When Silver Burned: Chapter 18-22 (Patreon)

18 - The Heretics We Are

The spark ignited the collection of dried out branches with a whoosh and brought the campfire to life, scattering the dull forest dusk with orange light. Jack blew a steady stream of air to bolster the flames, making it pop and rise high in a short minute. The flickering light borrowed a restless quality to those huddled around its warmth.

Erazza's plain, almost forgettable features were weighed down even more by the circles she wore under her eyes. Strands stuck out of her mud brown hair as if she hadn't seen a brush for a month, something not likely to change anytime soon. Though Kalsin knew her to be the harder one of the two, Áron looked positively savage with black-and-blue bruises decorating his face. 

When Kalsin had asked the pair to give a thorough explanation about the cure, right after the battle, they promised to do so after catching the woman, Xil. They had scoured the forest, and returned with nothing but grumbles and empty hands a few hours later, which was appropriate considering they now had a reputable eyewitness bringing news of the murder of the capital's collector. Not only did she have their names, but in Kalsin and Jack's case, she had a much easier identification method; the scars on their faces. Even without the memory or skills required to give a description of their features in detail, the law is going to be hunting for a man with a scar between his eyes, and a woman with a jawline split in the middle by a vertical scar. 

For the many thousandth time in his life, Kalsin cursed his bad stroke of luck. As if his freakish eyes weren't enough, a rotting line perched above the bridge of his nose was all the more he needed.

While the azTéls had been—unsuccessfully—hunting for the runaway, Kalsin sought solitude away from prying eyes. He wasn't sure what happened then. His memories were blurry, like a drunken haze. He'd probably wept. Based on his rough throat, most likely screamed his lungs out. But in the end, he'd managed to bottle up the guilt that always threatened to consume him after bloodshed. Guilt that someone as worthless as him, a Scarrd and surgeless outlaw, got to live yet again, while Clenn paid the price for his selfish pursuit of, what. Redemption? Penance? Absolution? Some big, grand fucking word like that.

Kalsin stared into the darkening forest, wondering if Cinder was huddling somewhere nearby in the cold, alone, loyal beyond reason to her little brother. With her knack for appearing and disappearing seemingly at will, Cinder could've made an easy career as some spy or agent for a wealthy Clenn. Hell, maybe even the Civil House. 

But Kalsin knew that nothing, not even the promise of a good life, would Cinder ever let come between them.

A sharp elbow to his ribs delivered by Jack nudged Kalsin back to his immediate surroundings. "Sorry," he said. "Could you repeat that?"

"Do you have even the faintest inkling what the word 'heretic' entails?" Áron asked.

"Doesn't matter much, because you're about to enlighten me."

"No. Not really," he said. Noticing Kalsin's threatening shift, he raised a calming hand. "Hold it, now. Like we promised, we're going to tell you everything we know. But I don't want you expecting the wrong thing, Mr. Threaten-murder-to-gain-trust."

Erazza gave him a slightly berating, yet endearing look that only a lifetime of companionship could bring forth. "If you're looking for a way to start the tale, at least do it without antagonizing them," she said.

"You can take over. I don't mind," Áron replied, not unkindly. When she didn't give an answer, he just shrugged.

"What are you two, anyway?" Kalsin asked, deciding he was fresh out of tact. "The collector referred to you as siblings. Around the darkfinder, you claimed you were a couple. I don't mean to intrude, but setting the record straight would be appreciated."

Kalsin swore he could hear Cinder’s mirthful snort coming from somewhere inside the forest.

"Of all people, I'd have thought you best suited to understand the need for deception. Posing as husband and wife was a ruse," Erazza said. Her voice was annoyed, but the question didn't appear to upset her much. "Me and Áron, we're family by choice, not by blood." She didn't elaborate further.

Áron cleared his throat. "Well, that's something I didn't know I wanted out of the way." 

He brushed a hand over his hair, as if to make sure he still had some remaining. "Alright. You're probably wondering why the Republic is so determined to keep people like us nice and quiet. The first rumors started surfacing 'round a decade ago, and before you ask me to pinpoint the location—don't, because I've not a clue." He glanced at Erazza, a request for permission. He continued then. "Regular people, both of us were. I was a man who took odd jobs—cutting wood, hauling goods, things like that. Erazza, she worked in a money lender's office. I had just broken through to abyss, and young and ambitious as I was, I started making connections with the overworld to find a benefactor. Help me advance to spark."

"And that's more than enough you ought to know of our past," Erazza suddenly interrupted. 

Áron stopped then, but Kalsin could fill in the blanks. It was always the same. Somehow, in the wake of a tragedy or that, their spirits cracked and they became Scarrd. No longer Clenn, it pushed an aspiring abyss to the rank's Scarrd equivalent, a hive, weakening it and forever taking away the possibility of rising to overworld. Sometimes a chain of downfall followed then; despair consumed the loved ones of the fallen Clenn, their sorrow breaking them and knocking even more people into becoming Scarrd. A devilish circle.

Kalsin sometimes wondered if such was a sign of pure and unconditional love; that when your child breaks, your parents break with you. He wanted to believe that. Because then he'd feel justified in the cold lake of hatred he felt toward his parents.

Áron leaned forward then over the fire, voice becoming animated. "So there I was, one day, happening to hear some rumors leaking out from overworld circles, rumors that something unexpected happened. The fallen son of a wealthy Civil House family returned home—with his scar completely gone and his surge restored to rift."

"It was a woman," Erazza said with an eye roll. "You always get this part wrong. The seb hordozó is a woman with the rank of a prism, a step above rift. And she wasn't part of the Civil House, she was the first wife of Arch Freesol himself."

Áron waved it away. "One version I heard claimed it was a deep-fisher's son. Another swore an upstart soldier with grandeurs of a revolution on his mind. Point is, we don't know, alright?" He turned back to Kalsin and Jack, the bodyguard mirroring Kalsin's eager attention. "The news of his, or her, miraculous recovery was snuffed out just as soon as it started to spread. People panicked more than they rejoiced, which, considering it all started in the overworld's exclusively Clenn circles, made perfect sense. But some people who had no reason to uphold the status quo carried word outside, making the story trickle down the hierarchy to reach the lower rungs. People like us. People they later secretly branded, hunted and executed as heretics."

"And the healed Scarrd? This seb hordozó?" Kalsin asked. "What happened to him?"

Áron shook his head. "Nobody knows. Or at least, I don't know anyone who does. You have to understand, word of mouth is a tricky thing. It's a curious phenomenon that keeps alive events surer than the written word of a thousand-page codex, yet distorts its original meaning to a degree that, years later, it becomes impossible to tell truth from fabrication."

"She was a godling, I heard," Erazza said, hugging her legs as she stared into the flames of their campfire. "The daughter of Hadúr sent down to earth, sowing discord between men in order to bring war to the Republic."

Áron spoke even before Erazza finished. "It was a trick created by a shape-shifting mythos, putting on the likeliness of a Scarrd boy, and then returning to his family to show off his unblemished skin, trying to push mankind into chaos for the atrocities toward non-humans." 

Erazza smiled. "Some say the seb hordozó was a sister of healing, pious and unrelenting. She performed the miracle on herself so that Scarrd would flock under her care, restoring their souls. She asked nothing in exchange, for she was filled with the goodness and humility of Éden."

They both shared a smile. It wasn't the expression of mirth at a secret joke, but a hopeful joy at something they couldn't quite put into words.

Kalsin gave them a moment. When none of them spoke, he picked up the thread. "That's all very interesting. But it doesn't answer how one goes from Scarrd back to Clenn."

"What in the trinity of gods made you think we had that knowledge?" Erazza said. "A lone pair on the run, barely managing to stay one step ahead of the secret services. Had anyone with a grain of intellect possessed a cure to scars, the first thing on their to-do list would be to surround themselves with devoted followers as they performed miracles. Go around healing everyone, winning the loyalty of thousands until they become untouchable." 

She took a deep breath, looking apologetic for the first time since Kalsin had met her. "We cannot heal you. Don't know how to even attempt such a thing. I truly am sorry. The only balm we can give is the assurance that out there, somewhere in the Republic or beyond, our savior, the seb hordozó, is waiting for the right time to reveal themselves. Those of us, named heretics by some and believers by others, will be the first ones to join the cause."

"Until then," Áron took her hand, squeezing it, "We survive."

They didn't know. 

They didn't know. 

The two people he'd saved, in whose pursuit he'd irreversibly incriminated himself, had no idea about a cure. They were useless idealists no more sane than the mythos he'd just beat to death, spewing nonsense about some distant legend. 

Kalsin found himself shaking with pent up anger. No, not anger. Anger always has a clear direction, something you can follow. He felt lost. As lost as you get when you realize you've wasted nearly half your life on absolutely nothing. An empty destination that makes you wish you'd never started the journey to begin with.

"Come with us," he heard Áron say, genuine concern in his voice. "We'll be traveling to Lostpoint Station north of here to join the military. Darkfinder Treyant used to serve as an officer, she gave us a letter of reference. The army is our only chance to slip outside the reach of the Civil House."

Kalsin kept staring ahead, though he saw Jack’s reply as she mimed choking on a noose. 

"No, they dismiss criminal charges upon recruitment. It would be a new start. If we arrived there in time."

Kalsin stood. "I, uh. I need some time to think." He could feel Jack’s concerned gaze on his back, but she knew enough not to follow.

It was a peaceful evening. There was no trace of a brewing mid-summer storm customary around Köz of Summer, and even the winds stayed silent to let cricket chirps take the stage. If he closed his eyes, Kalsin could almost pull himself in the memory of a treasure hunt they'd played with his sister as kids. 

