CHAPTER 9 : LEO

Leo awoke screaming—a raw, guttural cry that seemed to vibrate through the very beams of the house. His body, seized by a primal terror, lurched from the bed, but his legs buckled beneath him before he could find his balance. He collapsed heavily onto the floor, his knees striking the cold wooden planks with a force that sent a shudder through his sweat-drenched spine. His breath came in ragged, broken gasps, struggling to fill his lungs as though an invisible vice had clamped around his ribs, squeezing the air from his body. His fingers clenched into fists so tightly that pain shot through his hands like white-hot needles. He felt the skin split under the pressure, warm blood welling between his whitened knuckles—but he didn't care. Every inch of him trembled, as though a bone-deep chill had gripped him from the inside out.

His tongue tingled, a dull burn spreading through his mouth. He had bitten the inside of his cheek in his panic, and now the acrid taste of blood coated his palate, adding to the sickening churn in his stomach, the overwhelming sense of dread. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through his heart. His temples pounded with the frantic rhythm of a fear he no longer controlled, his thoughts clashing in a chaotic, unbearable storm. And yet, amid the tumult, one image remained stark, seared into his mind with cruel precision.

Emma.

She was alive. By the gods, she was alive! That simple truth should have filled him with relief, should have shattered the nightmare that had held him captive for days. But it didn't. His heart still pounded. His breath still broke. Because he had felt it—

Her fear.

A terror so raw, so suffocating, so unrelenting that it had seeped into his very soul like poison, coiling around his insides and paralyzing him. He had seen it. He had felt it. He had been dragged into this strange, inexplicable connection between them, falling deeper and deeper into a vision that was no mere dream.

And he understood.

The man. The filth in his eyes, the sickening leer on his lips. The stench of his presence, the way his hands touched Emma. Too close. Far too close.

A brutal rage ignited in Leo's core, a searing inferno that would have reduced the world to ashes had he possessed the power. He wanted to scream, to strike, to break something—anything—to rid himself of this consuming fury. But nothing could erase what he had seen. Nothing could undo Emma's suffering, her despair, the fleeting shadow in her eyes when, for a moment, she had given up.

That was the worst part. Not the rage. Not the thirst for violence. But that flicker of surrender in her gaze. That moment when she had stopped hoping.

He wanted to shake her, to scream at her to fight, to refuse, to resist, again and again. He wanted to tear that wretched parasite apart, to drag her away, to hold her close, to feel her breath, to reassure her, to whisper that he was there. But he wasn't. He was miles away, trapped in this cold room in Lake-town, powerless, useless, nothing more than a spectator to the nightmare unfolding before him.

His entire body quaked, horror digging its claws deep into his bones. A burning sensation spread across his neck, radiating outward, unbearable in its intensity. With a shaking hand, he reached up to touch his bruised skin, his fingers brushing against the unnaturally hot surface of the green stone hanging from his necklace. At his touch, the pain flared sharper, as if the jewel itself had absorbed his torment, bearing the scorching imprint of his violent awakening.

Then, a sharp sound shattered the silence of the night.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a dull thud. A gust of icy wind rushed into the room, making the flame of the bedside lamp flicker wildly.

Bard stood in the doorway, his breath uneven, his usually well-groomed hair disheveled across his worried brow. He was still wearing his nightclothes—a simple, wrinkled linen tunic and canvas trousers, his feet slipped into old woolen socks. He hadn't even taken the time to put on his robe, a clear sign of the haste with which he had risen.

His dark, piercing gaze swept across the room, lingering on Léo's twisted form—his shoulders shaking, his hands covered in blood. Genuine concern flickered across Bard's features, banishing any trace of exhaustion. In quick strides, he crossed the room, setting his lamp down on the dresser without a second thought. He was kneeling in front of Léo before the latter had even managed to catch his breath.

"Léo!"

His voice rang out, a mix of gravity and urgency. He placed a firm hand on Léo's shoulder, searching for his gaze, but Léo kept his eyes locked on the floor, as if struggling to anchor himself in reality.

"What happened? Tell me everything."

But Léo couldn't form a single word. His throat was tight, his breathing still erratic, his chest constricted beneath the weight of a nightmare far too real. How could he explain? How could he put into words that intangible torment, that feeling of losing without being able to act, that rage, that helplessness?

