Echoes of Ice and Iron

Chapter 117: I Would Have Done the Same

The rogue did not beg.

That, more than anything, told Killan what kind of man they were dealing with.

He was restrained—not carelessly, not cruelly, but thoroughly. Iron bound his wrists, reinforced with chains that had been tested against stronger men than this one. A chair had been brought, though he had not been given the dignity of sitting in it properly. One knee remained forced to the stone, his posture held in place by two guards who did not loosen their grip.

Blood had been cleaned from his face.

Not out of mercy.

Out of necessity.

Killan wanted to see him clearly.

The chamber was quiet, removed from the rest of the palace. No windows. No distractions. Only stone, torchlight, and the steady presence of those who understood what this moment required.

Vignir stood to Killan’s right, arms folded, expression carved from restraint. Harlan lingered near the wall, quieter, watchful in a different way—his attention moving not just between faces, but between silences. Santi remained closest to the door, posture relaxed enough to seem unbothered, though no one in the room mistook that for ease.

Killan stepped forward.

The rogue lifted his head.

There was defiance there.

Not loud.

Not foolish.

Just enough to confirm loyalty to something beyond himself.

"You were given one task," Killan said.

The rogue said nothing.

Killan did not repeat himself.

Instead, he let the silence stretch, long enough to become uncomfortable—not for him, but for the man kneeling before him.

"You failed," Killan added.

A flicker of something passed through the rogue’s expression.

Not fear.

Not yet.

Something closer to irritation.

"I got close enough," the rogue said.

His voice was rough, but steady.

Killan studied him for a moment.

"Close enough is meaningless," he replied. "You’re alive."

The rogue’s jaw tightened.

"That wasn’t part of the plan."

"No," Killan said calmly. "It wasn’t."

Another silence.

Vignir shifted slightly. "You entered through the west corridor."

The rogue’s gaze flicked toward him, then away again.

"No response," Vignir continued. "Expected."

Harlan spoke then, quieter. "Your partner won’t make the same mistake."

That—

That landed.

It was small.

But Killan saw it.

The tightening at the edge of the rogue’s mouth. The brief stillness in his breath.

Confirmation.

Killan stepped closer.

"There are two of you," he said.

The rogue said nothing.

But he didn’t deny it.

Santi let out a quiet breath near the door. "Not much for conversation, is he?"

Killan didn’t look away from the rogue. "He will be."

The rogue huffed once, something almost like a laugh, though it held no humor.

"You think this matters?"

Killan’s expression didn’t change. "I think you came here to die for something."

The rogue’s eyes sharpened.

"And I think," Killan continued, his voice lowering just slightly, "you don’t know if it’s worth it anymore."

That struck deeper.

The rogue’s composure wavered—not visibly enough for most.

But enough.

"You don’t get to decide that," the rogue said.

"No," Killan agreed. "But I do get to decide what happens next."

Silence pressed in again.

Then—

"Who gave the order?"

The question was simple.

Direct.

The rogue smiled faintly.

"You already know it wasn’t me."

Killan tilted his head slightly. "Humor me."

The rogue’s gaze flicked between them—Killan, Vignir, Harlan—measuring, weighing.

Then:

"You’re already looking in the wrong direction."

Vignir’s voice cut in, sharper now. "Then correct us."

The rogue’s smile didn’t fade.

"Why would I?"

Killan stepped closer still.

"Because the longer you hold it," he said, quiet but unyielding, "the less control you have over how this ends."

The rogue met his gaze.

And for the first time—

There it was.

A fracture.

Not fear.

But doubt.

It was small.

But it was enough.

Killan saw it.

And he waited.

Aya did not return to her chambers.

Not immediately.

The room she chose instead was smaller, quieter, tucked away from the main halls where the palace noise could not quite reach. A place meant for retreat, not isolation—but tonight, the difference blurred.

She stood near the window, though it offered little view beyond the dark.

Her hands had steadied.

Her breathing had evened.

But the quiet inside her—

Had not.

The absence of the thread should have felt like relief.

Instead, it felt like something had been taken too late.

She could still remember how easily it had opened.

How quickly she had followed it.

How close she had come—

Aya closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

The door behind her opened without ceremony.

She didn’t turn.

"You’re not difficult to find," Nolle said lightly.

Aya exhaled, something faintly resembling a laugh slipping through. "I wasn’t trying to be."

"Good," he replied, stepping into the room. "Because I would have been offended if I had to work for it."

