Fallen Eagle-Chapter 17: I’m Nothing Like You

Christos moved through Kerasia not like a man, but like a storm front rolling in over the hills, a palpable drop in pressure preceding him. He did not take any winding side paths; he strode down the center of the village’s main road, a straight, direct line to the house on the hill. The whispers that had followed him before were gone, replaced by a more profound and fearful silence. Doors clicked shut. A woman hauling a basket of laundry saw the look on his face, dropped her load in the dirt, and fled inside without a backward glance. They knew that look. They had seen it in the eyes of his father for years - a flat, chilling promise that blood was about to be spilled.
At the edge of the miller’s yard, a man stepped into his path. It was Stratos, Agape’s father, his face a ruin of sleeplessness and shame. He saw the cold fury in Christos’s eyes and recognized it as a mirror to the helpless rage he had buried in his own heart. In the hard lines of the soldier, he still saw the ghost of the boy who worked at the bakery just for scraps of sweet dough, and would sneak to their home late at night to avoid his father’s drunken, violent stupor. He knew that the boy was walking to his death.
“Christos, don’t,” Stratos pleaded, his hands held up in a gesture of placation. “You can’t win. That path leads only to the grave, son.”
Christos did not speak. He did not slow. As Stratos reached for his arm, Christos’s hand came up in a blur, the back of it cracking across the older man’s jaw with a sound like splintering wood. Stratos crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the dirt. A woman’s scream tore from the miller’s doorway. The last villager still brave enough to be seen vanished inside. By the time Christos reached the base of the hill, Kerasia was a village of ghosts, every soul shuttered away in fear.
He took the gnarled, beaten shepherding staff from the rack on the porch. The wood was a familiar weight in his hand, a piece of his own history now reforged into a weapon. His heavy, deliberate footsteps on the porch boards were a drumbeat announcing his arrival, loud enough to stir the beast within. A low rumble of movement echoed from inside the house.
Christos did not bother with the latch. He drew his leg back and drove his boot into the door, just beside the handle. It wasn’t a kick; it was a battering ram. The wood exploded, splintering off its leather hinges and cartwheeling not inwards, but straight into the gloom of the room.
“What in the fuck?!” The words were a choked gasp as the door flew. Christos was on him before he could fully register the assault. The world seemed to slow, every movement unnaturally clear, the blood roaring in his ears a distant ocean. He swung the heavy staff in a vicious, horizontal arc, putting every ounce of his grief and rage into the blow. The impact was a wet, splintering crack. Broken teeth flew from Vassilis’s mouth like shrapnel. Vassilis was thrown sideways, crashing into the heavy oak table with a sound that shook the house.
Christos pressed his advantage, a savage instinct screaming at him to finish it. He brought the staff down in a brutal overhead strike, but his father, roaring with pain and fury, threw up a massive forearm to block it, the impact just short of breaking his massive, meaty limb. With a surge of monstrous strength, Vassilis shoved Christos backward, sending him stumbling across the room.
He spat a thick glob of blood and saliva onto the floorboards, a feral, terrifying grin splitting his lips. A piece of a tooth was embedded in his swollen cheek. “I guess now we’re even, boy,” he snarled, snapping a leg off the ruined table and holding it in his hand like a club.
Christos didn’t answer. The world had narrowed to this single, suffocating room. There was no village, no past, no future. There was only the monster. And the cold, simple certainty of what he had to do.
He was going to kill his father.
The table leg was a crude, splintered thing, but Vassilis held it with the easy familiarity of a man born to violence. The fight devolved into a brutal, artless contest of pure attrition. Christos took a staggering blow from the table leg on his shoulder, the impact a starburst of agony, but used the opening to drive the hardened tip of his staff into Vassilis’s gut, drawing a choked grunt. Christos abandoned all pretense of defense, his world narrowed to the simple, savage calculus of pain given and pain received.
They were two raging bulls in a space too small for their fury, a maelstrom of flailing limbs and splintering wood. Vassilis swung his club in a wild arc, and Christos, instead of dodging, charged into it, taking the blow on his ribs to land a punishing strike of his own across his father’s thick neck. Vassilis roared, more in outrage than pain, and backhanded Christos so hard his vision swam in a sea of static.