His lips trembled, but no sound escaped them. At last, his gaze met Bard's. And in the man's eyes, he saw that silent understanding, that sincere concern, that reassuring presence that, without a single word, whispered to him that he was not alone. But it wasn't enough. Because Emma was.

It took a long while for Léo's breathing to steady, for his chest to stop heaving in painful gasps, for his hands to cease their trembling. Bard's presence, solid and unwavering at his side, was a fragile anchor in the storm of panic threatening to drown him. His gaze flickered, still struggling to grasp reality, his mind fighting to shape words, to make sense of the unspeakable.

When his broken voice finally shattered the silence, it was to pour out everything he had seen, everything he had felt. He spoke of the burning pain of his necklace, of the searing sensation that had ripped him from sleep like a blade heated to white-hot. He described the image of Emma—her abject fear, the monstrous hands reaching greedily for her, terrifying her beyond words. He spoke of his own fury, of that visceral urge to reduce everything to ashes, to tear Emma from that nightmare with his own hands, to feel her against him, alive and safe. And he confessed his helplessness, that vile feeling of being trapped leagues away from her, condemned to be nothing more than a powerless witness to a horror he could not bear.

Bard remained silent yet attentive, never interrupting even once. He stayed there, his firm hand resting on Léo's shoulder, a reassuring weight amidst the chaos within him. He did not try to minimize his torment or offer empty words of comfort. He simply remained, listening—and that alone was enough to keep Léo from completely falling apart.

In a calm tone, the archer instructed his children to return to bed, a single look enough to soothe their concern. Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain had all risen, awakened by Léo's cries, their faces drawn with sleep and worry. But Bard, with that natural and benevolent authority of his, reassured them that all was well, that he would take care of everything. It was only when he heard them retreat to their rooms that Léo finally felt the weight of their absence grant him a sliver of space to breathe more freely.

Then Bard did what he did best—he thought. With his usual composure, he analyzed every detail Léo had given him, trying to extract a clue from the tangle of emotions and visions. But the most tangible detail they had was that unusual figure— a creature with hairy feet, of modest stature, smaller even than a Dwarf.

"That creature..." Bard murmured, furrowing his brow. "I don't know what it is. But it is not from here."

Léo lifted his head, desperation flickering in his gaze.

"Which means..."

"Which means that wherever she is, Emma is nowhere near Lake-town," Bard concluded.

The words fell like a guillotine. On one hand, they dismissed the fear that Emma might be in danger somewhere within the town, right under his nose, beyond his reach. But on the other, they confirmed a far grimmer truth—she was far away. Too far.

Léo shut his eyes, fighting against the dull panic tightening its grip on him. Where was she? Who was that man who wished her harm? And Marie...?

For a moment, his stomach twisted under the weight of a new fear. Where was Marie? Was she in danger too? But that rising panic was swiftly extinguished. He had not seen his daughter in his vision. He had not heard her name in Emma's terrified thoughts. And above all... he had felt a relief—faint but undeniable—in Emma's soul when she thought of their child.

So he forced himself to breathe slower. He clung to that certainty, however small it was. Emma would never have left her behind. Whatever she was enduring, she was watching over Marie.

But that meager consolation did little to calm his mind.

The rest of the night was a blur of tangled thoughts, fragmented images, indistinct nightmares. Léo tossed and turned endlessly, unable to find sleep, haunted by the memory of Emma—her terrified eyes, the unbearable sensation of being powerless. Exhaustion should have claimed him after the grueling day at the carpentry workshop, after the pain and anguish that had drained him of all strength. But his body refused to yield. His mind remained on high alert, trapped in a feverish state of anxiety, unable to find rest.

Finally, long before the rooster heralded the dawn, he gave up. Slowly sitting up, he let his bare feet touch the icy floor, a shiver running down his spine. He felt drained, spent, yet sleep continued to elude him. Léo lowered his gaze to his pendant, lifting it lightly between his fingers, watching it sway under the pale glow of the oil lamp. The green stone seemed almost lifeless, at best lukewarm—nothing like the searing heat that had torn him from his nightmare.

His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he tightened his fingers around the jewel. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. His mind, still clouded by anguish, clung desperately to the idea that somehow, in some way, he could find that faint thread that had connected him to Emma.

"Show her to me..."

It was a silent prayer, a whispered plea into the darkness. He tried to still the tremors in his hands, to focus every part of his being on the stone, on that link he knew had existed—if only for a few fleeting moments. He had felt her. He had seen her. He could not have imagined it all.