Cinder could always come up with something that was equally as intriguing as it was ridiculous; a flying ship had just crashed, quickly, to the remnants before it's looted! A monster, inhabitant of a mysterious deep-fracture, had surfaced and collapsed dead on the shore with gems and pearls in his belly. Stupid stuff. Made up silliness that children loved so much, so that one day the grown and bitter man could look back with a smile and say, 'Those were the days'.

Men, they craved adventure of a different kind. Something they could feel and touch, something real. A purpose they embraced and hung on the wall, wistfully gazing at the beautiful image for a single minute in the morning to remember; to remind themselves the reason why they do what they do. A minute of solitude to justify it. Then shut the door, and resume toiling their hours away with back-breaking work. Repeat until repetition becomes routine.

Some never reach that goal. Hell, some never even figure out what their purpose might be. But they make do with the tools they're given, and advance when opportunity allows with steps and leaps toward their perceived fulfillment. Stumble, fall, stay down, then get up. But they never lose sight of that imaginary line far away, the one they had drawn in the sand long ago.

So where do you turn when there's no line in sight anymore? What's the point of walking, falling, and then getting back up without a destination to keep getting back up for?

Kalsin had no more leads. He couldn't scour through every single church in the Republic asking after some elusive godling, and he sure as hell wouldn't be asking shape-shifting mythos whether they just happened to be the sole salvation of the Scarrd human populace in disguise.

"I always reckoned sulkiness to be the least in the row of practical virtues," Cinder said from somewhere above. It took a few seconds for Kalsin to spot her perched between the divide of two thick branches of a tree. 

"They have nothing, Cinder. Nothing but a mockery that makes fairy tales coming true appear feasible by contrast."

"Oh, come on," Cinder said, exasperated. Her feet dangled like a child’s. "We don't know any less than we did two weeks ago. What did fathe—" She bit the word off, pausing for a moment. "When the trail runs cold, a hunter retraces his steps without wasting time until he spots a fresh one. Regroups, resets his mindset. Reconsiders the marks in the ground for something he had missed."

"And what does that entail, exactly? I would appreciate something a little more specific."

"How am I supposed to know? My expertise is, uh, moral support. Sometimes, I even manage to come up with a random arbitrary piece of pissin' wisdom. You're the big plan maker."

"Okay," Kalsin said. "Okay." For the sake of his sister, he would pull himself together. His breathing, which had become quick and erratic in the past few minutes, evened out as he focused. Past his worries and his doubts, he tried looking at their situation from a bird's eye view, taking long term events into account. 

Their objective was still the same. Heal himself, heal Jack. With no idea how to get closer to the cure, their immediate concern was the warrant—likely being written and distributed to settlements this very second. Like it or not, dodging the hangman's noose took precedence over everything else. They had to delay their search for a cure for now. Being Scarrd was better than being dead. Though not by much.

Kalsin rapped his bandaged fingers against Cinder's tree. "How do you think I'd look in a uniform?"

"Outright diabolical, that's how. Why?"

"Well, rumor has it, signing up as a soldier has become quite popular lately. Especially among ruthless murderers looking for safe haven."

Cinder dropped five feet to the ground, getting up with grace almost enough to prove it was an intentional move. "Ah. And they have a Clenn division as well, or so I hear."

"Nope. You're not enlisting for me."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes."

"No," Kalsin turned to walk away.

Only to be tackled from behind.

"Why, I think I will, thank you very much," a victorious Cinder said, claiming her seat on top of a sulking Kalsin. "Not getting rid of me that easily, little guy. Even if I have to sneak to the end of the world."

19 - When Silver Burned (INTERLUDE)

There are few things more foolish than committing a crime in broad daylight. Say, taking a dive off a mountain ledge. Or wandering into rough neighborhoods with nothing but prayers and a full purse of coin, the words 'I’m Clenn—Keep Your Filthy Hands Away' written across your back. It takes no brains to admit all that.

And yet there he was, late afternoon breeze tossing his hair as he crouched above the cellar of a wine shop, watching Cinder fumble with the locks of the trap door. "Any progress?" Kalsin asked, making sure to wrap just the right amount of sarcasm in his voice.

Cinder didn't bother to answer. Kalsin held back the sudden urge to put a finger in her ear. If actions spoke louder than words, his sister might just need to grow another mouth to compensate. Now that was a scary thought if you ever needed one. It was already difficult enough to shut her up most of the time.

Kalsin was supposed to be on the lookout, but their intel assured them the owners weren't going to be around today. "Come on," he said. "It's not too late to leave. Technically, we haven't done anything yet."

"And we'll keep it that way," Cinder said, still focused on the lock, but her silent treatment finally coming to a close. "If shops weren't open to customers, owning one would hardly be a profitable investment."

"That's weak, even for a cover story. We're customers who aren't looking to buy, using an entrance we're not supposed to go through."

Cinder took a moment to send a mildly annoyed look, then went back to work. "Do you really need a reminder? No stealing. Not a single drop misplaced, not a single bottle opened. And for gods' sake, let me do the talking."

"If there's anything to talk to." Kalsin reminded her. Someone had to keep his sister's expectations low, after all. "Which one of your friends was the source? Berley? Becky?"

"His name is Brock, and he works as a hoarder for The Blind Pelican. Likes his liquor nearly as much as his money, money which I paid for the information. He told me there was something down here, a harmless looking thing. Non-human. Too small to be anything else, he said." Cinder clicked her tongue, nearly making Kalsin believe she finally got the lock open. Jerk. "Anyway, I just want to take a looksie."

Kalsin shook his head, perfectly aware of Cinder's obsession with anything mythos related. You'd think a grown woman didn't have to rely on her little brother to act as the voice of reason. Even worse, Kalsin wasn't reliable enough to hold the leash, considering the situation they were in. Nope. Stubborn as she was, he even let himself get dragged along for the ride.

The lock fell away, feeding a spoonful to Cinder's already bloated ego. "Took you long enough," Kalsin said, trying to salvage the unsalvageable.

The trap door opened with a creak, dust falling off at the edges and into the dark hole, with only the first steps of a ladder visible from the outside. Cinder ducked away, blinking rapidly and probably holding back a sneeze. Served her right.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Kalsin quickly wormed his way between his sister and the opening. Cinder could make reckless decisions, fine. Didn't mean she had to take the front row seat in every risky situation.

Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain as Cinder surged forward, catching Kalsin under his arms and, with her enhanced strength, promptly lifted him and put him to the side. "Not in a lifetime, little guy," she said. She gave Kalsin a good natured pat on the shoulder, then she moved to descend. 

Kalsin didn't have to wait long until there was a call to follow from below. A prodding of legs, old wood sliding under his fingers, the trap door lightly falling back in place, and they were both standing in the dim lantern lights of the cellar. The temperature had taken a dive down here, a welcome change from the city heat. Lining the cavernous walls, dozens of tapped barrels gleamed with the shine of polished wood, facing a collection of bottles on the opposing side. Their own breathing and a hesitant drip, drip, disturbed the silence.

That, and snoring. The body sprawled on the floor might’ve had something to do with that.

Their intel’s description about the mythos was accurate, if somewhat lacking in details. Like an island in a puddle of wine, a bulging stomach rose and fell rhythmically, with limbs and head joined to make up a creature no more than four feet in height altogether. His eyes, still closed, were too large to be mistaken for human, underlined by a row of pointed teeth peeking from his parted mouth.

Some kind of gremlin or gnoblin or another.

As Kalsin tried to get a closer look, his foot caught a half-empty bottle, landing a splatter of the purplish liquid on the non-human's face. The following curses that Cinder stringed together didn't help matters, and the mythos slowly peeled his eyes open. Cinder pushed her way between him and Kalsin, her short sword drawn and pointed at the blinking creature. Having trained with it hours on end daily, the blade wasn't just for show. Cinder was a good swordswoman. Great, even. One of the few positive results of her mythos-mania.

"Take it easy," Kalsin said. The creature looked harmless enough, but they've heard all sorts of stories about mythos. There was a reason why humans hunted and butchered the things without exception. "Alright, satisfied?" Kalsin whispered, bumping Cinder's shoulder with his hand. "Your first one, face-to-face. Applause, clams and rainbows, now let's get out of here."

He could've been talking to a rock for all the attention Cinder was giving him. "What the hell are you?" she addressed the mythos, sword steady. Not the most tactful way to approach things. Pointing a sharp stick in the general direction of your worries tended to mess with diplomacy.

"Thirsty," the little man said. He bent to pick up the bottle, frowning at the near empty liquid sloshing at the bottom. "Dreams bring the drink, drinks bring the dreams." His face lit up like a bonfire at new year's Fest-Eve as he finally noticed them. "Well met! Get that thing outta my face, no self-respecting clurican likes sharp toys, 'specially not when forced to play with 'em."

"Is that what you are? Clurican?" Cinder's face had never been home to so many different emotions at once. A raised brow of surprise, eyes of suspicion, flushed cheeks of awe, and the slight wrinkle of disgust upon her nose. Kalsin could practically feel the itch in his pocket, pen and paper ready to sketch this spectacle into an object of eternal mockery.

"That's what I said," the clurican said. Throwing back the bottle, he finished the drink off, licking his lips afterwards. "So what's two humans like yourselves came here for? If you want drinks, help yourselves. There's enough for everyone."

