(Charles)

Twelve hours later…

Charles had plotted several ways to handle the strange man, all simple but, unfortunately, lethal. Lacking the information needed for a non-lethal approach, he made do with what he had, as always.

Most people talked when sharing a meal; one reason he avoided eating with others. Forced social interactions were an inconvenience most of the time, but he’d make an exception if he benefited. Relying on the lengthy nighttime walk and daytime rest to stimulate the man’s appetite, he would use the opportunity to get answers and adapt accordingly.

He remained cautious on the road, keeping enough distance between himself and the Ebonscale riders to ensure they stayed ahead. Running into them again in Dartmouth was still a risk, but by then, he intended to have more information—and a plan.

No other travelers had crossed his path today, which suited him perfectly. Arriving after the festivals and before the harvest meant avoiding the usual crowds—just as planned. With only one more turn of the clock before darkness fell, the chances of encountering anyone else were slim.

Few dared to travel after dark, but Charles was an exception. Darkness never troubled him; with Proprioception, he could sense his surroundings as clearly with or without daylight. The bramble spawn, like him, thrived in the night.

For another quarter turn of the clock, Charles immersed himself in the sounds of the wilderness. Tiny, feathered raptors exchanged sharp chirps and whistles, their calls a lonely bid for partnership. From somewhere near, a chorus of croaks rose up, likely from a pond. But it was the rhythmic trill of insects—syncing perfectly with the temperature drop—that most captured his attention.

Charles guided the arborhearth off to the side of the road. As the bramble spawn sensed the creeping darkness, their hooves responded by sprouting roots that burrowed deep into the bare ground, securing them in place.

He mentally unlocked the cabin door before hopping down from the driver’s box and walking to the right side of the carriage. Pulling open the oval door, he stepped into the pitch-black cabin—a natural effect of all dark magic abilities. It never bothered him; Proprioception allowed him to navigate as easily as sight would.

The cabin's layout currently featured a hallway dividing two rooms—one for storage and the other serving as both his bedroom and workshop. He could change the layout whenever needed, though with only a quarter of the storage room filled, he saw no reason to separate his sleeping quarters from his workspace.

If he ever needed more storage, a simple mental command would shift the walls, rooms, and all their contents to make space. The cabin’s interior was finite, though; expanding one area always required shrinking another.

Dylan lay sprawled on the floor, just an arm’s length away from the bed. He’d missed it entirely, sleeping soundly in his boots and all his clothes, utterly unaware of the discomfort.

“Dylan,” Charles called out. He waited a beat, but the man only snored in response, completely oblivious.

“Dylan,” he called again, but still got no response. Charles sighed, taking a deep breath before finally shouting, “Dylan!”

Dylan’s head jerked up, his sudden gasp cutting off his snores.

“Present,” Dylan muttered, his voice thick with confusion. He sat up abruptly, wiping a hand down his face before stretching, arms thrown high above his head. Both elbows cracked loudly. “Sorry,” he added with a groggy chuckle. “Had that high school dream again.”

Charles watched as Dylan’s head swiveled in the dark, clearly disoriented and searching for some sense of direction.

“I couldn’t find any lights,” Dylan grumbled, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

“There aren’t any,” Charles said, flat as ever.

Dylan turned toward Charles’ voice; his confusion evident. “How do you see in here?”

“I manage,” Charles replied coolly, not feeling the need to explain further.

Dylan blinked rapidly, clearly struggling to adjust to the pitch-black cabin. “Is it safe now?” he asked, his voice uncertain.

“Safe enough,” Charles replied curtly, before switching topics. “Are you hungry?” His curiosity about Dylan’s adventure simmered beneath the surface, but he knew better than to push too soon.

“I’m starving,” Dylan said, as if on cue, his stomach growling loudly in agreement.

“That’s…” Charles hesitated, wondering if starving meant something different where Dylan came from. “Highly unlikely.”

“That’s fair,” Dylan said, placing a hand on his stomach and sighing dejectedly. He then began the awkward process of trying to push himself off the floor.

“Do you need help?” Charles asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Probably. Can you give me a hand?” Dylan asked, reaching up like a child. Charles pulled him to his feet but paused when Dylan didn’t let go. After a brief, awkward moment, Dylan whispered, still holding onto Charles’ hand, “Which way is the door?”

‘He’s blind in the dark,’ Charles noted, ‘That’s... unfortunate.’ Having lived with Proprioception for decades, he had forgotten how helpless others were without it. With a firm grip, he led Dylan out of the bedroom, down the hall, and through the oval door.

‘I’ll need to get a portable light source,’ Charles mused. He’d never needed one before, but circumstances had changed. Dartmouth would have something. He disliked being unprepared even more than he disliked having guests.

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“Sacred excrement,” Dylan muttered, craning his neck as he stepped through the door. He blinked in awe. “I thought it was part of the dream… You’ve got a constable box—it’s actually bigger on the inside!

It was obvious this was Dylan’s first time encountering an arborhearth. Charles couldn’t help but feel a faint, fleeting satisfaction at the man’s awe.

“It’s not a municipality vehicle; it’s an arborhearth,” Charles corrected, though he didn’t blame Dylan for his ignorance—arborhearths were exceptionally rare.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said, pausing to process. “Did you say this is a treehouse?” His eyes darted between the exterior shell and the hallway inside, as if struggling to reconcile the two.

“No, it’s not a treehouse,” Charles repeated with patience. “It’s an arborhearth.”