Léo concentrated, trying to recapture the exact sensation he had before his scream had awakened him. He struggled to ignore his own despair, to think only of her. Of Emma. Of the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the softness of her voice as she whispered his name. Of the golden glints in her hair when she laughed beneath the sun. Of the rhythm of her heartbeat against his, of the certainty they had always shared—that they were bound, no matter what.

A shiver ran through the stone between his fingers.

His heart skipped a beat. He held his breath, grasping at that sliver of hope.

"Emma..."

But the warmth faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dull inertness. A coldness almost cruel.

Léo's eyes snapped open, his breath shallow. He stared at the stone with burning intensity, turning it over in his palm, pressing it against his forehead, as if he could will it to yield, to answer his call.

"Please, show her to me!"

But there was only silence.

A suffocating, unbearable silence.

His jaw clenched, and with a surge of frustration, he slammed his fist against the mattress. The stone tumbled onto his lap, lifeless. He fought against the sudden urge to hurl it against the wall. But he didn't. Because despite his anger, despite his helplessness, he knew this necklace might be his only link to her.

So he picked it up carefully, holding it between his fingers like a fragile treasure. And he sat there, on his unmade bed, staring at the stone, his thoughts spiraling, until the dawn finally chased away the shadows of the night and Bard's footsteps echoed outside his door.

Having already dressed during his sleepless night, Léo wasted no time in joining Bard in the kitchen. The comforting scent of warm bread and burning wood filled the air, but he paid it no mind. His mind, fogged by anxiety and exhaustion, was elsewhere. He merely followed the motions of the morning routine, helping Bard set the table without a word.

The archer, ever observant, let him be, saying nothing. But Léo felt the weight of his gaze at every moment. A quiet, constant concern. Bard knew these silences, these absences that ran deeper than mere fatigue. He did not ask needless questions, did not press to break the quiet—but he was there, simply, attuned to every detail.

When Léo grew frustrated at a slice of bread crumbling too easily, his exasperated sigh echoed in the morning hush. He tensed further when melted cheese slipped between his fingers, his jaw tightening as if this minor inconvenience was yet another injustice to endure. He didn't have to ask for anything—Bard placed a clean cloth within reach, without a word, without an expectant glance, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. A simple gesture, yet one that said everything.

Throughout the meal, Bard remained silent, yet he watched over Léo in his own way. He served him a slightly larger portion than usual, slid a cup of water toward him when he noticed the slight tremble in his hands, his knuckles white from tension. He did not demand words from him, did not pry with questions. But he was there, in every detail, in every subtle act of care that required no gratitude—only the quiet assurance of his presence.

As every morning, Bard accompanied him to the carpentry workshop. But today, their walk was more hesitant. Léo moved with a distracted step, clumsier than usual, and his cane was of no help. Twice, he stumbled over the uneven cobblestones, and twice, Bard caught him before he could fall. Not once did he comment, not once did he urge him to be more careful. He simply tightened his grip on Léo's arm, preventing him from collapsing, and adjusted his own pace to match his—slower, more cautiously.

When Léo nearly fell a third time, Bard stopped. He did not immediately release his arm, taking a moment to observe him, to gauge him. Then he placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, as if to anchor him to the ground.

"Are you sure you want to go?" he murmured simply.

His gaze spoke for him. There was no reproach, no judgment—only sincere concern. A single word from Léo, a simple nod, and Bard would have turned back with him, without question.

But Léo had had enough of inactivity. He did not want to remain confined, left to his thoughts. So he lifted his chin slightly and breathed:

"I am."

Bard said nothing. He simply nodded, then resumed walking, staying close enough to support him if needed.

At the workshop, Brandmir was already waiting for them. At first, Léo barely made him out, his eyes dulled by fatigue, struggling to focus. The workshop seemed blurred around him—the faces of the workers, the scattered tools—everything felt distant. But when his gaze finally landed on Brandmir, he felt slightly more present, as if a fragment of reality had cut through the haze. The workshop master's salt-and-pepper hair was tousled by the breeze, his silhouette standing against the morning light. But it was not his appearance that captured Léo's attention—it was his eyes. Intense blue, fixed on him with such insistence, as if searching for the secrets buried deep within him.

It seemed Brandmir knew everything—the exhaustion, the internal battle devouring Léo. The man's gaze sharpened, silent concern etching itself onto his time-worn face.