Slowly, Cinder lowered her sword. After a moment of hesitation, she sheathed it, but drew her skinning knife and passed it to Kalsin. Just in case. They didn't need to say the words. Carved with delicate lines, the knife's handle had the word vér on its surface. Blood, in an old language they’d heard in a tavern once. Kalsin had made it last year as a birthday gift for his sister, and Cinder had never parted with it. Kalsin flushed with pride holding it, the trust from his sister warming him from head to toe.

"Drink's all yours," Cinder said. "But we'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind.” She held up both her hands. “I'm no hunter."

The clurican shrugged. He walked up to the nearest shelf, and in a moment had a new bottle's contents draining down his throat, throwing it away seconds later to replace it with another one.

"Can you tell me about your kind?" Cinder must've had a list somewhere, labeled 'Nonsense To Ask When Confronted With Some-Such Miniature Alcoholic Mythos'. As the clurican kept drinking and looking at her sideways, she continued. "Are there other mythos nearby? Surely if one could hide in the city, there's bound to be others milling around, hiding among us. Where'd you come from? How long do you live? And where's all that wine going anyways?" she finished with a pointed look at the clurican's seemingly endless stomach.

The clurican finished his fourth bottle. "Well, well, aren't you a clurious one?" He then threw away the empty glass, watching it bounce and roll, but staying in one piece, to his apparent disappointment. "Boring. I'm bored."

The mythos closed his eyes, as if thinking hard.

"A deal. Let's make it a deal." The clurican scanned the ceiling as if the stone held liquor-dipped ancient knowledge. "Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty. You must be thirsty. Drink from the barrels, that's my price." He gestured at one of the barrels, its tap closed, then held out a stubby arm for a handshake.

Cinder glanced at Kalsin, making sure he had her back, but didn't look concerned otherwise. "Seems like a pretty one-sided deal to me. Could be poisoned." 

"Could be, but it's not."

Cinder took a step closer until the clurican's extended hand was right in front of her. "If you're lying, my friend will open your throat." 

Kalsin wasn't so sure about that, but a threat was a threat. He'd play along, as long as Cinder knew what she was doing.

The clurican nodded, the rest of his body still as a statue. Pearly white, pointed teeth grinned. "No lies."

Cinder met the waiting hand with her own. A simple request for a wealth of information. They shook on it.

When Cinder drew her arm back, her hand didn't come back with it.

Like a decaying doll falling apart, it simply detached from the wrist. Without struggle, without a sound of tearing or breaking or blood gushing out, her palm and fingers remained gripping the clurican's hand. Cinder stared at the stump, paralyzed. 

Then she screamed.

The nightmare filled with Cinder's desperate whaling, but no matter how hard he tried, Kalsin couldn't wake. It's not real, it couldn’t be real. The clurican's bubbling laughter joined the scene, gleeful, shaking the detached hand maniacally up and down. "Drink. Drink up!" he gurgled between breaths.

Kalsin's body was numbed with fear. His thumb twitched, causing a cascade to shatter his frozen prison, and he lurched into motion. He lunged forward to swipe the knife at the mythos, be he dodged out of reach, backing into a dark corner of the cellar.

"Drink! Drinkdrinkdrinkdrinkdrink," he chanted, manic.

Cinder was on her knees, desperately trying to wrap her arm with the torn sleeve of her shirt, but it remained dry. She met Kalsin's eyes, tears streaming down her face. They were both helpless in the face of the impossible. 

Drink, drink what? Kalsin willed his legs to move, staggering to the barrel the clurican had pointed at. Hands shaking, he opened the tap. The liquid that came out was a different shade of red. Not red like wine. Red like blood.

The thin waterfall splashed on the floor, sticky and thick, soiling the air with a repulsive metallic smell. Kalsin felt bile rise in his throat. And through it all, Cinder screamed, her voice bouncing between the cavernous walls.

Kalsin closed the tap, but the blood wouldn't stop flowing. He opened it again, closed it, as if force of will alone could make a difference, but nothing stopped the puddle from growing on the ground, washing away drops of wine and seeping into the cracks. 'Drink, drink' echoed in his head, even though the clurican had disappeared already, gone, his voice an imprint of the past. When Kalsin’s mouth was hovering only an inch away from the tap and a drop hit his tongue, his stomach gave out. He heaved, vomiting.

He wouldn't drink blood. He couldn't. Gods have mercy, he just couldn't do it.

He turned back to Cinder. His sister had quieted down, staring at her bare wrist in pure horror and disbelief. Her face was sickly pale. "It feels... feels like it's still there." Severed bone, flesh and tendons gleamed wetly on the smooth stump's surface. But it wasn’t bleeding. Cinder fell as soon as she tried to stand.

Kalsin rushed to her side, hooking an arm under her shoulder. "We need to get you help. You're..." He saw the tap was still leaking a thin line of blood, the flow ebbing one second, gushing the next. A drop fell from an adjacent tap, starting to patter. "You're losing blood." 

His sister was heavy, all lanky muscle and not much else. Kalsin managed to get Cinder on her feet, but taking the first step, they both fell like a stack of cards. He tried lifting again, pushed and pulled like never in his life before, but he was barely moving Cinder. There was no chance of a young teenage boy like him getting her up the ladder.

He searched within himself, harder than he'd ever searched before. Those times when his schoolmates mocked him—get up, surge, just tap into it—had nothing on the desperation with which he now pushed deep inside. His father's disappointed gaze was a sapling compared to the giant oak he wielded as the battering ram, trying to burst through a door. But the door didn't exist.

He couldn't surge. He wasn't enough.

Kalsin took a second to rest his forehead against his sister's. He could hear nothing but the chorus of dripping blood. "Hold on." Her skin was clammy with sweat. "Anise, she lives just around the corner, she'll know what to do." The monster was gone, but still Kalsin locked Cinder's remaining fingers around the knife. "Please, hold on."

Kalsin ran.

Outside, the afternoon had turned darker. That's all he noticed. Every face, sound and smell washed together like a soggy oil painting as he went. He knocked something over. He barreled into people. Shapeless, faceless blurs passed him, a single purpose burning in his mind so bright it blotted out everything else. Except for the buildings. He saw the buildings. A smithy with a wooden sign billowing above the entrance, a hammer striking an anvil. It didn’t make sense. Why would you hammer a naked anvil? A half-moon painted on the wall of a tavern, framed by three yellow stars. Stars weren’t yellow. A small house, garden, colorful flowers and leaves. He threw the door open.

Anise was there, sitting at her mixing table. Just sitting there, or she might've been busy with something, or maybe not. He should've seen, but still it felt as if a tube had descended on the world, only showing glimpses of events unfolding. 

He said something. A purple flower plummeted from Anise's fingers. It was beautiful, with an orange bud in the middle. There was more talking, just fragments of words that were muffled by the dripping in his ears. The wrinkles on her face kept changing forms, curving urgently.

Kalsin led the way back. Breathing took effort, his legs were on fire, but they carried him to where he needed to go. All the while his vision pulsed with red rivers as if it was his own lifeblood draining away, discoloring the skies and the city below. It was peaceful, in a monster-under-your-bed sort of way, tucked comfortably in a blanket that wouldn't do a thing if teeth and claws decided to tear into him. That comfort might've been the only thing keeping him from falling apart, but even that much was ripped away when they reached the cellar.

Cinder was sprawled on the ground. She was in the midst of wine bottles and blood, the red pool having crept all the way to her head from under the still leaking barrels. Kalsin watched as Anise touched Cinder's neck, held her temples between her fingers, turned her severed arm this way and that. Her other arm was closely at her side, holding the skinning knife in her hand. Kalsin crouched. He peeled away his sister's fingers and took the blade, feeling the smooth wood slippery with sweat. 

He would care for it. He would keep it safe until Cinder got better.

It took him some time to realize Anise had a hand on his shoulder, shaking. "Kalsin? Kalsin, can you hear me?"

He looked into her eyes. They were damp, but she wasn't crying. He nodded, not trusting his voice. When he started turning back to his sister's still form, Anise stopped him, holding his head in place. "Here, now. Everything's alright. Kalsin, it's okay." She smiled tightly. "Cinder is going to be okay."

Kalsin looked from one eye to another, sometimes lost in the wrinkles in-between. Searching for assurance in those old, knowing eyes. "She is?" he asked.

"She's fine, love. Trust me. She will be fine. Your sister just needs some sleep."

When the first sob rocked him, the others followed and he couldn't hold them anymore. The nightmare was finally over. It was out of his hands now and Anise was smart, and a healer, and she knew what to do. If she said Cinder was going to be okay, then Kalsin knew she would be. He cried in Anise's arms until he was drained. 

"Go, now," Anise held him at arm's length. "You've done well. Go home, I'll take care of her. Get some fresh air, clear your head, will you?"

"Shouldn't I get more help?"

Anise sniffed. She gave a smile. "I might be old, but I still have enough surge in me to carry her. Now go, love. Enough excitement for one day."

Kalsin stood with trembling legs, but steadier than before. He did all he could.

His sister would live.

<><><>

A fresh breeze raked across the torch-lit streets. Kalsin wasn't sure when evening had set in. A handful of people milled around at this time, the peaceful quiet only broken by peddlers closing their stalls for the day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted how this would've felt like just another nightly stroll if not for the accident. It was an accident, right?  Blame luck, blame the circumstances. They were at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Gods, how's he going to tell father?

A dull pain in his hand commanded his attention. He still held a deathgrip on Cinder's knife, the tiny wooden handle hidden behind his clutching, whitened fingers. He slowly eased up until some of the numbness receded. Sharp things are no toys, he reminded himself. He could've easily cut himself in his carelessness. 