That drew a small smile from her.

It didn’t last.

Nolle studied her for a moment, his usual ease settling over the space without force.

"You’re thinking too loudly," he said.

Aya glanced at him. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"Completely unqualified," he admitted. "But accurate."

She shook her head slightly.

"I almost killed him."

Nolle didn’t flinch.

"I noticed."

Aya’s gaze dropped. "I didn’t stop because I wanted to."

That—

That was harder to say.

Nolle didn’t answer immediately.

He stepped closer, but not too close, his posture relaxed as he leaned slightly against the wall beside her.

"You did stop," he said.

"Because Killan was there."

"And if he wasn’t?"

Aya didn’t answer.

Nolle nodded once, as if that confirmed enough.

"Then we’re glad he was."

Aya let out a slow breath.

"That’s not comforting."

"No," Nolle agreed. "But it’s honest."

Silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Just—

Present.

"You saw something," he said after a moment.

Aya nodded. "Two of them. One is still out there."

"Of course there is," Nolle muttered.

Aya glanced at him.

He offered a faint smile. "It would be far too simple otherwise."

That almost pulled a real laugh from her.

Almost.

Nolle’s expression softened slightly. "You’re not the problem here, Aya."

She didn’t look convinced.

"I lost control."

"You pushed past your limit," he corrected. "There’s a difference."

Aya shook her head. "Not if someone dies because of it."

Nolle’s gaze held hers.

"Then we make sure they don’t."

Simple.

Direct.

Not dismissive.

Aya studied him for a moment.

"You always make it sound easy."

"I don’t," he said. "I just don’t let it sound impossible."

That lingered.

Aya’s shoulders eased, just slightly.

"Killan’s interrogating him," Nolle added. "Vignir’s with him."

Aya nodded once. "He won’t break easily."

"No," Nolle agreed. "But he already has."

Aya frowned slightly. "How?"

Nolle’s smile returned, faint but certain.

"He came in expecting to die," he said. "Now he’s not sure if he will."

Aya considered that.

Then nodded.

"Doubt," she said.

"Exactly."

Silence returned.

But this time—

It felt different.

Lighter.

Not gone.

But shared.

Nolle straightened, pushing off the wall.

"Try to get some rest," he said.

Aya gave him a look. "You don’t believe that."

"Not even slightly," he admitted. "But it felt like the right thing to say."

That earned a small, real smile.

Nolle paused at the door.

Then, more quietly:

"You held it, you know."

Aya didn’t answer.

But she didn’t deny it either.

And for now—

That was enough.

---

The rogue did not break.

Time passed without measure in the chamber. Questions were asked, rephrased, sharpened. Silence answered most of them. When words came, they were chosen carefully—offered not to reveal, but to mislead.

Killan did not rush it.

Vignir pressed where needed, his patience thinner but controlled. Harlan watched for shifts beneath the surface, for cracks that might widen with the right pressure. Santi remained near the door, quiet, present, ready.

But the rogue held.

Not out of strength alone.

Out of certainty.

He believed time was not on their side.

That alone made him dangerous.

Killan straightened slightly, studying him.

"He’s waiting," he said.

Vignir frowned. "For what?"

Killan’s gaze didn’t leave the rogue. "For us to fail somewhere else."

The implication settled.

The second rogue.

Still moving.

Still unseen.

Santi exhaled. "Then we’re wasting time here."

"No," Killan said. "We’re choosing how to use it."

The rogue smiled faintly, blood still dried at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re already too late."

Killan stepped closer.

"Maybe," he said. "But not everywhere."

The rogue’s eyes flickered.

Just once.

Killan caught it.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

A pause followed, measured and deliberate. Then Killan turned slightly.

"Bring her in."

Vignir’s head snapped toward him. "Killan—"

"He won’t talk," Killan said, calm but final. "She’s the only one who’s seen what he knows."

Harlan’s expression tightened. "And if she goes too far?"

Killan didn’t answer immediately.

Then:

"I’ll stop her."

The certainty in it held.

It had to.

Vignir exhaled sharply but didn’t argue further. "Then we control the space."

Santi pushed off the wall. "I’ll clear the outer corridor."

Killan nodded once.

"Now."

Aya knew before they came for her.

She felt it in the way the palace had quieted—not outwardly, but beneath it. A shift. A pull. Something unfinished drawing her back toward it.

When the guard arrived, she was already standing.

"My Queen," he said, bowing. "The King requests—"

"I know."