Léo suddenly felt scrutinized under a microscope, every detail of his weariness exposed, and he instinctively averted his gaze. But before he could react, Brandmir stepped forward. Léo briefly wondered if they looked as bad as they felt. But the man wasted no time, heading straight for them, his piercing blue eyes locked onto him with an attention that went beyond mere surface observation.

Brandmir's gaze, blue as the sky above the mountains, examined Léo and Bard with uncanny precision, perceiving even what they themselves were unsure of feeling. A silence settled for a moment, as if the very air awaited the master carpenter's words. He asked no questions, yet his presence was itself a silent inquiry, a look heavy with unspoken understanding. That was when Léo realized—Brandmir knew. He knew exactly what lay beneath the surface.

He said nothing, but his attention carried all the wisdom of experience.

Without a word, without hesitation, Brandmir extended his hand toward him. His gesture was simple, almost instinctive. He leaned in slightly, placing a hand on Léo's shoulder. Léo did not move, his eyes fixed on the ground. It was a silent kindness, a support the carpenter had no need to verbalize. Brandmir offered his presence without words, as he always had for those he cared for. Léo felt the warmth of his hand—an anchor, a tangible contact in a world that seemed to crumble beneath him.

"Your thoughts seem to have carried you far away, Léo," Brandmir murmured in his deep voice. "Are you all right?"

The question was simple, yet the concern beneath it struck Léo like a blow. He lifted his gaze, finally meeting Brandmir's eyes. A sigh escaped his lips, and without a word, he nodded—unable to offer anything more than that slight motion to express that he was surviving, at best. What else could he do, anyway?

Léo acknowledged Bard with a simple nod, too exhausted to say more. He wanted to thank him, but the words remained stuck in his throat. What was the point? Bard would understand, as always. And after all, a single look between them was enough. Still, he did not miss the silent exchange between his friend and Brandmir—the weighted glance, the unspoken conversation carried in mutual understanding. Léo knew his condition had not gone unnoticed.

He stepped into the vast hangar, where the dull sounds of tools and busy workers already resonated. The scent of freshly cut wood enveloped him, familiar and comforting. Instinctively, he made his way to the section where he and Brandmir had been working on the commission for the Master of the City's niece, seeking in the craft a semblance of stability.

Leo began preparing the necessary tools: he lined up the saws, checked the planes, and inspected the planks he had to cut before sanding and assembling them. It was only when he briefly lifted his head that he met Brandmir's piercing gaze. The man was watching him, arms crossed, chin slightly inclined, a worried crease marking his forehead.

"Do you feel capable of completing your work today?" he asked in a calm tone, though a hint of concern colored his voice. "You seem rather distracted."

Leo felt a surge of frustration rise within him. He clenched his teeth, slightly vexed by the remark. Say what they would, he didn't need anyone doubting him. He responded with a simple nod, averting his eyes to mask his irritation. He had nothing left but work, and he intended to cling to it.

Because thinking meant suffering.

He had lost everything. His wife. His daughter. His brother. He would likely never see his parents again. Even his friends now seemed as distant as a faded dream. The familiarity of his world, of his own time, was an illusion that faded a little more each day. All he had left were his hands, his weary body, and the relentless effort of repetitive labor to keep him from sinking.

But the day dragged on with unbearable slowness. Each hammer blow, each screech of the saw against the wood, echoed in his head like a crushing weight. Fatigue weighed down his movements, turmoil gnawed at his nerves. He had never been prone to outbursts, but today, he felt anger rumbling within him, a deep, simmering rage with no clear direction. Every loud noise made him want to scream. Every clumsy mistake, every minor error, felt like a provocation.

As the day neared its end, Leo pulled off his apron with a weary gesture, his mind drowning in dark thoughts he couldn't shake. As he was about to put away his tools, a burst of laughter caught his attention. Two workers, seated a bit farther away, had grabbed a bottle of wine, their coarse laughter echoing through the workshop. Leo had no intention of joining their chatter, but the words he overheard froze him in place.

"She thinks she's too good for us, that one. Always so proper, always playing the lady."

"She acts all prim and proper, that Sigrid, but I bet she wouldn't say no if given the chance."

"If she keeps teasing us like that, there'll come a day when we take what's rightfully ours..."