He crouched, quickly unlacing his coin pouch from his belt. He took the excess drawstring, tying the pouch and the skinning knife together. He made sure that the single edge was facing outward, unable to cut open the fabric by accident. He gave an experimental tug. Best he could do at the lack of a scabbard. It would hold until he got home.

Kalsin couldn't help but gaze at the little trinket. How could something so cheap and insignificant take up so much room in his mind? He traced each letter of the carved runes, feeling out the incisions in the hard surface. 

He had been so embarrassed that night, he remembered. The hall had been full and the atmosphere light, the innkeep laughing as he kept filling glasses the moment they emptied. The sweet smell of apple cider in the air. Cinder, surrounded by her friends, as careless as ever. 

Eyes turned his way when Kalsin had approached, putting him under a weight that slowed his body and scrambled his words. He'd almost turned away just then, but Cinder stood, excusing herself with an effortless comment. She'd made it look so easy. Then she'd given him a lopsided smile, leading him down the bar some distance from prying eyes. Just like that, the weight lifting from Kalsin.

The words spoken that night eluded him. At first, when he had presented his gift, Cinder looked at the knife with a pleasant air of interest. Not dismissive by any means, but an expression as familiar as pocket change. Kalsin said something then. It threw Cinder off her game, making her give a more thorough look at the knife. 

She then looked Kalsin in the eye, making some remark about amateur craftsmanship, then turned away to order some drinks. But not before Kalsin caught a shining glint in her eyes. The present wasn't just a cheap tool from a woodworker's discount shelf. He'd made it with his own two hands—and that made all the difference to his sister.

The memory scattered as something barreled into Kalsin from behind, lurching him back into the present and knocking him down on the road. Spitting dirt, he looked up to see a figure running away. He scrambled back up and felt for his coin pouch, but his hands landed on empty space. Thief. 

He tried calming his breaths. It was fine, no need to panic. There wasn't much money inside, just a few coppers, only enough to buy some sweets or a pair of rolled breads.

And Cinder's knife.

Kalsin frantically looked around, just barely catching as the figure disappeared in a crack between a pair of buildings. He started running. For the second time that day, something descended on his mind, clouding his senses. This time it was different, though. It was anger that pumped his legs. 

Of all days, of all people, why was it him that misfortune chose to mock? He hated Brock, hated the mythos, and hated the Scarrd that would try and get their dirty paws on his meager possessions. 

Turning the corner, Kalsin spotted the thief farther down the alley, difficult to see with his eyes yet to adjust to the darkness. Dodging a pile of rotting fruits, jumping over a ditch in the ground, he drove himself as fast as he could. Each step brought him closer to his target. He could see better now, but the sorry state of the alley and the half-collapsed shacks with rotten window sills could've been invisible for all he cared. Only a couple of feet now.

The thief didn't have to look behind to know he was catching up. Footsteps were the only sounds in the night. Kalsin saw the thief's head whip around for escape. Started to slow, ready to take another turn, but that was all Kalsin needed, and a moment later they collided. He tried to get a hold on the thief, only managing to make a tear into the weak rags catching on his fingers. His momentum ended in an ungraceful roll, skinning his elbows, but he ignored the pain and scrambled back up.

The Scarrd was already standing, breathing heavily and pointing Cinder's knife at him with the coin pouch tied to it and dangling from the handle. 

"I'll fucking gut you," she said, voice scratchy. In accordance with local regional laws, she had short hair, nearly bald and patchy as if shaved by a blunt razor. Her scar started at the bridge of her nose and crossed over to the corner of an accusing eye. It looked as if her skin had collapsed in on itself, leaving a tar-black incision. Like rot eating into the flesh of a fruit. Utterly appalling.

"You deaf, boy? Run before I hurt you." She pitched forward, thrusting towards Kalsin, a jittery and nervous move. Coins clinked.

Voice shaking with anger and maybe a hint of fear, Kalsin stood his ground. "Give it back. The knife, I need it back. You can keep the money."

"Think I'm fucking dense? Last chance to turn around in one piece."

"Please," Kalsin raised a hand, trying to calm both himself and the Scarrd. "It's barely worth anything. It's, it’s not mine. My sister had it ever since we were little. It means a lot to her. To me as well."

He was half successful. While he mostly regained his composure, the girl stalked closer, her disgusting face getting wilder, more frantic by the second. "Barely worth anything?" she said, whispering. "Another month to keep me fed. Barely? That’s how much you value the life of a dirty Scarrd?"

Watching the knife twitch in her hand, Kalsin swallowed. He took a step back. "I need… Please. You can still—"

With a scream, the Scarrd charged at him. He would've been cut open by her wild slash if it weren't for the training Cinder put his little brother through every week. Kalsin waited until the knife barely sailed past him, then stepped in, trying to knock her off balance with a punch. But even with the opening he had, just as she was drawing back her arm, he realized his fist would land right in her eye socket, right on her scar. 

Nausea rocked him, hitting with a force more stomach-turning than the stale smell of the sewers. At the last second his aim involuntarily jerked away, just brushing past the Scarrd’s head. The awkward maneuver tipped his balance, sending his body forward.

A knee furrowed into his stomach, and would've doubled him over if his arm weren't still slung over the thief’s shoulder. He strained, but like a thousand times before, he was unable to surge. 

Kalsin had never been so sure he was going to die. 

He felt hands grabbing him as the Scarrd lifted him off his feet with surge imbued strength, throwing him aside. His back smashed into something heavy, the impact blacking out his vision. A scream tried and failed to escape his throat. Everything hurt. Helpless to force out sounds, his pathetic begging only echoed in his mind. He didn't want it to end this way. His cold body left in a forgotten alley all because of a series of his mistakes.

His breaths were still coming short as the world flickered in and out, only catching glimpses as a figure crouched in front of him. Fingers dug into his hair, sending another spike of pain down his back as his head was wrenched up. "Look at me," he heard the thief say. A slap sent the world reeling again.

The blur slowly sharpened into the Scarrd just an inch away from him. Her mouth was drawn into a cruel sneer. Her nose was covered with grime. One of her eyebrows was nicked in the middle. She hit him across the face again and he couldn't turn away, locked in place. Tears, blood or both dripped down the line of his jaw.

"Look at me, you animal, or I swear I'll gut you," she said, her grip tightening on his hair. "Look at the thing that marks me lesser than your kind."

Kalsin wanted to scream again, but couldn't let out more than a terrified whine. His body wouldn't stop shivering. He didn't want to die. Gathering the last threads of his strength, he focused his eyes. Maybe if he did as she asked, she would let him go. She had to.

The scar was even worse from this close. The black, uneven line stretching between the horizon of her eyes had an oily, unhealthy sheen to it. A sick quality he'd seen on festering infection, but subdued and dry instead of the weeping liquid around dying meat. The blackened veins bordering the scar were too small to notice from afar, but now they burned into his vision. Kalsin started struggling against the grip holding him. Bile rose in his throat again, bitter in his mouth. He swallowed it back.

"I disgust you, hm?" Her words grated like gravel, cutting a hateful, vicious edge. Her free hand locked on his wrist. "Rather put your face to the shit you take in the morning, yeah?" 

Kalsin had no strength to resist as she forced his hand higher. He felt dirty just at the thought of touching that thing. The scar repulsed him on a level he couldn't comprehend, its horrid nature doctored into his mind. He remembered another boy in school, Willem. He'd been one of the popular ones, at least until he took a bet to lay his hands on a scar. The few coins he gained were not worth the years of mockery and beatings he had to endure for years to come.

Kalsin didn't know what to expect. An unpleasant, bone-dry texture. Maybe puking his guts out. 

Certainly not the sudden wave of agony ripping through his mind the moment his fingers came in contact with the scar.

~~I was standing in the middle of the city. I was crying, tearing at my father’s arm as he made the servants of our house kneel in the middle of the square. I couldn't do anything to reduce their punishment and I couldn’t save them no matter how much I tugged and struggled. 

When the first axe fell, I cried out. When the second did, I closed my eyes, but my ears betrayed me. The meaty thuds, the rumbling whispers of the crowd wormed into my mind, a cheer from the masses rising above the dim from time to time. They didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve it for playing with me, kind Isobel and Zoltan and the others and I shivered to my core. The shakes grew until my legs gave out. I heard my maid cry out before she too was silenced by the falling axe. 

I couldn't stand it. Like a physical weight pressing on me, grief broke my will second by second, with my mothers watching among the hundreds of gazes as they both stood at the side to witness what father deemed a just punishment.

They died, my friends. All of them. One by one.~~

The pain, the grief, they were too much for Kalsin. His consciousness floated somewhere afar, observing a scene that was his and one that wasn't. Back in the alley, his body was locked in a seizure, sprawled in the dirt. The Scarrd was looking down at him in the dark, speaking words of disdain that he couldn't hear. She spit on him. She took his coin pouch from the ground, the knife along with it, and disappeared into the night. 

Kalsin let his mind fade into darkness.

<><><>

The sour smell of rot roused Kalsin from sleep. He slowly opened his eyes, catching the first rays of dawn cracking the sky with an orange line above the city. His neck gave an audible crack as he gingerly looked around. The alley was empty save for a cloud of buzzing flies feasting on something foul. 

He pushed himself to his feet, aching all over. The planks had a slight dent where his back had smashed into the wood, with tiny pieces of cloth impaled on the occasional splinter. Looking down at himself, most of his outfit had suffered the same fate. Dirt clung to him, the smeared patches of brown demoting his clothes to nothing but rags. A bath. He wanted a bath, just a simple wish to soak, to feel normal again. 