“You’ve got fire in you, boy!” Vassilis bellowed, a crazed, bloody grin splitting his face. “What crawled up your arse to make you so feisty?”
He laughed, a horrible, wet sound, and Christos answered with a savage thrust that caught Vassilis high on the cheekbone. The grin vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, murderous rage. Vassilis lunged, and the fight became a primal thing, a contest of sheer, monstrous endurance. Their fists fell like smith's hammers, the thud of knuckle on bone a sickening percussion in the wrecked room. Father and son pummeled each other senseless, a grim, titanic ballet of violence only possible between two giants carved from the same stubborn stone.
Vassilis, bellowing, grabbed a heavy wooden chair and hurled it. Christos ducked, and the chair shattered against the wall behind him. He surged forward, tackling his father around the waist, driving him backward through the flimsy remains of the dining table. They crashed to the floor in a shower of splinters and pottery shards. But Vassilis was a force of nature. With a guttural roar, he got his legs under him and, with an explosive heave, threw Christos off him.
Christos flew through the air, his body a projectile. He did not hit the far wall. He crashed through the shuttered window, the dry wood exploding outward in a shower of rotten splinters. He landed in the dirt outside, a terrible, jarring impact that knocked the wind from his lungs and sent a fresh wave of agony through every fiber of his being.
For a moment, he lay there, stunned. The cold fire of adrenaline was beginning to fade, and his body was remembering. The old injuries from three days ago screamed in protest, now joined by a chorus of new, sharper pains. He pushed himself onto one knee, gasping, his vision tunneling.
Vassilis stepped through the ruined doorway, his chest heaving, a dark stream of blood trickling from his split lip. The mocking amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a cold, serious appraisal. Christos was bleeding from a dozen cuts, his left eye already swelling shut.
“You’re going to die for this,” Vassilis said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You know that, don’t you…? So why?”
A movement in the distance caught Christos’s eye. A figure, small and frantic, was running toward them from the village below. Agape.
He looked from her approaching form back to the demon who was his father. “You fucking rapist,” he spat, the words tasting of blood and dirt. He staggered to his feet, his gaze locking with Vassilis’s. “You killed Mother. I won’t let you kill her, too.”
“I see,” Vassilis said, and in his eyes, for a fraction of a second, there was a flicker of something other than rage - a flat, weary understanding. Despite all his flaws, he wouldn’t take any joy in killing his son.
Then it was gone, smothered by a familiar, cruel sneer as his gaze shifted past Christos to the running girl. “She was a good cunt, though,” he said, his voice a mocking drawl that carried on the wind. “Worth it.”
The world dissolved into a tunnel of pure, black hatred. It was a rage beyond reason, beyond pain, a force that scoured every last vestige of the boy Christos had been. He did not scream. The sound that tore from his throat was a raw, inhuman bellow as he launched himself at his father, his only thought to rip, to tear, to utterly annihilate the creature before him.
Vassilis met the charge with brutal efficiency. He sidestepped the clumsy, rage-fueled lunge, his table leg whipping around in a vicious, horizontal arc that connected with Christos’s knee. The sound was a sickening, wet crack, and Christos’s leg buckled beneath him, his charge ending in a collapsing, agonized heap at his father’s feet.
The world was a tilted, screaming universe of pain. Vassilis loomed over him, a mountain blotting out the sky, his immense weight pinning Christos to the earth. A heavy fist rained down, then another, and another. The blows weren't sharp; they were concussive, a brutal, rhythmic pummeling that drove the air from his lungs and rattled his teeth in his skull.
“You were always easy to goad,” Vassilis grunted between impacts, his voice laced with the casual contempt of a man swatting a fly.
Christos thrashed, getting his arms up to shield his head, the impacts jarring him from wrist to shoulder. Each block was a small victory that cost him a piece of his strength. The world began to blur at the edges, the frantic will to fight draining away, replaced by a cold, leaden despair. This was it. After all the training, all the promises to himself, this was all he amounted to. A broken boy dying in the dirt at his father’s feet. He couldn't win. He never could.
“Don’t kill him! Please!”
The scream was a blade of sound that cut through Christos’s fog. Agape. She threw herself at the mountain, her hands clawing at Vassilis’s elbow, her face a mask of raw, grief-stricken terror.
