For hours, I sat on a wet boulder, lost in my thoughts. The ancient mountain forest encased me, tall and dark, the embodiment of solitude. Flurries started to fall, and I lost sight of the glow from the city braziers. I traveled far beyond the territory of The House, well into the sacred grounds of the Old Farmer, a forbidden place. Rumors about the old man say he would kill a daemon for trespassing. Much to my amusement, one record written in the royal ledger states he is the only man to have ever face Viceroy Falco and survive. In fact, they claim my father had rewarded the man this property to persuade him to lie down his sword and leave the war.

Does it matter if I die here? I would rather die by this man’s hand than give Le Chien Enragé the pleasure. I’ve served my purpose, haven’t I?

I’ve prevented the creation of more bloodeaters thus ending the source of the Madness, fulfilling my one desire in life. Snow covered my head and back in a thick layer. One could have mistaken me for a statue. My heart was heavy with remorse, fearing my father’s state of health once he learned his last living heir had vanished. Bitterly, I stared at my pale hands. The older I get, the slower I’ll age, making it rare for my kind to die of old age. These near-immortal vessels had performed my taboo in the secrecy of nature’s sanctuary. Betrayal. The steam from my breath evaporated, and I glared at my dagger.

My left hand held La Dame d’Croc with its blade melting the flurries landing on it. In my other hand I gripped my sixteen-knot braid of chestnut brown hair. I had been proud of this rope and the number of knots it carried, not realizing I would have to sacrifice who I was to keep it. My status on the social pyramid had fallen to the bottom tier with one tug of the dagger. With this gone, my status was no longer above all others in The House or the land of Grandemere.

What do I want? Am I not free to choose my own path now?

I didn’t regret abandoning my burdens to someone more willing. Without a single knot to elevate my status, these responsibilities were forbidden to me. Nothing more than a braidless servant. I was no longer a worthy citizen without the care of a keeper or master. Common citizens and the lower class held a dignified one- to three-knot braid. No one owned them, not like the shaven and hairless ones. Those above them with no braid were said to voluntarily devote their lives to a person. An assortment of maids, butlers, laborers, and even farmhands.

A keeper. Who shall I serve to atone for my sins? I want to protect them from the darkness I drowned in for years. This person will become everything my life stands for, and strangely, the thought makes me happy. They would need to be human, someone unaware of who I was, someone who could gain nothing from knowing my past. Where shall I find a person worthy?

“Aren’t you cold?” A masculine voice took me from my thoughts as I maintained a steady glare on the dagger.

I willed my eyes to face the concerned voice.

“Are you lost?” He was a human boy, similar to my physical age. Tufts of blonde hair pushed out of his wool cap as he stared astonished at me. His blue eyes were bright with the innocence of his kindhearted nature. Behind him was a toboggan filled with kindling. Dropping the rope, he shuffled to pull his hands free of his thick mittens and struggled to take his coat off. Looking down, I’d forgotten I was wearing nothing more than my brown leather capris, a horridly thin white blouse, and a white leather waistcoat. I smiled. Yes. This boy would be a worthy keeper, no?

“I’m not cold.” My response confused the boy, his cheeks and nose red from the frigid night air. “Isn’t it awfully late for you to be out here? Dangerous even, when you’re all by yourself.”

“I didn’t gather enough wood, so Grandpa Paul sent me out for more. He says his old bones don’t handle the cold well these days and I need to be more aware of what I’m doing, er, not doing in this case.” He fought to close his coat, his numb fingers struggling to hold the buttons. “I was on my way back. If you want to come, there’s a fire waiting. Besides, aren’t you freezing?”

“A fire sounds inviting. I can help you collect more wood and earn my keep until daybreak.” Tightening my grip on the dagger and my braid, I gave them one last sorrowful look before dropping them at the base of the old rock. “Your Grandpa wouldn’t be the one they call Old Farmer, is he?”

“Some traders call him that.” I brushed his hands away and fixed his coat, closing it again as he continued, cheeks glowing, “They tell me Grandpa’s been here since they were kids, and no one dares to mess with him, not even the daemons. I don’t know why, no one will tell me how he ended up here. There’s nothing out here, but I know it has to do with the war and the scars.” I finished the last button and we froze, staring into each other’s eyes. “You, you have unusual eyes…” He muttered, abandoning his anxious chatter.

“As do you.” Looking away, he pulled his mittens back on and I grabbed the toboggan, waiting for him. “I suppose I’ll ask your Grandpa to teach me to become a farmer. You think he’d take me on as an apprentice? I’ve always wanted to learn how to grow things and live off the land. It seems like a peaceful life.”

“Oh, he’d like that very much. He tries to teach me, but it doesn’t interest me. I have other plans.” His excitement faded as he looked back at the snow-covered boulder where he’d found me. “Don’t you want to grab your things?”

“No.” I sighed, motioning for him to lead the way.