Kalsin trudged along the narrow road, his battered body obeying his commands for the most part. With pain and exhaustion as a friendly background noise, soon he found himself back in a respectable part of town. The morning held the promise of a sunny day, making his parched tongue that much heavier in his mouth. He attracted looks as he went, people giving him a wide berth. A stray dog came up to him, sniffing and following him for a while. His long, golden fur reminded him of freshly harvested wheat. With feeling steadily returning to his legs, Kalsin quickened his steps and the dog eventually fell behind. He wished the children pointing at him, tugging at their parents' sleeves would do the same.

Relief squeezed his chest when his neighborhood came into sight. He barely noticed the last threads of his shoe give way, a hole tearing open at his toes. He was home. He pushed himself to keep going, but it took effort to keep himself together for just another minute. Kalsin brushed his nose, sniffing. His hand came away with flakes of dried blood.

The door to their house was locked. Unsure if his voice still worked, he knocked instead. He waited, shifting from foot to foot. Once again he was at the edge of collapsing, the wait worse than the walk, but somehow he managed to stay upright. He knocked again, louder this time. It sent a sharp pain along his knuckles.

The door was suddenly wrenched open, his father standing in the entrance with a stormy expression, but his shout died on his lips as he looked down at Kalsin. His eyes were red and bloodshot as if he hadn't slept a minute. Kalsin shivered under the gaze that was filled with horror and disbelief. Faint crying came from deeper inside.

Guilt gripped Kalsin's throat. He averted his eyes. They must've heard about Cinder already. 

"Father?" he whispered. Is she fine? Can I see her? He wanted to ask, but words refused to come.

Kalsin had to back up as Terrin stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. He regarded him, expression turning more distant by the second. His eyes closed for a breath. His wrinkles of indecision washing into certainty scared Kalsin more than any Scarrd last evening. 

"Samuel Thguon," his father said, voice hollow. "He lives in Gulling, a merchant town south of here." Taking out a handful of yellow coins without looking, he motioned for Kalsin to take the small fortune sitting on his palm. Failing to understand, Kalsin reached out, but Terrin flinched. Coins fell, bouncing all over the stone paving.

"I'm sorry, father," Kalsin burst out. "I shouldn't have let her go down that cellar, it was a stupid idea, I wasn't thinking about Mom's stories about the mythos. I'm so sorry."

Terrin spoke as if he hadn't heard him. "Samuel owes me. He runs a business, personal guards for hire. Tell him Colonel Terrin Zares sent you. Tell him 'the Veiled have been driven back from the third front'." He turned away as if there was nothing left to be said.

Kalsin desperately grabbed his arm. "Let me see Cinder! Is she awake yet?"

With sudden violence Terrin pushed him off, sprawling him on the ground. "Don't you dare get your hands on me!"

"I don't understand, Father."

"No. Not yours."

Kalsin watched from the ground as the door slammed shut, his father's back the last thing he saw from the only home he had ever known. He laid there, weeping. Where would he go? Because of him, his sister was now a cripple and she would never be able to hold a sword. Never live a good life. 

Father was right to punish him. To send him away. How could he ever think a freak like him without a sliver of surge should live under the same roof as normal people. 

With shaky hands, Kalsin rubbed his eyes. But his skin felt all wrong. He gently prodded at his face, trying to map out the cracked skin under his fingers. 

No.

No no no no no.

A pathetic whine broke out of him as reality dawned on his battered mind. Fingers curling, he started clawing at the jagged scar between his eyes, but it remained cold and hard as he only succeeded in tearing the skin underneath.

Kalsin wasn't Clenn any longer.

He was Scarrd.

20 - A Step Away from Refuge

People underestimate how dangerous a bored person is.

It's like a convincing illusion of getting caught in a pit trap; everyone tries their best to escape it. It only exists in the individual's mind, but when boredom snaps its teeth around the ankle, it can be terrifying the lengths the victim is willing to go in order to shake boredom off. It's the unseen devil whispering in the miner's ears during a peaceful tavern dinner to start a bar fight. It's the perpetrator who incites bullies to beat up the weak kid after class. Dangerous. Addictive. Outright damn deadly, in fact. 

Most importantly, it's just one short step away from aimlessness. Boredom is the byproduct of having no purpose, a desperate craving to sate a hollow cavern deep inside the soul with something fleeting and temporary.

And Kalsin had been both aimless and without purpose for the past week.

They had taken the nearest fracture and, carried by boat and bahten, rode the depthless rivers north toward Újtavak. The Republic's oddly shaped archipelago was like a spiderweb gouged deep in the earth, as there was always another fracture they could follow, endlessly forking off from one another. Though many people tended to traverse the waters this time of year, they only had a few encounters as thin vessels sailed by in the narrow passages. Fortunately, they hadn't encountered any trouble to slow their progress—no bandits lying in wait, no deep-fishing operations clogging the waterways.

Even nighttime couldn't put a halt to their advance. Sap and Hollow could navigate the waters while sleeping, and though it was slower going, the current was on their side while the azTéls slept on the boat. During the first night, Kalsin had accepted the invitation to rest on the vessel, but quickly returned to the saddle when he found out not only did Erazza snore—putting an erupting volcano to shame—but she also kept rocking the boat as she flailed around in her sleep. One of those would've been manageable. But both? He'd rather wake with aching hips and legs numb from soaking in the cold water all night. Which he did.

Jack was careful with her vigil over him, and the contagious feeling quickly spread and made the entire group tread with caution. When nearing settlements, they always took the long route around to avoid the possibility of people looking for them. Though it was a much needed relief not being chased for once, avoiding outside contact meant no new developments reached their ears. 

Did the overworld's lawmen already issue a warrant carried by pigeon-wings across the Republic? Or were they keeping quiet, continuing to rely on the hushed operations of the secret service. They didn't know, and asking the few travelers in their path would've drawn attention that was better avoided. Instead, when people approached, they kept their hoods up and their heads down.

Aside from their suboptimal sleeping habits, Kalsin found the azTéls to be pleasant company. Áron had a tale for every topic he was familiar with, and bucketloads of patient enthusiasm to learn about things outside his expertise. Never had Kalsin been so enraptured by the support structure of a roof as Áron painted a picture made of rafters, collar beams, purlins, and how much weight you needed before the pair of assassins hunting you buried themselves in a heap of broken planks. 

Erazza, by contrast, remained relatively withdrawn. At least that's how Kalsin interpreted her quiet nature at first, but soon had to reevaluate that. Watchful. That was more like it. Though her silence sometimes rivaled that of Jack, she carried a presence that whispered 'nothing escapes my sight'. She reminded Kalsin of his childhood self, back when he observed everyone, but avoided direct confrontation like the plague. But he'd grown up since then. It was a difficult road of trial and error, making friends and enemies alike, but merely deciphering a puzzle is worthless without the ability to reach out and rearrange the pieces to your liking. Perception is only half the distance to charisma.

On the fifth night, as the group separated to get their business in order and work out their stiff legs on solid ground, Áron gave Kalsin a searching look as the pair trudged through waist-high weeds of the countryside.

"I hope our presence isn't an inconvenience for you and your bodyguard."

Kalsin raised an amused brow at that.

"What I mean is," Áron started, then thought for a moment and laughed. "Hells, why not just take a page out of your book and ask it straight. Excuse my language, but are you and Jack fucking?"

"Funny guy. I'd never let anyone rest a finger against the cover of my book, let alone tear a page out." Kalsin rested a hand on the rough leather of his faded sketchbook.

Áron didn't let himself get sidetracked. "You don't seem the prude types, so I have my doubts. But, I can't lie, curiosity is getting the best of me."

"Professional curiosity, I hope?"

Áron shook his head. "Have I told you about that one time where I got stuck under a waterwheel? Call me mad, but repeating the experience doesn't seem very appealing to me."

Kalsin didn't dispute the comparison. Smart man. When Áron kept looking at him, Kalsin gave in with a shrug. Why not. His brief romance with Jack was ancient history. "We gave it a try. Turned out, we’re not compatible that way."

"As in?"

"As in she's fucking Scarrd!" Kalsin said. As quick as it came, he reined in his outburst, shutting his eyes for a second before continuing. "Sorry. That was… how should I say this?"

"Take your time. Or, eh, you know what, it's not that important anyway. I just wanted to settle the board since you asked the same thing about me and—"

"It didn’t work because of me. I'm not exactly... wired for physical relationships," Kalsin said at last. 

They walked in silence for the next minute. Kalsin asked, "You think Jack is pretty?"

Áron pursed his lips, nodded, then shook his head. "Well... I mean, obviously she is. But definitely not the type of gal I would pursue, personally. Triple my muscle mass is a little too much for me to handle."

"But at least you're able to tell. To find some appeal. Me?" Kalsin laughed bitterly. "I can only see the rotting line carved into her jaw when I look at her." Her, and every other Scarrd, Kalsin added silently.

Most of all, himself. 

"Somewhere amidst the years we spent together, our fling was basically a one-week experiment. It mostly consisted of leaning in close, then me splashing the contents of my stomach into her face like I was an embodiment of a sewage disposal pipe. After that, we decided eternal friendship was a more realistic outcome."

"You both settled for less… or was it just you?"

Kalsin remained silent. 

When Áron spoke next, he did so with compassion that Kalsin didn't need. "I'm sorry."

"Well. I don't worry about it anymore. I know that ship has long sailed, and honestly, I wouldn't change a thing. If you want someone to have your back, you're better off with someone who does so for you, and not for the fragile shell you inhabit," Kalsin said. "Human bodies are prone to ruin, after all."