She moved past him before he could finish.

The chamber felt smaller when she entered.

Or perhaps it was the memory of what had happened before.

The rogue lifted his head as she stepped inside.

This time—

There was no defiance in his expression.

Only recognition.

And beneath it—

Fear.

Small.

But real.

Aya stopped a few paces away.

Killan stepped closer to her side, not touching, but near enough that the space between them remained anchored.

"You don’t have to do this," he said quietly.

Aya didn’t look at him.

"He won’t speak."

"No," Killan agreed. "He won’t."

A pause.

Then, softer:

"Not willingly."

Aya’s gaze remained fixed on the rogue.

"I won’t lose control," she said.

It sounded like a promise.

It did not feel like one.

Killan studied her for a moment.

Then nodded.

"Then we do this together."

Vignir shifted slightly, tension evident now. Harlan didn’t move, but his attention sharpened. Santi had returned, the door closed behind him.

No one spoke.

Aya stepped forward.

The rogue tried to pull back.

He couldn’t.

"You’ve already felt it," Aya said.

Her voice was calm.

Too calm.

"You know what I can do."

The rogue’s breathing quickened.

"You won’t—"

Aya’s hand lifted.

He choked on the rest.

The hold came faster this time.

Stronger.

The air in the room shifted—not violently, but unmistakably.

Aya’s eyes darkened, the storm within them deepening as the connection snapped into place.

The rogue gasped, his body locking as something beneath his skin responded.

"No—"

"Where is he?" Aya asked.

No answer.

Her fingers tightened slightly.

The rogue convulsed, a strangled sound tearing from his throat.

"Where."

His resistance shattered—not in words, but in the way his mind opened under pressure.

And Aya—

Followed.

The world shifted again.

Stone beneath her feet—different.

Colder.

A city not her own.

Movement through narrow streets, cloaked and deliberate.

A figure slipping between shadows.

The second.

Alive.

Unhindered.

Aya pushed further.

Too far.

The vision sharpened—

A room.

A blade laid out carefully.

A map—

Vetasta.

Marked.

Planned.

The rogue screamed.

Back in the chamber, his body arched violently, blood spilling from his mouth as the strain tore through him.

"Aya—"

Killan’s voice cut through.

She didn’t stop.

Not yet.

There was more—

A face—

No.

Not clear.

Obscured.

Hidden.

Aya reached—

"Aya!"

Killan’s hand closed around her wrist.

Firm.

Grounding.

"I’m here."

The words struck through the noise.

"Enough."

The pressure faltered.

The vision fractured—

Then broke.

Aya staggered slightly as the connection snapped, the rogue collapsing forward with a wet, choking gasp.

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Breathing.

Too loud.

Too sharp.

Aya’s chest rose and fell unevenly, her control slipping at the edges before she forced it back into place.

"He’s in Vetasta," she said, voice tight but steady. "Already moving."

Killan didn’t release her immediately.

"Did you see who sent them?"

Aya’s jaw tightened.

"No."

The word carried frustration.

And something darker.

"I was close."

Too close.

Vignir exhaled sharply. "And the rogue?"

Harlan stepped forward, checking the man quickly.

"He’s alive," he said. "Barely."

Santi muttered under his breath. "That’s generous."

Aya didn’t look at them.

Her gaze remained distant for a moment longer.

Then she pulled herself fully back.

"I can’t reach him again," she said. "Not without—"

She didn’t finish.

She didn’t need to.

Killan understood.

"Then we don’t."

Aya looked at him.

Something in her expression shifted—tightened, resisted—

Then settled.

"Vetasta," she repeated.

Killan nodded once.

"We move."

Far from Athax—

The night in Vetasta was quieter.

Not peaceful.

Just—

Unaware.

The second rogue moved through the city without haste, his path deliberate, his presence unremarkable to those who passed him. A cloak, a lowered gaze, the rhythm of someone who belonged just enough not to be questioned.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

The first had already failed.

He felt it.

Not through magic.

Through timing.

Through silence where there should have been signal.

It did not matter.

The plan had never depended on one blade.

He reached the building without pause, slipping inside as though he had done so a hundred times before.

The room awaited him.

Prepared.

A table.

A map.

Marked.

Vetasta at its center.

He removed his gloves slowly, placing them beside a blade that caught the faint light.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Only continuation.

"They’re watching Athax," he murmured, almost thoughtful.

His hand settled on the map.

"Good."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Then they won’t see this."