The blow came without warning—fast, clean, silent.
Caspian twisted. The fist sliced past his cheek.
He stepped back just in time to deflect the next move—a sweeping kick meant to take him off his feet. The man attacking him was skilled. Tight stance. Quick footwork. Eyes full of fury and grief.
There were no words.
Just motion.
Violence, pure and practiced.
Caspian matched him strike for strike. Every move countered, every angle read. They moved through the underbrush like predators—fluid, lethal, silent.
Finally, the attacker spoke.
"You were seen with her."
Caspian didn't answer.
His guard stayed up. His eyes didn't flinch.
"Lira. Two days before we found her in the riverbed."
That name.
It cracked something in the air. Caspian's expression shifted—barely.
But it was enough. The man saw it.
"You did know her."
"I saw her once," Caspian replied, evenly.
The man surged forward again. This time less composed—less soldier, more rage. Caspian caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it sharply, and swept the man's legs. He hit the ground hard—but rolled with the fall and rose again like someone who'd been trained not to stay down.
"She was alive when I left her," Caspian said, calm as ice.
"That's what they all say."
The man's breathing grew ragged. Anger and grief were bleeding into each other.
"She was fighting someone," he snapped. "Fingers torn. Mouth bleeding. And the last path she walked down…"
His voice cracked.
"...was the one you were seen walking away from."
Caspian's mind clicked through the implications.
The terrain. The body's position. The angle of the blood. The bruises. The drag marks. The timing.
And more importantly—what the man had just revealed without meaning to.
But Caspian said nothing.
The man lunged again.
Caspian stepped into the motion, turned the force, and drove the heel of his palm into the man's chest. The air burst from his lungs as he collapsed to his knees, coughing, defeated.
Caspian stood over him.
Silent.
The man looked up, eyes still blazing with hate.
"Say it," he growled.
"Say you did it."
Caspian stared at him for a long, still moment.
Then he nodded.
"I did."
No hesitation.
No evasion.
Just the truth—or what the world would now take as truth.
The man froze.
His rage faltered. He expected resistance. A denial. Not this.
"Why?" he asked, breathless. "Why admit it?"
Caspian's voice was low. Steady.
"Because I killed her."
He crouched, eye to eye with the man.
"Because I walked away… and she died. That's all you need, isn't it?"
The man said nothing.
Caspian stood again.
"Now you've heard what you came for."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
No more words.
Just the crunch of earth beneath his feet, fading into the trees.
He didn't look back.
He didn't explain.
He didn't defend himself.
Because in that moment—
Caspian Reyes chose to carry the weight.
Fully. Completely. Willingly.
And the man they would all come to fear…
Was the one who never asked for forgiveness.