Leo's blood ran cold, like an icy blade slicing through his veins. Sigrid. They were talking about her—Bard's daughter. He knew her. Not intimately, no. But they had shared meals, exchanged a few words. Since living with Bard, he had seen her care for her younger siblings with a maturity beyond her years, a solemnity she never should have borne. Sigrid was not the kind of girl to provoke anyone. She was calm, discreet, yet full of dignity. The mere fact that they spoke of her this way, as if she were prey, ignited a fury in Leo that he could not control.

Perhaps the men had no real awareness of what they were saying, perhaps they were just two drunkards, trying to sound clever. But to Leo, that didn't matter. He could have ignored them, dismissed their vile words, but that would have been impossible. The sound of Sigrid's name, uttered so casually, shattered the fragile barrier he had struggled to keep in place.

Without thinking, he raised his arm. His fist collided brutally with the first man's face. The dull impact resonated in the air, immediately followed by an explosion of blood, splattering onto the dusty floor. The metallic taste in his mouth, Leo didn't stop there. With a primal cry, he lunged at the second man. The fight was explosive, violent, utterly lacking finesse. Leo struck blindly, bit down, attacked whenever he saw an opening, consumed by an uncontrollable fury. He wasn't seeking victory—only pain, immediate and savage vengeance.

Blows rained down, brutal and chaotic. Leo took as many hits as he dealt, his fists becoming weapons of raw agony and rage. One of the workers tried to grab his arm, but Leo reacted instantly, driving his knee into the man's stomach, forcing him to stumble back. He could feel the eyes of the entire workshop on him, the murmurs of the other workers rising in the air—some excited, eager to bet on the fight's outcome, others more hesitant, uncertain whether to intervene.

The punches, the roars, and the curses escalated, but suddenly, Brandmir's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Enough!"

His tone was so sharp that even the air seemed to still. His command left no room for argument. A grip of iron seized Leo, tearing him away from his opponents with brutal force. Caught off guard, Leo didn't even have time to react before strong arms dragged him away from the chaotic scene. There was no chance to fight back, no escape—Brandmir had acted with unwavering authority. Leo felt the anger still boiling within him, but he remained silent, allowing himself to be led away without a word. His fists, trembling with rage, clenched tightly against his own body.

Brandmir dragged him unceremoniously into his office. He ordered Leo to sit on an old, rickety chair while he, impassive, rummaged through a drawer. Leo watched every movement, irritation mingling with shame. Brandmir, the man of iron discipline, the man Leo respected and obeyed in order to learn his craft, was preparing to examine his injuries. The master craftsman pulled out a clean cloth and a bottle of disinfecting alcohol. His movements were sharp, mechanical, as if he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. But each of Brandmir's gestures bore the mark of a cold anger, a silent exasperation. He cleaned Leo's wounds with more force than necessary. Leo, jaw clenched, did not flinch.

The heavy silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of alcohol sizzling on Leo's cuts, until Brandmir finally spoke. His voice, usually calm and measured, had turned sharp, relentless.

"What happened? By the Valar, what possessed you to brawl here, with those two fools?!"

Leo, fists still clenched, simply stared at him without answering immediately. His rage was still there, a burning fire, but he knew he couldn't answer the way he wanted to. Brandmir, the man of decisive judgment, watched him with a new intensity, his ice-blue eyes gleaming with disappointment and disapproval.

Finally, Leo exhaled, "They spoke of harming Sigrid."

His voice was low, but hard, almost hateful.

He expected to see understanding flash in Brandmir's eyes. But instead, there was only a subtle shift—a flicker in his gaze, a tension in his muscles that betrayed something deeper.

Brandmir shook his head with a long, weary sigh, as if he understood, but at the same time, something darker lingered in his expression, something almost exhausted.

"That is no reason to start a fight here, boy," he said, his voice lowering into something graver. "I understand your anger, Leo. But those two are kin to the Master of the Town. And that, you must know, changes everything."

He paused, as if measuring the weight of his words.

"Picking a fight with them means inviting far greater trouble than you can imagine."

Leo, fists still clenched, remained silent. He didn't care. He despised those men, those sons of nobility, those lackeys of the Master of the Town.

But Brandmir spoke of another reality—a hierarchy beyond Leo's grasp, a well-oiled machine of power and privilege that placed him always at the bottom. And in the silence of the room, Leo realized that this fight might have consequences far graver than he had anticipated.

"I will warn Bard to be cautious," Brandmir finally said, his tone now carrying a somber weight. "This matter will not end here."