I RAN IN A BLIND HAZE in the direction I had come. Toward my liege's castle at Treille.

Grief tore at me like wild dogs. My son had died because of me. Because of my stupid folly. Because of my foolishness and pride.

As I ran, a swell of bitterness surged inside. The thought of that bastard Norcross, or any of his henchmen, having my poor Sophie...

I had fought for these so-called nobles in the Holy Land while they raped and slaughtered in the name of God. I had marched and killed and followed the Pope's call. And this was my wage. Not freedom, not a changed life, but misery and scorn. I had been a fool to trust the rich.

I ran until my legs gave out. Then, exhausted and blind with rage, I fell to the ground, covering my sores in dirt.

I had to find Sophie. I know you are alive. I'll make you well. I know how you've suffered.

At every turn, I prayed I would not stumble over her body. Every time I didn't, it gave me hope that she was alive.

After a day of traveling, I looked around and didn't know where I was. I had no food and had run out of water. All that pushed me on was rage. I checked the sun. Was I heading east or north? I had no idea.

But still I ran. My legs were like heavy irons. I was dizzy and............