Grif plucked the kettle out of the embers of the firepit before it could make a squeak, smoothly pouring the hot brew into two mugs.

“You’ll wanna be letting it cool a smidge,” he grumbled, his voice a rumbling baritone.

Talia nodded absently, her gaze lost in the orange glow. Her chest rattled at the beat of her heart. Still pumping from the flood of panic.

Seated on the bench beside her, the old delver leaned forward, dipping a thin stone rod into the smoulder until it glowed red-hot, using it to light a stubby pipe. Talia tensed as the waft of smoke reached her nostrils, ready for another flashback.

Nothing. Apparently, she was all panicked out.

Small mercies…

“It gets better, kiddo,” Grif grumbled.

Had he noticed the flicker of fear? Talia couldn’t be sure.

“I know,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Aye, you’ve been walkin’ it off like a champ. More’n a few whispers out’n about. I’d be surprised if there weren’t a few wagers on what exactly you were before you joined our merry band. Good to see you’re just sapient, like the rest of us.”

Talia frowned, confused.

What I was? What’s that supposed to mean?

“Ah, I guess there go the bets on you being some kinda spy,” Grif chuckled.

Talia sputtered, utterly baffled.

“W-What?”

Grif nodded sagely.

“Girly, think for a second. Day before we set off, Ikkel, the rat bastard, goes and gets his head blown off, or some other nonsense. Lookin’ like a shite haul, delvin’ a dead city without an Arcanist. Then you show up, all scarred and brooding. Whippin’ around fancy artefacts and pickin’ brawls at haven. Slayin’ deep dwellers like you were born to it. Hair dye leeching away, wearin’ that fancy armour all the time, surviving blows you ain’t got no right to…Whispers get around, you know?”

“I-I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Talia stammered.

I—What? When the hell did I become some great mystery?!

“Oh, aye, I see that now, but rumours spread. Worse than a gaggle of whores ‘round a feckin’ bottle, delvers. Doesn’t help when you barely speak to anyone but officers and that little wytchling. Then there’s that nasty business with the mage-commandrum, an’ let’s not even mention the vile wretches. Straight from Ishmael’s abyss, those things,” said Grif, shivering, running a hand through his salt-flecked beard, “But you fought ‘em like they were nothin’. All steel-eyed an’ cold. Hair like wet blood an’ a snarl to spite gods on your face, with arcane magics to match.”

Talia shook her head incredulously, shocked out of her stupor by the sheer ridiculousness the veteran was spouting. Was that why she was getting looks at the mess hall? Because they were…impressed? Awed? The word escaped her, but the notion was so outlandish it made her smile. And here she’d thought they’d been clued in on her secret…

Still, he’s exaggerating, surely.

“So…what? You saying you all thought I was some kind of…hardened warrior? Or a spy? A mysterious stranger on a mission? Some kind of exiled legionnaire from the stories?” Talia asked, laughing bitterly, “Sorry to disappoint. I’m just—I don’t know what I am, but it isn’t that. I’m not different from any of you. Different skillset, and a bit worse at making friends, but that’s it.”

Grif blew out a ring of smoke with a snort. It smelled like cloves and bitter herbs.

“Like I said, you’d be surprised at just how much gossip goes around a delving crew. An’ when there isn’t any truth to be had, well…with feats like yours, that’s a legend in the making,” Grif said, stuffing his pipe in the corner of his lips and spreading his hands in front of him, “Talia the Unbowed, Wyrmslayer, Demonflayer, Arcanist Extraordinaire.”

Murderer, Talia’s conscience added before she could clamp down on it. She shook the instrusive thought away, focusing on the old human.

“Now you’re just pulling my leg,” she said.

Grif raised a bushy salt-pepper brow, grinning with yellowed teeth.

“You keep doin’ as you’ve been? Well, I’ve seen folktales written for less,” he said, barking a laugh, “Hells, some of ‘em I wrote meself.”

The old man leaned down, picked up the cups and handed her one. The tea was good, some kind of personal blend. Earthy, with a hint of mint, and something she couldn’t quite place. Talia set the cup between her knees, propped her chin on her palms—her palm singular, as the painful twinge of her right arm reminded her—and stared back into the firepit.

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“That—That’s not me, though. I’m just…” She trailed off, unsure what she had meant to say in the first place.

“Aye, look. I’m just sayin’ things as I see ‘em. An’ I promise you, many of ‘em seen it too, even if you don’t.”

But…they’re wrong. I’m just…

Moments ago she’d been curled in a ball, sure that she was going to die, caught in the darkest of living nightmares. Now here was the man who’d picked her up and talked her through it, telling her that…what? She was some kind of hero? It felt hollow. Surreal.

I’m just some fucked up girl in over her head. Nothing special.

“Half the time, hells, most of the time, I was terrified out of my mind,” Talia muttered.

Grif nodded, deep-set brown eyes filled with sympathy, his face like the knot of a centuries-old drearwood tree.

“We’ve all been shiny on a delve gone bad,” Grif said, “It’s only a matter-o-time. If anything, we were lucky this time around. Most times, if things go sour in the Deep, it’s over. You’re swallowed up. You don’t hear many stories like ours, and I reckon it’s ‘cause those that lived ‘em never got a chance to tell ‘em.”

“Shiny?” Talia asked.