"I'm not certain if that outlook is supposed to sound inspiring, or unnecessarily grim."

Kalsin smirked. "Depends on your point of view. Pessimists would take that as a warning sign. They'd focus on the worst parts. Me, I always thought pessimism was a fledgling philosophy, an egg waiting to hatch. Young, foolish, and not at all useful. But when you take pessimism, let it mature and grow by experience, that's when you get realism."

"That so? What about an optimist seasoned by the same experience, who remains to carry a positive view in spite of hard years. What would you call that?"

"I'd call that a dreamer."

Áron didn’t ask more questions that night.

It wasn't long until they finally left behind Grenstel and crossed into Újtavak, perhaps the most militant region of the Republic. The history of the land was a violent one, perched right on the archipelago's northeastern edge and standing as the sole defender against invaders from the east, the Veiled. Due to the constantly looming threat, throughout generations the region had developed aggressive policies, and as a consequence had remained mostly untouched by the effects of political posturing. The Arches held a tight grip over the regions, but Arch Ulra—the governor of Újtavak—was, for the most part, a governor in name only. 

Why? Because forcing your will upon a people who lived in constant fear of death was a hell of a lot more difficult than doing the same with civilized city-folks. It's hard to care about some arbitrary image of an Arch soaring through the air, raining down a storm of whirling fire in their rage, when you lived only a few hundred miles from the defense lines constantly under siege. 

Imagine. News come, there was another attack. Casualties high. The army needs fresh blood, and parents watch as their sons and daughters take up the sword to defend the land they call their own. It made the citizens of Újtavak wary. It made them a hardy people. And they disliked the Civil House almost as much as the Veiled.

Unfortunately, that dislike alone wouldn't be enough to save Kalsin and his companions from an execution order. For that, they'd need the military to wipe their records clean.

Warmlight had just started to brighten the horizon when they entered the valley where Lostpoint Station was located. Originally built as a backup garrison for notable cities such as Magas and aVonal, Lostpoint Station now stood as a popular stepping stone for travelers seeking—or finishing—passage between Grenstel and Újtavak. Countless taverns held lucrative business offering temporary housing for exhausted folk who wanted a warm bed before whisking them on their way, no doubt spilling some army propaganda in the process, boosting the number of people enlisting in exchange for the military letting the businesses operate on their property. A large block of barracks and administrative buildings, coupled with a recruitment station completed the town's portfolio. 

That was the sum of all they learned from the description Treyant had given the azTéls. Kalsin figured it was better than nothing. 

His optimism lasted until they approached the gate.

Everything seemed fine at first. Having left the boat some few miles behind, they had donned their cloaks and took on the appearance of just another group of dust-beaten travelers passing through. Unlike some western regions, Újtavak did not require Scarrd to put their blackened skin on display. Kalsin felt somewhat conflicted about that, but for the moment, it served their purpose.

Idle guards tracked their steps from the shadow of the sturdy, multi-layered wooden palisade that encircled the station. Half their numbers wore a crisp golden uniform, the other half crumpled gray, marking them as Clenn and Scarrd divisions waiting to admit entrance for their respective people as they stood on either sides of the gate.

A guard with leathery skin waved a lazy hand, signaling them to stop, then launched into a long-winded monologue about laws and expectations for their stay. Not even pretending to care about their identity, he ranted the words with the energy of a half-lidded lizard. To summarize, he told them stealing and causing violence was fair game, as long as they understood the guard had a responsibility to return stolen property, and beat the shit out of instigators. Kill anyone outside the framework of a duel, and we kill you back, he stated. He extended formal apologies in advance, just in case, and made it clear the military would not pay for any sort of official or unofficial funeral ceremony.

As Kalsin patiently waited out the rehearsed speech to end—now going on about a plethora of retirement benefits one gained upon joining the army—a commotion drew his attention further ahead. A man approached with the guards stepping out of his way, wearing the same gray colors to blend in, though it clearly wasn't a military uniform. He held a board with clipped paper, squinting at it through a monocle over his eye and surveying their group even as he drew closer.

Kalsin swore under his breath and felt Jack tense next to him. Aside from her shield, her only piece of armor was a chestplate, the rest packaged up on their bahten to arouse less suspicion. He couldn't rely on her protection.

"Halt!" called the man just as Áron slowly started shifting away. "If you're law-abiding citizens, you've got nothing to fear. Bothersome as it is, I've to conduct a confirmation of your identities." He spoke with a polite and apologetic tone, albeit slightly out of breath. A guard joked about penpushers sleeping on the job, eliciting a few laughs.

Kalsin thought quickly. Letting them proceed with the inspection was out of the question. Breaking through was impossible as well. Most guardsmen only had swords, but still he could see a good dozen crossbows ready at hand, cranked. He didn't have to glance back to know there was more than fifty feet of open ground before the rocky valley gave cover, so if they tried making a run for it, even a half-competent shooter could pick them off with ease.

"We're looking to join the army," Kalsin raised his voice, looking at the guard who had greeted them. "You, the Scarrd division. You worked a long shift, and we've come a long way. Now, I don't know if you have the authority to recruit right here, right now, but hell, doing so would save us both some time."

"They do not," the man with the monocle said, less friendly now. A few men grumbled at the Civil House official speaking for them, but the guard who had spoken—after a moment of deliberation—just shrugged with a not-my-problem sort of expression. 

The azTéls had been slowly trying to create some distance, but stopped as Monocle's distrust, despite their obvious animosity, quickly spread among the guards. Brows furrowed. Hands connected with sword hilts. Crossbows leveled at their group.

"Show us your face," Monocle ordered, all but confirming they were looking for outlaws with face scars. Not good.

Praying to the trinity of gods that somehow he'd be wrong, Kalsin slowly reached up and pushed back his hood. Monocle's eyes flickered down to his paper, then back at him. His lips drew back in a small smile. Very not good.

Before the man could give the order to arrest them, the azTéls turned and ran. 

The sudden yells and commotion that followed spooked their bahten, and Kalsin was dragged several feet in the mud back away from the gate, one arm caught in Sap’s reins. Áron and Erazza were already halfway to cover with the efforts they had put in beforehand, but they were still too far away from safety. Kalsin half turned, standing between the fleeing siblings and trying to keep his mount in place and yelling at the soldiers to try and calm things. They had a chance, damn it, they had a chance for this to go right, if only they stood their ground and let bureaucracy sort this out—

That's when he heard the release of strings.

Something much larger than a crossbow bolt barreled into Kalsin, knocking him on his back in a cloud of dust. Jack's body pressed on him like a mountain as she protected his body with her own, some bolts pinging off the shield on her back. Her head was above his as her hood spread around them both, and he could see the expression of pain on her shadowed face. 

She'd been hit.

Kalsin tried throwing her off, but Jack redoubled her efforts, hugging him stronger and going as far as to press her cheek on top of his. He felt the dry texture of the scar on her jawline smush against his face. 

And the moment it happened, an explosion of pain cracked through his mind.

Losing grasp on reality, Kalsin could faintly hear the heavy breaths coming from Jack. He heard footsteps closing in around them.

And then the vision overwhelmed him.

21 - The Girl Who Never Spoke

~~It’s almost time, I thought, nerves bubbling up.

The girl in the mirror stared back with wide eyes, wearing a lilac dress that appeared as if the piece of inanimate clothing knew it didn't belong. Not to mention, who would've guessed silk could be so uncomfortable. I tugged at the frilled sleeves that covered way too much of my tanned arms, a far cry from the boyish clothes I usually wore. But the frantic beating of my heart made me forget about the strange sensation almost immediately. 

My hair was bunched up into an awkward bun that almost managed to hide the fact it wouldn't have reached my shoulders if gravity had its say. I found its shade of dark brown just as dull as the teenage girl it was attached to. A lie pretending to blend in. And yet I wondered if, fitted with this mascara, they would see me as a person for once.

"Come on, Jacqueline! We don't want to be late," Rita called from downstairs. 

Adjusting my sleeves for the last time, I shot the stranger in the mirror a final glance and hurried down the steps. Rita was waiting for me in the doorway, looking right at home in her light-green dress. Her eyes crinkled mischievously as she caught sight of me.

"How many pockets does that thing have, and which one is the Jacqueline I know hiding inside?"

I batted her arm on reflex, then quickly smoothed out the wrinkles the movement caused. How did people function wearing this shit on a day-to-day basis? Maybe it was a payoff sort of thing. Hello 'wanting to crawl out of my own skin', meet 'being noticed'. Three, two, one, fight. I wonder which one of you is going to come out on top.

I gave Rita a halfhearted shrug, the dismissive gesture the exact opposite of the brawl inside my squirming nerves. 

As I tried to squeeze past her, she took a gentle, though firm hold of my arms and spun me around. "Jackie, it's going to be alright. They’re gonna love you."

My smile came a little easier this time. I put a fist over my heart.

She smirked. "Yeah, save the gratitude for when you dazzle the hell out of our new mates. Which, by the way, is going to happen, a hundred percent. I have no doubts."

Part of me wished she'd tone back her enthusiasm a little. After all, this get-together was going to be a simple meeting between a first-year class to spend an afternoon in the Glasshorn Bar. Normally, I would have skipped the event—too many bad experiences. But somehow, against my better judgment, Rita had convinced me otherwise.

