Praetorian Rising

no choice. If even an inkling of her memories survived, they’d all pay for the horrible atrocities inflicted on her mind, body, and soul while she'd been locked inside LeMarc's torture chamber.
Peter's eyes studied Vesyon's unshaven face before he lowered his creaky body onto the stool near the fireplace. Bones snapped and popped as he settled into the sagging wicker, reminding Vesyon of the extreme fragility most Asperians developed from lack of proper nutrients over the years. He winced with barely concealed worry, but thankfully Peter didn't notice.
"Tea?" the older man asked, pushing a heavy blackened pot into the heat.
Vesyon nodded, knowing he should leave, but not wanting to be rude or end this rare feeling of comfort. He had asked Peter for an incredible favor. He owed the elderly man a moment of company despite his growing urgency to leave. No one knew he was here; he had time to drink a cup of tea—but only one.
"Do you have an idea of where the High King is?" Peter asked as he handed Vesyon a steaming cup of lavender tea.
Vesyon blew across the rim of the dingy grey mug, watching tendrils of steam curl into the bitter air and disperse like mysterious ghosts. "I don't have a clue," he replied. "Metus—"
"The King Regent," Peter corrected sharply.
"Yes," Vesyon replied, trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Peter hated the High King and the King Regent as much as anyone else involved with the rebellion, but he believed in respecting the titles of those in power, and Vesyon wasn't one to press that button too hard. "He’s still managing the throne and has been since the Praetorian Exile. However, I don't believe for a second that LeMa—the High King—" Vesyon corrected, “is idly sitting by. His absence is worrisome, but more than that, his complete silence over the last seven years proves Langhorn right. The High King is up to something of grand proportions, and I want to ensure I'm ready when he lays out his cards."
Glancing out the frost-riddled window, Vesyon smiled with genuine affection at Neeko, perched like a sentinel on the windowsill, his mouth full of fresh forest mice. Beyond the cat's silhouette, thick clouds were rolling in over the forest canopy. A storm was coming, and it was time to leave. He still had so much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it.
Tipping his mug up, Vesyon took a hefty gulp and almost choked as the scorching heat burned its way down his throat to his belly. He grunted in mild discomfort, prompting an arched brow of bemusement from Peter, but Vesyon waved him off and blew more intently on his tea. "I can't thank you enough for this Peter. I have no possible way to repay you for taking care of her."
Peter shook his head, a tender grin running over his lips. "Consider it a payment repaid to a dear friend—one very much deserved, mind you."
Vesyon opened his mouth to protest, but Peter raised a withered hand to ward off even the smallest objection. "I have always hated being in debt to favors, especially when it comes to friends. As I see it now, watching over her is a small contribution toward what you have given me these past years. If my wife were here, or my daughter," Peter said, tears glistening at the corners of his eye, "they would say the same."
A zing of guilt struck deep in Vesyon’s chest. Peter's beloved family hadn't escaped the slaughter. Behind closed eyes, their hollowed faces appeared, thick red blood streaming from the gashes in their throats, their twin bodies slumped on the ground, lifeless. Vesyon disagreed with Peter. The man was giving far more than Vesyon had ever returned.
Sipping his only moderately scalding tea, Vesyon’s gaze drifted back to the young woman’s face.  "Knowing she’ll be with Neeko and you puts my mind at ease."
Peter chuckled, his milky eyes twinkling with mirth. "I might bore that poor cat to tears in this village. The most exciting adventure he'll have is chasing down a rat. Are you sure he is actually willing to stay?"
"Willing is a strong word." Vesyon eyed Neeko perched at the window, his stoic haunches barely twitching in the bitter rush of wind snaking down the mountain and through the village grounds. He would miss the little fur ball, but it was the only protection he could provide that would remain at Camille's side. In the coming moon cycles, she would need security and companionship. With a slight smirk Vesyon dumped the ashes from his pipe into the dwindling flames of the fire. "He'll stick by her though, and that's what she'll need."
"Well, as far as Count Jenkin is aware, I have a distant relative staying with me until further notice. He'll meet her as soon as she acclimates to the village. I don't expect a warm welcome," Peter said with a slight frown. Pretending the woman was a distant relative of Peter was the only way to ensure the villagers wouldn't shun or forcibly remove her. Sierra Village wasn't in the practice of being hospitable to strange folk, and despite every excuse Vesyon had fed himself to keep Camille close at hand, this was ultimately the best plan of action. "But they will accept her well enough," Peter assured, assessing Vesyon's pinched expression with obvious concern.
"She's with you Peter. She's in good hands. Teach her everything you know about hunting, trapping, and tracking. She'll be a bit rusty when she wakes."
Peter nodded. "Any idea when you'll come back for her?" he asked, taking the half-empty teacup from Vesyon and placing it on the bare kitchen table with a subtle 'clink.' As the flames in the hearth stretched out their last arms in a dance of withering energy, Vesyon packed away his pipe and tobacco pouch before shrugging into his heavy, fur-lined cloak.
"You have twelve moon cycles. I will come for her then," he said. Their eyes met,