Vassilis didn’t even turn his head. He drove a vicious elbow back into her ribs, sending her stumbling away with a choked cry. “He had his chance, bitch,” he said, his voice a dead, monotone finality as his cold eyes found Christos’s again. “You gave me a good fuck, but now it’s time to finish what I started.”
The words were a key, unlocking a part of Christos he didn’t know existed - a reservoir of pure, black, cornered-animal fury. The small distraction was all he needed. As Vassilis raised his fist for another blow, Christos’s hands shot up, not to block, but to attack. He jammed his thumbs deep into Vassilis’s eyes.
The scream that tore from his father’s throat was not human. It was the shriek of a slaughtered beast, high-pitched and full of disbelief. Christos squeezed, putting all his strength, all his hatred, into the gesture. He felt the soft give of the eyeballs under the pressure, the world narrowing to this single, horrific act.
Vassilis grabbed at his wrists, trying to tear his hands away, but Christos’s grip was a vice of bone and sinew. He pushed his thumbs deeper, a thick, viscous fluid mixed with blood beginning to pour down his father’s cheeks. Vassilis, seeing he couldn’t pry Christos’s hands away, abandoned defense and began swinging blindly, his fists hammering at Christos’s head, trying to blind him in turn. Christos twisted his head, dodging a wild punch, and then surged upward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of Vassilis’s nose.
There was a wet, crunching sound. Vassilis shrieked again, a new, gurgling note of agony in the sound. The giant scrambled off him, dismounting in a frantic, panicked heave, clawing at his ruined face as he tried to flee.
“Where do you think you’re going, motherfucker?” Christos snarled, lunging from the ground and grabbing his father’s ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. Vassilis crashed to the earth, rolling onto his back, his hands clamped over his eyes.
“Owwww! Look what you’ve fucking done, boy!” he roared, his voice an enraged, savage scream. “You think you’ll get away with this? I’ll find you! I’ll cut off your cock and feed it to you! I’ll string her up by her hair and let the whole village have a turn before I cave her pretty face in!”
Christos rose, his crippled leg screaming in protest. He ignored the pain, his gaze falling on the gnarled shepherding staff lying in the dirt. He walked over and picked it up. The weapon that had tormented his life was now in his hands. It was time to end it.
He stood over his father, the staff held high. Vassilis, hearing his approach, lowered his bloody hands, his ruined eyes two black pits in a mask of hate.
“Come on then, you little shit! Do it!”
Christos brought the staff down. The first blow was on the shoulder, shattering the bone with a dry crack. Vassilis screamed. The second caught him in the ribs, which splintered with a wet crunch. The screams turned to choked, pleading sobs.
“No, boy… please… stop… son…”
Christos didn’t stop. He raised the staff again and again, the rhythmic thud of wood on flesh and bone the only sound in the world. He was no longer a soldier or a son. He was an executioner, erasing a lifetime of pain with every brutal strike.
Vassilis’s body was a broken, twitching ruin, but he managed to lift his head one last time, a bloody, gurgling laugh bubbling from his throat. His face was a malformed horror, but his eyes found Christos’s with uncanny accuracy.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
“You think this… makes you different?” he gurgled, blood foaming at his lips. “That you’re… somehow… better?” A final, triumphant whisper. “You’re just like me.”
Christos brought the staff down one last time on his father’s skull.
“I’m nothing like you,” he whispered to the corpse, his voice hollow in the sudden, profound silence. “You monster.”
“Christos! Christos, where are you, buddy?!” Georgios’s panicked wail echoed through the unnatural silence of Kerasia. He ran from hovel to hovel, a frantic bull in a village of ghosts, his meaty fists hammering on wooden doors until they groaned in their frames.
Theodorus watched from the center of the square, his eyes cold and analytical. The pyre was a message, and the silence of the villagers was an answer. “Doors that do not open will be forced,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the tense air. “Find me someone who will talk.” He felt no pity for their fear; complicity in such a horror was not a light thing. And if this was Christos, there was a debt that would be paid.
Some of his men’s methods were more unorthodox than others. Georgios was now trying to pry open the shutter of a small window, his thick frame hopelessly mismatched for the task.
“I heard someone in there! Christos, is that you?” he yelled, his voice cracking with a delirious hope. A terrified whimper sounded from within. Georgios, oblivious, continued his efforts, a comical and misguided spectacle.