We arrived just on time, but the ruckus was already in full swing as a crowd of young students filled the tavern with their chatter. The smell of spiced apple filled the air, which, I supposed, was a slight upgrade from the sour stench of beer I was accustomed to. Like my clothes, my usual choice of taverns ranged from shithole to even worse shithole. But hey, at least people didn't expect you to talk when fists flew instead of words. No strange looks, no folks treating you like you were wrong in the head. But this place? This was a respected establishment, at least as respected as you could get here in Gulling.

Conversation gradually died down as we approached the long table with curious faces looking our way. Apparently, we were the last to arrive. 

They swarmed us with introductions for the next minute, offering a hand—or in Rita's case, sometimes a familiar hug—one by one. I tried to remember all the names as I smiled, shaking hands. 

A few awkward moments passed as some of them held on, waiting expectantly for me to introduce myself, but I broke the grip quickly and moved on to the next person, trying to ignore my discomfort. Though I was used to it, it never got any easier. 

I lightly touched Rita's elbow as soon as the cursed greeting ritual came to a close. She glanced from me to the confused looking students, practically reading my mind in the fraction of a second. 

"This is Jacqueline, and no, she's not a shy one," Rita hooked an arm through mine with a fond smile. "She can't talk, but trust me, even on her worst days she could surge-wrestle any of you to the ground." 

The first reaction was always shock. A brief moment as people processed the news, quickly turning to one of three things; pity, mirth, or badly veiled nonchalance. I saw the effects of Rita's words ripple through the crowd like a spell, some averting their eyes while others locked on me like a target dummy. I had to fight the sudden urge telling me to run, but anxiety kept my legs rooted in place. 

A polite cough interrupted the silence, and I looked up to see a boy—Dallern, was his name?—offering me a steaming mug. He said something about the drinks being amazing here, and that it was on the house, but I was simply glad the awkward moment had been broken. He took the seat on my right. I looked around for Rita to see her squished between a group of her friends I didn't know. 

"...and they only said Thursdays, but, well, you know how it is. Then we got Plinon's dad to rent out this place, so here we are. What do you think?" Dallern asked, the boy he mentioned, Plinon, listening to the conversation as well.

Flustered, I took a sip from the mug, just barely avoiding scalding my mouth as the sweet taste of cider warmed my insides. I grinned at them, holding up a thumb. 

We talked for a time, them going on about random topics and me trying to respond in a way that they could understand. For the most part, they could not. When I mimed holding a pen and writing over my palm, raising my brows in question, Dallern just awkwardly shrugged and started talking about something else, unable to figure out that I was asking about his studies. When I snagged a cooked shrimp from his plate and pushed my serving of fries toward him with a smirk, he just looked at me confused instead of taking a bite. They couldn't even figure out the fist over my heart was gratitude, and not some crude gesture meaning to offend.

The giddy feeling I started out with slowly died out, giving way to disappointment. Here I was, finally getting a chance to meet these people. People who’d play a large part in the next phase of my life, those I’d see and interact with every day at school.

 And while they had tried at first, their interest was quickly snuffing out.

"...the prow shaped like a spear," Dallern was saying, then paused, looking at me. "You know, the prow? The front-most part of a ship?" He slowed his speech, like he was talking to a four year old. "P-r-o-w?"

I tried, I really did. I tried my best to let him know I was listening, but the longer he went on, the more he seemed to be convinced something was wrong with me. He talked in fewer words and with an increasingly bored tone. Awkward silences stretched longer until the boys weren’t even looking in my direction to see my replies. They soon forgot about me altogether, engaged in conversation with someone on their other side of the table.

I opened my mouth—but of course, no sound came. I tried catching the attention of the girl on my left. When our eyes met, she gave a polite smile before turning away.

For long minutes, I just sat there, listening as people around me yelled within familiar groups, laughed, having the time of their life. Rita was leaning across the table, playing coy as she pretended to peck someone. Lighthearted banter was thrown at a boy struggling with his order from the attractive waitress. Forks clattered, voices rising and merging with the commotion in the warm tavern.

Nobody saw the mute girl stand, holding back tears as she walked outside. Nobody showed an ounce of concern for someone as worthless and incomplete as her. Retreating to her empty home, sitting on the bed of her empty room, no one saw as loneliness broke her. Nobody would care if she was gone the next day.

She tried to take her own life that night. It was only blind luck that her father checked on her before it was too late.

By morning, Jack was Scarrd.~~

22 - The Red Herald

Kalsin woke drenched in sweat.

He was lying on a hard straw bed stuffed in the corner of the dilapidated cell. Vines had broken through the cracks in the floor, creeping up and around the iron bars separating his small space from a torch-lit corridor, with several more cells yawning empty on the other side. Silence was absolute, save for a faint whistle of wind rearing its head up from somewhere far down the hall.

Kalsin sat up straight with his head throbbing, and though the pain was retreating by the second, he had a sinking feeling that nothing would be the same for him going forward. The images from his vision blinked before his eyes, and yet again he looked back on the bottled up dread Jack felt bursting out that day, from a time years and years ago before they had met. 

Each insult, every word, gesture and glance that dehumanized her adding up to something terrible that eventually broke her spirit. Though he knew he'd just lived through the story of her scar—he could still hardly believe that brittle, self-doubting girl was the same, confident bodyguard he'd come to know through their travels. 

But then he remembered another memory next to it. One he'd seen as a child in a dark alleyway, after a thief had forced him to touch the repulsive rotten line marring her face. After which he had woken up no longer Clenn.

Kalsin shivered once.

He desperately pleaded as he slowly reached up. Please, don't let it be real, chanting it over and over again like a creed, though he knew it wouldn't make a difference. 

And it didn't. His fingers searched only for a moment until they brushed against a scar sitting squarely on his jawline. A scar that was the exact mirror of Jack's. 

He let his arm drop, getting it out of the way just before foul things pushed up his throat and out his mouth. He doubled over, retching until there was nothing left in his stomach. 

The spasms slowly died down. He spit to rid himself of the bitter taste, but laughter came along with it, the crazed sound breaking out of Kalsin abruptly. Somehow, having drawn a bad card from fate's deck at birth, or through some twisted fucking joke at his expanse by the gods, he didn't get scars like an ordinary human. 

No, turns out, things couldn't be that simple for him. It wasn't enough to be born surgeless, it wasn't enough growing up without his real parents, but apparently—scars would take residence on his body upon a glancing touch. On contact, like the plague. 

Funny, he said in his mind, and maybe out loud too. Funny how his inherent disgust of scars kept him this tidbit of detail in the dark throughout his life. But the real punchline? He'd been desperately looking for a way to heal himself, and now he was farther away from the prospect of being Clenn than anyone else in the Republic. 

He laughed harder. His voice slowly turned into small whimpers like deformed sounds of an injured animal.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway in chorus with the metallic rattling of keys. Strangely enough, for a fleeting second Kalsin was embarrassed about the mess he'd made next to his bed, but it was gone quickly. He was in prison. No sane chap's going to expect him to present a welcoming committee with bouquets of roses and tulips. Likely, they wouldn't care if he soiled himself for a week straight, considering the fact that the cell lacked even as much as a bucket.

It was a soldier who came for him, not an inconspicuous agent of the law. Things were looking up, eh? Except the soldier was Clenn, and he'd made that blindingly clear as he opened the iron door, barged in, and roughly pushed Kalsin against the cold wall of his cell.

Kalsin silently endured as he had his wrists tied behind him, wondering if the guard was currently standing in the spent contents of his belly. Probably not the wisest direction for his bleary wits. Plans in the making: zero, nonsensical distractions: one. Kalsin hoped there wasn't an insane smile plastered on his face as the guard pushed him along the hall.

He expected to be led through a long series of connecting tunnels, but they had only ascended a single step of stairs before arriving at a level considerably more civilized. For one, it was bright with sunlight streaming through the narrow windows, and closed doors had taken the place of iron bars. This prison wasn't a large one.

They stopped before a room at the end of the hallway as the guard paused to knock. The affirmative to enter came immediately, and they shuffled inside a tidy little office with a nice view across the valley. 

The first thing Kalsin noticed was a young woman standing at the far side of the room, wearing a summer dress with lily patterns, deep red hair reaching down below her waist. Kalsin couldn’t see her face through the red locks, so absorbed she was looking down at something at her feet, facing him and eerily still.

"Ough, good gods," exclaimed the man behind the desk as he spotted Kalsin, then waved away the guard without a word. Wearing a formal military uniform with shiny markings sewn around his collar, he was probably more than a lieutenant but less than a major. Or maybe fulfilling an entirely different role. Kalsin didn't know much about the army's inner workings. 

The officer scratched his neatly trimmed beard, probably not due to fleas since it was properly maintained. "Well, that's a complication I certainly didn't need right now," he muttered to himself, then spoke louder. "You feeling antsy, hm? Got anything to get off your chest? Just a moment ago I would've swore there was a tissue somewhere around here." He started rummaging around his desk with a complete air of gravity.

"Oh, this?" Kalsin asked, making an attempt to point a trapped finger upwards at his face. "Naw, you know how it is. It'll probably take a few hours until shock wears off. You can't tell, but I'm screaming on the inside," he deadpanned.

The officer glanced down at the poster laying before him, then back up at his prisoner. The wanted poster depicted a half-assed drawing of Kalsin's face except for the main determining factor of identification, his scar. Or now scars, plural. While the paper-Kalsin had a single black mark between his eyes, the real deal standing before the officer sported another one on his jaw. 

So, obviously, the officer thought getting imprisoned traumatized Kalsin to a point where he developed another scar. 

Unironically, that was fucking hilarious, but Kalsin managed to reduce his mirth to a twitch of a muscle.

