“I had to cook for the rest of the orphans,” Owen continued. “I was raised in an orphanage by a very kind woman, who taught me how to cook. I wasn’t good at it, nor did I like it. The only reason I did it was because I found out the woman was starving herself.

There just wasn’t enough to go around. She grew weak, too weak to cook, but someone had to do it, even if the others hated me for how bad a job I was doing.

She was the only one who smiled when I made something, and the only one who cried when I was taken. Gwen, she smiled too. It was like she…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “Does that answer your question?”

“What was her name?” Olpi asked.

Owen furrowed his brow, and his frown deepened. “Her name?” he repeated. Olpi nodded. “What does her name matter? She would barely know my face if she saw me again. I think it was…it was…what was it? No, I should know this. She was tall. She smiled beautifully. She…her name. What was her name?” He held his head in his hands and shook himself around. He looked back at Olpi again with a neutral expression.  He pointed out at the small clearing they had entered. “We’re here.”

Corpses of goblins and humans, blanketed in light frost, lay motionless within the snow. Olpi recognized Frey’s handiwork on the goblins, and her stomach dropped. She hurried to the closest human and, with trembling fingers, gently turned its lifeless face towards her. She sighed in relief and looked towards the next, but Owen put a hand on her shoulder.

“Stop,” Owen barked, and Olpi stopped. “He wouldn’t die like them, not Frey.” He stared into the vegetation ahead. “Isn’t that right? The noble hero’s grandson would overcome the odds, then come marching back!”

Olpi crossed her arms as she stood up. “He might not be that bright, but he’s not stupid.”

As if on cue, the bloodied, beaten form of Frey stomped out from the opposite side of the clearing. Despite it, he stood tall with his head held high. He stared down at them both. “What do you want Owen?” he boomed.

Owen clamped a hand around Olpi’s throat, not hard enough to choke her, but to let her know how small her neck was in the palm of his hand. In a flash of copper life essence, he could have ended her life if he so wished. “I don’t want anyone to die here,” he said. “Take off your spatial ring, weapons, and armor, then toss them all aside. If you do so, then we can all see our families again. That, I swear to you upon the goddess.”

“Frey,” Olpi blurted out with her heart in her mouth. “Elero got away. I tried to run as well but I couldn’t do it. Just forget about me and run.” She could feel the poison eating away as she clutched the antidote. She could prick herself and all would be well again, but she wasn’t sure how much was left and Frey needed it more.

“Olpi, shut up,” Frey said as he reached up to his helm. “You’ve done enough today. Is Arte alive?”

Owen nodded. “As is Gwen. We don’t wish to kill you Botomans, only to have your talents used-“

“Did I ask?” Frey barked as he threw his helm to the side along with his other equipment. The only things he had left were the clothes on his back.

‘He must have some sort of plan, doesn’t he?’ Olpi thought.

Owen threw two sets of manacles, both inscribed with runes, over to Frey. “Lay flat on the ground and bind yourself with these. One around your feet and the other around your arms. We should hear them click when they lock.”

‘He isn’t going to do it. He can’t,’ Olpi thought. She struggled against Owen’s grip, trying once again to call upon her mana. It was useless. She was dead weight now, and Frey must hate her for it. She resisted the urge to cry.

Frey stooped down to pluck the manacles out of the snow, all the while his eyes, alive with suppressed rage, seemed to bore holes in Owen. “What did it feel like when you finally got rid of Gwen? Liberating? Empowering? What about your son? Did you find it peaceful when you finally ripped his toy out of his hands?” He threw scattered bits of a doll over at Owen, who barely spared them a second look.

“Manacle your arms, then your legs,” Owen hissed with bits of copper life essence flaring around his tensed grip. The person Olpi had spoken to was dead, and standing over his corpse was a War Monk, through and through. He stared down his opponent intently. It was just as Elero had predicted.

“He won’t pay attention to you when you find Frey,” Elero had said back at the shelter.

“Why is that important,” Olpi asked as she searched Owen’s bag.

“Because while his eye is on Frey, he won’t see it coming.”

“He won’t see what? What do you mean?”

‘Elero, I hope this is what you meant,’ Olpi thought as she pushed the poison needle out of her sleeve. She stepped back and jammed it into Owen’s side. She felt his gasp brush the back of her bruised neck as his hand slid off her throat, and she took off running. “Frey!”

Frey tossed the manacles aside with wide eyes. “Watch out,” he warned.

A dull pain in Olpi’s back sent her flying to the ground. She sunk into the snow coughing for air, the wind knocked out of her lungs. Pushing herself to her back, she watched Owen fall to a knee.

Even as blackened veins pushed the poison through his body, he would not fall. Poison, after all, was a slow killer.

Frey dove for his weapons and charged, the rage pouring from his thundering steps. “Olpi, run!”