“Nice’n polished, never been scuffed in the Deep. Shiny. Now, what was I sayin’? Right. These folks, ‘round here? They know that the real bad stories are held by dead men. Even the shinies’ve heard the grumbling. They’ve seen the writing on the wall, and they figer, why not stay here, where it’s safe—consequences be damned. Hells, most of ‘em are dealin’ with the same shite you are. Heh. I guess you just hid it better, eh? Goin’ out there every day, huntin’ through the city like you own it. But listen, if you don’t deal with a wound, it festers. You hear me?”

Talia shook her head and clenched her fist.

“I already spoke with Lazarus,” she said stiffly, “I don’t want to—”

“Bah, feck what the elf says. A healer’s got a place in every crew, but so does an old greybeard. I’ll tell you what I tell my shinies. When you’re in the Deep, it’s not long, highfalutin treatments you need. A splash of moonshine on the wound and then you bandage it tight. It’s about survival you see? Haven tricks you, makes you think you’re safe when you ain’t. But I’m getting off track.”

Talia turned to face him, her eyes intent and her focus sharp. Something in his words had struck a chord. The old delver took a great big puff of his pipe, blowing out a billow of smoke punctuated by a phlegmy cough.

When he met her stare, there was something dark and hard in his gaze. He brought up the nub of his pipe, tapping his chest above his heart.

“The demon you’re fightin’? That them all are fightin’?” he said with a wave at the barracks, “It’s in here. It’s a sneaky fucker. Makes you think you’re all tapped out. Makes you make mistakes. Makes you not think straight.” Grif growled and leaned closer his breath rank and smoky. “But it lies to you,” he whispered.

He brought the nub to his temple.

“The real fight’s in here. In your noggin’. Y’understand?” he asked, the question phrased as a statement of fact. “Splash of moonshine and a tight bandage. An’ then you keep fightin’. Give the demon something to chew on while you rage against the Dark.”

Talia nodded slowly, letting the words sink in.

“I think I get it…”

“Hah! You don’t. Not yet. But you’ll get there. Think on it a little more. You’ll wanna be sharp on our little hunt tomorrow.”

Talia scowled briefly, pulled out of her thoughts. She looked askance at him.

“How do you know I’m on tomorrow’s hunt?”

Grif grinned.

“I told you word gets around, didn’t I?”

“Yea…”

Talia levered herself up, finishing the rest of her tea in one gulp.

“I’m off to sleep then,” she mumbled, picking over what he’d said.

“Aye, lass, gods watch over your slumber.”

She nodded, favouring him with the flicker of a smile. It felt strange now that Osra had pointed out her tendency to smile with just her lips.

“Thanks, Grif. Really. For the tea…and for the, uh…yea.”

The greybeard bobbed his head in understanding.

“Just payin’ the favour forward. Weren’t so long ago I was in your shoes. You live long enough, you’ll be doin’ the same for some shiny, ten years down the line. Just the way it is.”

If I’m still doing this ten years from now, then I’ll have really lost my mind. Never again.

But she didn’t voice her thoughts.

She left Grif sitting by the embers, lost in recollection. The old man had thought she hadn’t understood what he was saying, but a quick patch sounded exactly like what she needed. She didn’t have time to be sitting around feeling sorry for herself. There was a fight to be had.

A tight bandage? Oh, I can do that.

Luckily, she, of all people, had the perfect tools to bandage a wound of the mind, and the perfect teachers to show her how. She stalked toward her bunk, the beginnings of a crooked grin on her face, and the start of a radical idea in her head.

----------------------------------------

Talia stopped short of the doorway to wagon two, glaring down at the invisible feline laid across the threshold. As Menace had gotten older, he’d gotten more…intricate in his schemes. One day, he would realize that she could see through the visual illusion. Clearly, that day wasn’t today.

Talia reached out with her psionics, conveying the equivalent of a poke in the ribs. To his credit, the juvenile mirage lynx maintained his camouflage. She chuckled as she sensed him repress the urge to meep at her.

My little kitten’s all grown up.

“Out of the way, Menace,” she muttered, almost sub-vocally. She knew he could hear her. Or at least understand her meaning. After all, she was conveying it directly to the big cat’s mind.

With a shake of her head, Talia followed behind him as he led the way to her bunk, pretending it was his idea the whole way. He jumped on her bed and rippled back into existence once she pulled the curtain shut.

Meep-purrrr.

“Sorry boy, we’re out of jerky,” she whispered, running her hand against his head.

He’d shed his whelping fur—with all the mess that entailed—revealing the coat of luxurious, iridescent gray underneath the fluff of white. Where the lynx had been cute before, he was sleek and beautiful. Not to mention deadly. His claws had only grown sharper, their curves more wicked.

Unfortunately, the shedding and growing had done little for his attitude.

He stuck his little head into her cloak, nudging around in search of treats. Talia pushed him away gently, rubbing at the tiny nubs on his skull where he would eventually grow horns.

At least he listens now. Well, most of the time.

Talia allowed herself to indulge in the peace of playing with her feline companion, embracing the rumble of his near-silent purr as she pet him.

When he fell asleep on her lap, she let off a sigh, resting her hand on his head; simply feeling him breathe.

“This is a bad idea, Tals,” Torval whispered in her ear.

Talia didn’t bother silencing the ghost. Where she was going, he couldn’t follow. At least, he hadn’t yet.

Closing her eyes, she turned her focus to the Fragment of the Weave.

It was time to set her mind straight.