Two days had passed since Tristian had bidden farewell to Jenna Tannersen.
He'd done everything humanly possible to give hope to the grieving mother while the baroness and her team were searching for her lost son. That was why he'd stayed behind in the capital. Then the woman had approached him, saying she had to return to her village and thanking him for his support. He'd let her go with Sarenrae's blessing, promising her that everything would be all right.
And today he witnessed the field team's arrival back to the capital. He'd rarely seen them so depressed before, and this time, the reason was not Harrim.
It was the small, bundled-up corpse Harrim was carrying in his arms.
While the dwarf left the party and set out towards the little shrine in the graveyard, tended by one of Jhod Kavken's new acolytes, Guelder and her other companions made their way to the Beer Mug Inn, where Jenna used to kill her time while waiting for updates on her son. A few minutes later, Linzi burst out onto the street in a mad rush, screaming Ekundayo's name at the top of her lungs. Not long after, an adventurer named Willas Gunderson, booked in for an audience with the baroness regarding a treasure-hunting expedition to Candlemere Isle, left the inn huffing and puffing in indignation, heading towards the gates with a backpack probably containing all his belongings.
Then Hazel stepped out of the inn, their dark eyes scanning the street in both directions and locking onto Tristian.
"The baroness wants you on the shooting range in half an hour," they said brusquely.
Tristian nodded in acknowledgement, however unusual the summons felt. The baroness probably needed urgent mental support, at a neutral location, away from prying eyes and ears.
"How bad is it, Hazel?" he asked.
"It depends on what you call success or failure," said the elf, tossing their hood back and freeing their long black hair from the bun they had been wearing underneath. "We killed a big old will-o’-wisp, massacred an entire lizardfolk tribe, and made it out alive. That is success, to a certain degree. Little Tig Tannersen is dead, though. Which is sad, but it can also be considered some sort of success."
"WHAT?"
From the way Hazel refused to look at him, Tristian suspected the flippant words were hiding something deeper. Still, he found it hard not to lash out.
"Harrim says we should be happy for the boy, since he left behind a life of misery for eternal, peaceful nonexistence. Just this once, I cannot help but agree with him."
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Hazel usually didn't resonate with Harrim's philosophy. Tristian remained silent and attentive, wondering where this would lead.
"The kid's mother left a farewell letter with the innkeeper and ran off to drown herself in Lake Candlemere. And that, my friend, is remarkable success."
The world turned with Tristian. How could he have been so blind? How could he let Jenna go before the situation was resolved in one way or another?
"Guelder sent out Ekundayo to track her down," continued Hazel. "It is probably too late, though. The letter has been lying on the counter for at least two days. Anyway, good riddance of bad rubbish."
They spat.
"How can you say that?" exclaimed Tristian, finally out of his endless patience and empathy.
"That woman," said Hazel softly, their voice dripping with hatred, "told her son to go drown in the lake, just because he accidentally spilt a bowl of dough. The big will-o’-wisp we killed had been gorging itself off the boy's emotions. It chose him as his very own source of delicious fear. And do you know why?"
Tristian lowered his head. Yes, he knew why, but he would die before he admitted. He'd taken Jenna Tannersen's confession. The outbreak of anger that had made little Tig escape from home had not been the first instance, and not even the worst.
Hazel bore down on him, his dark green eyes burning with wrath.
"You guessed right. He was an abused, tormented child. Imagine the sheer quantity of fear accumulated in his little soul, and do not expect me to feel sorry for that monster of a woman. People like her do the best service to the world if they kill—"
"Hazel, STOP!" cried out Tristian. "How can you question someone else's right to life and redemption so easily? She was devastated by the loss of her son! This could have been her sobering slap that would have helped her do better!"
He knew his words were true, and still, he felt he was spouting empty doctrine at someone who had been through too much to appreciate it.
"Do better, eh?" snapped Hazel. "For how long? One month? Two? Just long enough to feed you some hope that things might change, and then start it all over again. You know nothing, Tristian. Tell me, have you ever been abused?"
Tristian looked away. Heat suffused his face, and he had to press his lips together to stop them from trembling. Of course that was what Hazel thought of him. After all, he had not even grown up in a family. Whatever could he know about abuse?
"No," he lied. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Hazel. If you ever feel the need to talk—"
Hazel snorted in disdain.
"This thing settles into your bones, Tristian. It will be part of you for as long as you live. Flapping your tongue will not make it go away. Nothing will. Anyway, I tire of this. Prepare for your summons."