Using his mittens, he did his best to warm up his nose and cheeks. Steam rolling over his face did nothing to dim the brilliance of his blue eyes. “My name’s John Thompson. What’s yours?”

“Dante Traî– Just Dante.” Grabbing branches at my feet, I followed him through the labyrinth of trees by the yellow flicker of his lantern. “John, what happened to your parents?”

“I was too young to remember much, but a man in black with hair white as snow appeared one night. The neighbors say he attacked my parents like a rapid dog, and well, the Madness took them. I’d crawled under a bed, closed my eyes, covered my ears. I don’t know how long I hid there, but by the time Grandpa pulled me out...” John’s words faded, his shoulders slumping.

How far does your malice reach, Viceroy Falco?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to relive painful memories, John.”

“Grandpa is mad at me, Dante.” It was a curious thing for someone to say to a stranger, but then again, in his eyes I was just another eighteen-year-old boy. Perhaps he’d longed for a friend of the same age for some time before I came along. “I feel us meeting tonight was fate. That we were meant to be here, you and I, for some greater cause.”

“Fate.” How could I confess I felt the same? “I’m sure with this much wood your grandfather will forgive your misjudgment.” He paused in his steps and with those soulful eyes, I found my cheeks hot and my heart aflutter. “What’s wrong?”

“It has nothing to do with kindling.” He gave me a grave look, his brow furrowed as he spoke, “He’s upset that I want to become a priest.”

I smiled. Never had I met someone so young so sure of his chosen path as John. His tone was strong, his decision an unmovable mountain. I couldn’t say if he knew how dangerous it was to be part of the Church. Many thought the life of a priest or nun to be suicide. Their mission, to cleanse the world of the Madness, to fight for cures and better practices for bloodeaters. We stood there in the snow, exchanging stern glares. My decision was final. If this eighteen-year-old boy could choose a reckless path, I could decide on my own destiny.

I shall devote my life to this future priest, John. He shall be my keeper.

“The title of priest suits you well, John. In every sense, you’re kind and charitable.” He held amazing power in his eyes. “It’s a good path to follow. I wish you the best of luck.”

“It feels right.” He huffed a cloud of steam as he turned away.

It wasn’t much further down the hillside before the glow of a cottage peaked between the shadows of the trees. We came out into a clearing and the smell of a fire greeted my nose. Obedient, I followed John to the side of the cottage. He continued to talk, explaining his plans to become a priest and make the world better. I stacked the branches onto the understocked pile, listening. We finished and it was time to face the Old Farmer. I shadowed John onto the porch, stamping the snow from our boots. Opening the door, the heat inside welcoming, but the old man’s glare erased the smile from my face.

The Old Farmer sat in a rocking chair, facing the fire, gnawing on his pipe. There was no fooling the educated, the old man knew I was a daemon, unlike naïve John. Though he shared similar blue eyes, they lacked the glow of his grandson’s own. A scar snaked from behind his left ear, across his neck, disappearing under his long white beard. Rubbing his crooked nose, he assessed my appearance as John explained how he found me. I doubted he cared for what John had to say.

I kept silent, waiting for the veteran warrior to reveal his character. He held out a hand, inviting John and I to sit. Stroking his beard, staring me down, he gathered his thoughts. Broad-shouldered and gnarled, this man had fought in the war. Judging by the braid swaying behind the chair, he sat far higher in the caste system than I expected. Twelve white knots marked him a Lord Knight, a general of a legion which meant he led five to six thousand men at one time, impressive. If he had been a farmer, there would have only been one knot, never more, never less. Neither of us were what we appeared to be. Our eyes met; he knew I was aware of his rank. Which of us had the advantage now? Were we both looking for an escape from society? Glancing to John and back to Paul, the question weighing on my mind left my chest aching.

Would he allow me to follow in John’s footsteps?

Taking one last puff of his pipe, the pungent smoke billowing into the cabin, he spoke in a deep throaty tone, “What brings you this far south?”

“I wish to be a farmer.” My words were solid; I wanted my resolve to carry the same impact John’s had hours before.

“A farmer?” Paul snorted as he glared at the hearth, anger seeping from his voice. “Why not ask someone back home to teach you instead?”

I snorted. “No one would willingly relinquish their pride by lowering themselves to manual labor. They prefer to be served on silver platters. I’m sure you’re aware of that fact.” I wanted to make it clear we knew each other without dragging John into the middle. “John mentioned you were the best, the only man capable of taming these woods.”

Another grunt escaped the old man. Teeth clacking on his pipe, short frustrated puffs came from his mouth as fire reflected in his eyes. The silence was painful awaiting his judgment. Not only had I misled his grandson, but we spoke in front of him in a shielding manner, keeping the secrets of daemon and Lord Knight in the dark. John had been sheltered, knowing little of what danger sat beside him.

It doesn’t matter if he casts me out. I've decided to watch over John. Even if it means watching from the shadows.