave Ulrich a pat on the chest. “You hear me, lad?”

  Ulrich nodded his head.

  “Good.” The knight’s eyes searched Ulrich’s a moment or two more, until at last he rose and walked toward the door. “You hear us talking out there, you don’t pay it any mind,” he said. “You just close your eyes and go to sleep.” And with that, he took up the candle from the table and walked out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

  The room was dark.

  Ulrich lay there with his eyes open, staring into the dark. He could hear the sound of laughter, the rumble of the knights’ voices as they talked, their discourse ebbing at times into whispers and at others, swelling into shouts. But Ulrich did not mind. He was glad for the noise, glad not to be left alone in the quiet.

  He held his eyes open as long as he could. He was afraid of what he might see were he to close them, afraid of what was waiting for him in the darkness behind his eyelids. But eventually, exhaustion won out, and his eyes drifted shut.

  Ulrich had been right to fear, for sure enough, they were there waiting for him in the dark, the men who had come into his home and killed his family. And just as before, Ulrich found himself unable to speak, unable to yell or to move or to cry out. All he could do was stand there in the corner, trembling, watching. He could hear the sound of boots on the floor, of metal scraping against wood as the men drew near. His heart pounded in his chest, and though a part of him wanted to close his eyes, to cover his ears, to disappear into the dark, he found that he could not. He could hear the sickening squelch of blade meeting flesh, smell the foul mixture of blood and smoke that hung in the air. He could feel his body shake, his throat burning with a scream that could not seem to make its way out no matter how hard he tried.

  When he woke, it was still dark in the room. All the voices had gone, and the only sound now was that of someone snoring. Ulrich lay there, listening to the slow, rasping breath of the knight who had found him cowering in the darkness. He held his eyes open, straining to keep his lids parted lest he find the monsters waiting in the dark behind his eyelids again. He remembered what the knight had said, that rest was the thing that would do him the most good.

  Sleep, perhaps, Ulrich thought. Sleep might do him good. But he knew he would not find rest until he had hunted down the men who had murdered his family and taken his revenge.