The officer made a noncommittal sound. "Right then. Standby-Colonel Atlas Nevor, at your service. Or I would be, were you not the focal point of a razored shitstorm, with the Civil House's agents acting out the role of metals, and me shacked in the middle of bumfuck fieldwhere to witness it."

"Sorry. Next time when I get the cravings to get clapped in chains, I'll ask my captors to leave you out of it."

"You say that now, but..." Atlas trailed off, absorbed in a wrinkled letter that looked like it had been rotting on his desk for a decade. 

Kalsin surveyed the man's features, head tilted. He'd only met the general once when he was a kid, but everyone across the Republic knew the name. "Nevor?"

"No I'm not his son, yes we're related, no I did not receive my rank as a result of favoritism, yes you may cease to ask further questions about the matter," Atlas rattled off in an almost bored tone. He rubbed an eye with his thumb. "I'm General Silas' nephew, though frankly, I fail to see how that's relevant to your situation. Figures you're the curious type."

Kalsin let that hang in the air before getting to the question he'd been holding back. "I'd like to ask, what exactly happened at the gate? Things get a little hazy."

"This notice here," Atlas said, tapping the poster and ignoring the question, "Says you're wanted for murder, conspiracy against the Republic and," he leaned closer, squinting as he read. "Tergiversation of sleuth perlustration."

"I can attest to the latter. I'm quite handy with a pen, but I've always been terribly shaken from sloth illustration."

Atlas cracked just the faintest of smiles. "I swear they make legal gibberish overly convoluted on purpose." He leaned back in his chair, watching Kalsin thoughtfully. "But, in any case. I have a situation on my hands. The Civil House is knocking on my door to hand you over so you can be tried and prosecuted for your crimes. Now I don't have to comply, but they expect me to, and the military as a rule hates to deal with government fallout. Except—and this is where legality comes to deliver a bite in the ass—you made your intentions to join the army very clear before the agents could identify you."

"What about my companions?"

"We'll get to that later." He paused. "Thing is, immunity for a soldier is no joke. It's probably the largest driving factor to get people to join, and, though the rest of the Republic likes to pretend otherwise, we desperately need new blood to maintain defense along the Eastern Expanse. You've seen all our propaganda outside, yes? All that work is blown right off the hinges if townsfolk see an aspiring soldier dragged through the streets. So while I really don't want to piss off powerful people, throwing you to the wolves isn't quite a winning situation either."

Kalsin decided it was time to keep his mouth shut. He hadn't been taking the situation with the severity it deserved. He'd been too distracted by… well, by suddenly becoming whatever kind of human-adjacent abomination that he was. But now he needed to make an effort to focus. If not for himself, then for the sake of those close to him.

Atlas, quite un-colonel-like, slowly tipped his chair back and forth, though he never took his eyes off Kalsin. "You see, people don't look kindly upon people killing other people, just as a general principle. How harshly they punish murder depends on the given region. In Araz, you'll probably get away with a quick beheading. Seven Fallter? A month in the deepest cells to marinate in your hopelessness, then the slow, agonizing noose around your neck. But here in Újtavak, well. Are you familiar with the right to duel?"

"Heard about it. If both parties accept, they can settle their differences in a duel to the death?"

"To the death, yes. That's not murder, mind you, but it does create a certain open mindedness about the matter of life-short-cuttage. Elsewhere, people would cringe at the thought of being friends with a murderer. But here, if you can put someone in an early grave, people figure you won't be entirely useless if the Veiled invade."

Atlas kept up his intense gaze for long seconds, and Kalsin matched his stare. At around half a minute it was getting a little uncomfortable, so Kalsin finally cleared his throat. "So where does all this leave us?"

"If they buried you today. What do you think people would say at your funeral?"

The bizarre question threw Kalsin off his game for a moment. It was a test, though not an obvious one. Surely, Atlas was trying to see what kind of man he was, and Kalsin had a feeling the colonel would sense if he didn't answer truthfully. So no matter how ridiculous he found the question at first, he carefully considered it before giving his reply.

"They would curse me for disappointing them. They would proudly call me an unethical bastard. They would mourn the loss of a friend."

Atlas rubbed his eye again, head turned down in thought. Long seconds passed. He then righted his chair with a thunk. "Hmph, to hells with it. Can you follow orders?"

He went on before Kalsin could answer.

"Never mind that, because if you can't, I'm signing your death warrant just the same." 

With that, Atlas launched a seemingly endless barrage of questions at Kalsin, from inquiring about his birth place to asking him to state any property he owned. Previous professions, family ties, combat experience were all documented. Kalsin's answers weren't entirely honest, which is to say, he made most of them the fuck up. When asked about his surge, he gave the usual lie—weak rot. A low amount of mental surge, and a practically worthless amount of dirt's physical surge. With his newfound double-scars, he looked the part too.

Eventually, Atlas stopped writing to look through his handiwork, absently scratching at his beard. Kalsin stood there waiting, patient. 

Until he wasn't. Now that his own future was set, he had other concerns.

"The people who traveled alongside me," Kalsin asked. "I hope your generosity extends to them, as well."

"Your Scarrd friends? Well, my men did hear you say 'we', and one of them did carry a letter of reference. But things aren't certain just yet," Atlas said, still reading the document.

Kalsin stiffened. "Why's that? Our warrant was the same. It stands to reason that if I get my immunity, then so would they."

Atlas looked up, blinking. "Oh. Sorry, you misunderstand. They're now fresh recruits of the army, just like you—nice and out of the Civil House's reach. But they weren't as lucky as you were during the confrontation at the gate. The man caught a nasty bolt to his thigh, and the woman's injuries are much worse. She might not live through the night."

"The woman?" Kalsin asked with a desperate voice, suddenly not giving a damn about looking collected anymore. "Who was it?"

A small frown appeared on Atlas's face. "The Scarrd one, of course. Why, are you claiming to cavort with a Clenn?"

Wondering if he'd heard wrong, Kalsin tried and failed to process what the colonel was saying. The hells did he mean by the Scarrd one when that description applied to both Jack and Erazza? "I don't understand," he managed to get out.

"I honestly can't blame you." Atlas said with an exhausted sigh.  "It's a proper mess. Let me paint you the story I received from my men. People approach the gate like they always do, nothing out of the ordinary. The agent of the House asks them to reveal themselves so they can be identified via scars. Annoying, but eh, we've been putting up with it for the past few days. That's when you," he pointed at Kalsin, "declare your intention to join. The agent is frothing at the mouth to capture you. My men are fucking confused, and they're on edge, which is never a good combination."

Atlas shook his head, exasperated. "The moment you fled, panic reared. My men opened fire. While you were lucky enough to be tackled by another traveler—probably trying to help the guard capture you, bless the moron's heart—your friends didn't fare so well. After we had you secured, the agent confirmed the identity of three wanted persons, two unharmed bahten, and a Clenn bystander who, despite the shield on her back, ended up with a bolt in the foot. Hopefully a reminder to let guards do their jobs in the future."

He might've said more, but Kalsin didn't hear any of it. He felt dizzy, his vision tunneled as if the world itself was constricting around him. He tried making sense of it all, but his mind kept circling around a single thought; Jack was Clenn.

Jack. 

Was. 

Clenn. 

His lifelong friend, bodyguard and companion was cured. And Kalsin was the one who suffered for it.

When he'd touched her scar by accident, somehow, for some indecipherable reason, the scar ceased to exist on her body and instead became a part of him. Did the same thing happen with his first scar, in the alleyway? It had been so dark that night, happened so long ago that he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember, but even if he did, would he care? 

Because for him, this made one thing clear; he would never be Clenn. 

If people found out about this ability—this curse—that Kalsin had, they would swarm him until he was a blackened husk, a ruin made of a hundred-thousand scars. He'd be used without remorse, used for the greater good.

Was he… was his own body the legend he’d been chasing for all those years?

Kalsin shuddered. He wanted to laugh, and to scream, and to curl up until they world that played this cruel joke on him disappeared. Not now. He… he needed a clear head to think. 

For the present moment, he was just a freshly pressed soldier—and the greater good could go fuck itself.

The colonel was watching him with a bewildered expression, probably wondering whether his newest recruit was mentally sound. 

Kalsin raised his bound wrists. "This still necessary? It would seem I'm no longer a criminal, uh, sir. Do I call you sir moving forward?"

He nodded. "Yes, but that's assuming you live to see another one of our meetings again. You're going far from here."

"Then, sir, I have an observation to report. This entire mess of a situation on your hand, and the reason you decided to help us? It has nothing to do with propaganda, or army reputation, or even what kind of person you think I am."

"Really. How come?"

"You caught the Civil House bent over a chasm, and you took the opportunity to deliver a crunchy kick in the balls."

"I'm a simple man, who likes to indulge in simple pleasures. But that's not something I can either confirm or deny, soldier," said Atlas with a stern face, only his eyes betraying his mirth. 

Kalsin looked to the side, and his smile suddenly froze on his face. "Where’d your daughter go?"

"Daughter?" Atlas asked, following Kalsin’s gaze toward the corner of the room, then back at him. "I don’t have children. And, Gods, even if I did, I’d never let them step foot in this office."

"But I saw..."

"Are you feeling fine?" Atlas watched him, his tone answering his own question.

"Fine. Yeah."

Kalsin was not fine.

Because the red-haired girl he’d seen when he entered the room was nowhere to be seen. 

No trace of red hair.

No lily patterns.

No obscured face.

A shiver ran across Kalsin’s neck, and he swore he heard the faintest echoes of a distant giggle.