Theodorus was about to bark him back into line and avoid any more embarrassment when Leonidas appeared at his elbow. “Captain. I’ve spoken with one of the women. I have information.”
Theodorus’s expression turned to grim focus. “The body on the pyre,” Leonidas stated, his voice low. “It is not Christos’s.”
“Then…” Theodorus began, but the word died on his lips as a limping Christos waddled into view from one of the houses.
He looked ruined, like he had been put through a meat grinder and then reassembled incorrectly. His face was a swollen, purpled mask, one eye completely sealed shut. His body was a constellation of fresh bruises, and he moved with the stiff, agonizing gait of a man whose every joint was on fire.
Georgios’s reaction was instantaneous. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He lost his grip on the window frame and slid down the wall, landing on his backside in the dirt with a graceless thud. His face went bone-white. “I-it’s a ghost!” he wailed, scrambling backward on his hands and feet. “You bastards murdered him and didn’t even give him a proper burial! Now he haunts this earth as a spectre! You bastards!” He collapsed onto his knees, openly weeping for the friend who, now seen in the flesh, he was utterly convinced was dead.
Christos limped over, his expression flinty. He stood over the devastated man, who looked up at him as if gazing upon an avenging angel. For a long moment, there was only Georgios’s pathetic sniffling. Then Christos kicked him in the ribs.
“Stop embarrassing yourself, you fool,” he spat, his voice a raw rasp. “Is this real enough for you?”
Georgios doubled over with a grunt of pain, but his sobs turned into a gasp of dawning, ecstatic realization.“You’re alive? Christos! You’re alive!” He launched himself forward, still on his knees, and wrapped his arms around Christos’s legs in a crushing hug.
Christos’s face turned vicious. “Get off of me, you idiot!” he snarled, trying to shove him away.
Georgios, completely unabated, took advantage of the fact that his friend was injured to literally crawl up his body, pulling him into a smothering, heartfelt embrace while yelling that it was a miracle from God himself. Christos, his face turning beet red with humiliation, shot a desperate, pleading look to his commander for help.
Theodorus watched the exchange, a rare, small smile touching his lips. The grim professionalism of the other men cracked, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. He let the comic, human moment stretch on, a necessary release valve for the horror and tension that had choked the air.
“Attention!” he finally yelled.
The laughter died instantly. The men snapped into formation. Even the injured Christos straightened his posture, and Georgios, though still sniffling, reluctantly released his friend and scrambled to his feet to take his place in the line.
“Stratiotes Christos,” Theodorus’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. “Step forward and .”
Christos detached himself from the ranks. He moved with the stiff, pained gait of a broken man, yet he stood before his commander ramrod straight, his one good eye fixed forward, his battered face a testament to the battle he had just survived.
“Captain,” he said, his voice a raw rasp. “I arrived in Kerasia village three days past and confronted the headman, Vassilis. He refused to discuss an alliance.” Christos took a steadying breath, his words formal, clipped, and utterly devoid of the horror they described. “The argument devolved into a violent confrontation. I was incapacitated and cared for by locals. This morning, the headman attacked again.” He paused, the silence stretching. “The confrontation ended in blood. Kerasia’s headman is no more.”
Theodorus listened, his face impassive. The was a masterpiece of military understatement, a sterile summary of what was clearly a personal, brutal war. A thousand questions hung in the air, but Theodorus knew that there was a time and a place for such things. The truth could be excavated later, in private. For now, the would stand.
“And the pyre?” Theodorus asked, gesturing with his chin toward the black, horrific monument.
Christos’s formal mask cracked. The deadness in his eye was replaced by a flicker of raw, haunting memory. “Well that, Captain…”
The world was silent. The only sound was the wet, ragged rasp of Christos’s own breathing and the frantic pounding in his ears. He stood over the broken thing on the ground, the gnarled shepherding staff still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. It wasn't the monster from his nightmares, the titan of rage who had haunted every shadow of his life. It was just meat and bone, a leaking sack of a man whose stillness was the most unbelievable thing Christos had ever witnessed.
The silence was broken by a single, tentative creak. A shutter opening. Then another. From the doorways of the hovels, faces began to emerge, peeking out like fearful animals after a long storm. They saw Christos, bruised and bleeding. Then their gazes fell to the body at his feet, and a collective, disbelieving gasp seemed to ripple through the village. An old woman took a hesitant step into the open, then another. A young boy followed. Soon, the square began to fill, the villagers circling the scene at a cautious distance, their eyes wide with a terror that was slowly, miraculously, giving way to dawning comprehension.
A single, ragged cheer cut through the quiet. It was followed by a smattering of applause, then a wave of shouts and cries, a raw, explosive catharsis that washed over the village. Women openly wept in their husbands’ arms, their sobs not of grief, but of profound, gut-wrenching relief. The tyrant of Kerasia was dead.
Agape threw her arms around Christos, her body trembling, squeezing him with a desperate strength. "You fool," she sobbed into his chest, her fists beating weakly against his torn tunic. "You absolute, reckless fool. You could have died. You
should
have died. This shouldn't have worked."
He hugged her back, his arms moving automatically, his mind still reeling. He let her vent, her words a frantic litany of fear and relief that anchored him to the moment. The monster was dead. The thought was an impossible, alien thing, a sentence in a language he didn't understand.
A path parted in the crowd. Stratos, Agape’s father, approached, his wife supporting his elbow. His jaw was a swollen, purpled ruin. "I can walk," he insisted, gently shrugging off his wife’s hand. He stopped before Christos, his eyes full of a pain that had nothing to do with his injury.
Christos released Agape, his own body screaming in protest as he straightened up. "Stratos… I am sorry," he said, the words thick and raw. "I was not in my right mind." He bowed his head in shame. "Hit me back."
Stratos placed a heavy, trembling hand on his shoulder. "Why would I hit the man who gave me back my daughter?" he asked, his voice thick with unshed tears.
Agape turned and rushed into her father's arms. Her mother joined them, as did all of Agape’s brothers, both old and young. Nearly a dozen bodies clung to each other in a fragile, weeping embrace, a family finally mended.
Christos watched them, an outsider to their relief. He turned his gaze back to the body. "What do we do with him now?"
Stratos composed himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He turned to the gathered villagers, his voice ringing out with a new, quiet authority. "He ruled this village with fear," he declared. "His power is broken. His fate is no longer for one man to decide. It is for all of us. What should be done with the body of this tyrant?"
A torrent of pent-up hatred erupted from the crowd. "Leave him for the wolves!"
"Throw him in the latrine pit!"
"No! He doesn't deserve to foul our earth!" a woman shrieked. "Burn him! Burn the savage until not even his ashes remain!"
A roar of approval met her cry. The decision was unanimous, a single, unified voice of a people reclaiming their power. Stratos nodded, his expression grim but resolute.
"A funeral pyre it is, then," he said. And the village, as one, set to work.
Theodorus took in the information with a passive countenance, but his mind was a roiling sea of calculation. To hate a man so much you would burn his body - denying him a Christian burial, damning his soul in the eyes of God - was an act of profound and desperate finality. In this superstitious world, it was a statement louder than any revolt. And Christos, the agent of that finality, stood amidst the scene not with guilt, but with a bone-deep, exhausted peace. Vassilis had been more than a man; he had been a disease. And as with the death of any tyrant, a power vacuum was left in his wake - a vacuum Theodorus intended to fill.
He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the villagers’ quiet murmuring. “Who now holds the title of village headman? Have you chosen a leader from amongst yourselves?”
It was Stratos who answered. He moved through the crowd, his jaw still a swollen, purpled ruin, but he walked with a new straightness in his spine. “We have not, Captain,” he said, his voice clear and steady. “The storm has only just passed. We are still finding our bearings in the calm.”
“Then allow us to help you find them,” Theodorus replied, his tone one of reasonable counsel. “My men will assist in cleaning this square and will patrol the outskirts to ensure your safety while you deliberate. I will wait. When you have chosen your leader, I would speak with him. I have an offer to make.”
The work that followed was a quiet, powerful diplomacy. The garrison moved with a disciplined purpose that was, to the villagers of Kerasia, an utterly alien sight. They hauled away the grim remains of the pyre, scrubbed the blood from the dirt, and moved with a silent efficiency that was neither threatening nor servile. It was simply professional. When they returned from the woods with two freshly killed deer slung over their shoulders - a contribution to the evening meal - the last of the villagers’ reticence melted away.
Theodorus himself moved among them, a soft-spoken, firm presence that was a world away from the brutal indifference of the fort’s previous commanders. He spoke with various villagers, from the old village healer to the young boys who already helped with the flocks. Christos was a quiet presence by his side during the process. He later questioned the Stratiotes quietly, piecing together the true, brutal story of Kerasia. He worked not as an inquisitor, but as a physician diagnosing a wound. In turn, the villagers saw not a boy playing at command, but an intelligent, serious man who listened more than he spoke.
The communal dinner that night became an impromptu, joyous feast. Theodorus contributed the various foodstuffs and perishables they’d brought from the castle for the mission, a gesture of goodwill that was worth more than a thousand promises. As the fire crackled and the ale flowed, the decades of fear that had strangled the village finally began to loosen their grip.
When the meal was done, every man of age gathered around the main fire to cast his vote. It was an ancient, oral tradition, each man speaking a name into the quiet of the night. When the last vote had been cast, the victor was clear.
The air in the miller’s home was warm, thick with the scent of old flour and woodsmoke. It was a humble space, but clean and ordered, a world away from the squalor of Vassilis’s den. A single candle flickered on the simple wooden table between Theodorus and Stratos, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
“I am building a shield wall,” Theodorus began, his voice low and steady in the quiet room. “Not of wood and steel, but of people. The last Tatar raid was not an end, Stratos. It was a test. They were probing our defenses, and they found them weak.”
He leaned forward, his dark eyes intense in the candlelight. “They found us weak because we are divided. Each village, each estate, stands alone. A single log burns out quickly, but a bundle of them makes a fire that can hold back the night. I have already obtained the agreement of the headmen of five other villages, and the lords of three estates have pledged their support. They understand that we are stronger together.”
Theodorus laid out his plan in simple, practical terms. He spoke of regular patrols to secure the roads, of a full survey of the land to map its resources, and of an intelligence network using the shepherds who lived their lives on the hillsides as a silent, invisible web of sentinels. He explained the need for a small, manageable tribute - grain, lumber, wool - whatever each community could spare.
“But this is my true promise,” Theodorus said, his voice dropping, compelling the older man to lean closer. “In exchange, we will not hide behind our fortress walls, letting the frontier burn to protect the heartland. My men will fight the nomads themselves if necessary, and we will beat back this threat. An attack on Kerasia will be met not by a locked gate in the distance, but by the swords of the Probatofrourio garrison at your side.”
Stratos listened, his calloused hands resting on the table, his expression unreadable. When Theodorus finished, he was silent for a long moment. “Words are cheap, Captain,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble. “We’ve heard promises from Mangup before. They send a lordling, he collects his taxes, and when the raiders come, his gates are shut, and we are left to the wolves. What guarantee do we have that you are any different?”
The deep-seated, entirely justified distrust was a wall thicker than any Theodorus could build with stone. He saw then that demanding tribute, no matter how small, would be seen as the same old tyranny in a new uniform. Kerasia was the northernmost village, their outlying shepherds the very first line of defense. He could not afford to fail here.
“You have no guarantee,” Theodorus conceded, his honesty disarming. “Only my word. And you are right not to trust it yet.” He met the older man’s gaze squarely. “So, do not pay us in grain or mutton. Not yet. Pay us in trust. Give me one month. You will see my patrols on your roads. You will see my men mapping your hills. You will meet with your shepherds and hear from them that we are establishing the warning pyres. When you have seen that my words are not empty wind, then we will speak of tribute.”
Stratos was visibly taken aback. This was not the offer of a tax collector. It was either the gambit of a desperate man, or a truly confident one. He stared into the young captain’s face, searching the shadows in his eyes for a flicker of deceit, for the familiar arrogance of the nobility. He found none. He saw only a chilling, unwavering resolve.
“Fine,” Stratos said, a slow breath escaping his lips. “You have a deal, Captain. But we will be watching.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand.
Theodorus stood and took it. The miller’s grip was like iron, a strength born from a lifetime of hardship and the new responsibility he now faced. With that handshake, the final, most crucial piece of the puzzle fell into place. Theodorus had gathered the disparate, fearful communities of the frontier. Now, all that was left was to forge them into a shield capable of withstanding the coming raid.