“That’s what I said,” Dylan insisted, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then he paused, suddenly realizing something. “Hey, you never told me your name.” He pointed at Charles, as if just remembering.

That was intentional, of course. Charles saw the value in being cordial with Dylan—there was plenty of information he needed from the man. In his experience, freely given information tended to be far more accurate. Interrogation and force too often led to skewed facts, with people telling him only what they thought he wanted to hear. Still, there were times when properly applied persuasion had its uses.

“My name is Charles,” he said simply, offering nothing more.

“Pleasure to meet you, Charles,” Dylan said with an enticing smile, stepping closer and extending his hand for Charles to take.

Charles stared at the offered proposal. Unsure what to do, his mind briefly scrambling to determine the proper response. He settled on a polite, “No thank you.”

‘We just met…’ Charles was perplexed by Dylan’s abrupt forwardness.

Charles prided himself on being a meticulous planner, but even he hadn’t accounted for the possibility of being hit on. Dylan’s sudden shift from formal to familiar, combined with his unexpected confidence, unsettled him. Not to mention, the elven form wasn’t to his taste—he found the draconi far more intriguing.

“Okay…” Dylan awkwardly pulled his hand back after a brief, uncomfortable pause. He glanced down at his hand, unsure what to do with it now.

Thinking of his kettle, False Emperor’s teapot, two mugs, and two servings of flak, Charles swung open the cabinet. Everything rested neatly on the bottom shelf, just as he’d expected. He retrieved the items and set them on top of the closed chest lid, just below.

After closing the cabinet, Charles pictured his box of peppermint tea—his favorite—and the small vial of clear liquid he’d picked up long ago. He reopened the cabinet, and both items appeared on the bottom shelf.

Charles set the box of peppermint tea beside the tea set and opened the tin. The copper infuser lay inside, exactly where it should be. With practiced precision, he filled the infuser and draped it into the teapot.

“Gather some wood for a campfire,” Charles ordered, glancing at Dylan. “And stop scratching—it only makes it worse.

Dylan stopped scratching and instead rubbed his palms up and down his thighs, trying to soothe the irritation.

“I uh…” Dylan hesitated, standing up slowly and glancing around. “Yeah, okay. Sticks. I’ll find some sticks.”

Dylan spun around and headed off, picking a random direction. Charles listened as he tromped through the dry underbrush, snapping sticks underfoot with every clumsy step.

‘Easily distracted,’ Charles noted, watching Dylan disappear into the underbrush. Once he was alone, Charles turned his attention to the task at hand. He poured the vial into the lower chamber of the teapot, then positioned the kettle under the arborhearth’s spigot and filled it with fresh water. The bramble spawn’s roots ensured the reservoir was always full.

Charles retrieved two short stools. Though rough and unfinished, they were sturdy—products of his own hands, fashioned during his attempts at carpentry. Lacking the skills to craft a folding table himself, he set up the store-bought one beside the stools.

Dylan came back, lugging a single freshly fallen log. It was damp, oversized, and completely unsuitable for the small campfire Charles had in mind.

“Where do you want it?” Dylan asked earnestly, holding the log as if he hadn’t realized its absurdity. Charles knew it wasn’t a prank—Dylan looked far too proud for that.

‘Utterly helpless,’ Charles thought with a silent sigh.

“Put that back,” Charles instructed firmly. “I’ll handle the fire.”

Dylan deflated visibly, tossing the log behind him with a heavy thump. Meanwhile, Charles crouched low, gathering an armful of the small, dry sticks scattered around them.

‘Techtropolian?’ Charles mused as he arranged the sticks. ‘Plausible. But any local would know how to build a basic campfire and take care of themselves when traveling between towns.’ Off-worlder seemed more likely.

Charles tried to imagine a world without normal towns—a planet overrun by industry, markets, and automation, where basic survival skills were unnecessary. It sounded like a horrible, unsustainable place to him.

“Ever had flak before?” Charles asked, fully aware it was unlikely. He wasn’t one for small talk, but he made the effort, however clumsy it felt.

Focusing on the center of the stacked sticks, Charles swallowed, loosening the iron grip he usually kept on his emotions. He unlocked the cage around his heart and allowed himself to mentally step back into his time at Ebonscale. Those memories were locked away for a reason, only released when they served him—and only for a short time. It was easy for the anger, pain of betrayal, or even guilt to overwhelm him.

Rage flared within him, quickly escaping his control. Wisps of smoke appeared first, followed by a sudden burst of flame that consumed the tinder in an instant. The sticks ignited just as Charles regained control, locking the fire—and his emotions—back into place. The flames settled into a steady dance as he cut off their fuel.

To Dylan, the pile of sticks had spontaneously erupted into flames, causing him to stumble back in surprise.

“Sacred excrement!” Dylan exclaimed, pointing to the fire. “Did you see that?”

Charles’ [Hot-blooded] was the passive from his Fire framework; mundane fire reacted to his emotions— it also provided a minor resistance to fire. Initially, he’d worried that candles and campfires might expose him, but over time, he learned to control his emotions. Now, Hot-blooded had become a tool, and tools were always useful.

Charles ignored Dylan’s outburst, quietly driving the pot hanger into the ground beside the fire. With practiced ease, he twisted the arm so the hook hovered over the flames and hung the kettle on it. Settling onto his stool, he watched the fire’s gentle flicker against the bottom of the metal pot.

Dylan’s gaze shifted to the square loaves wrapped in white kraft paper on the table. “Is that flak?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Yes.”

“Never heard of it,” Dylan admitted with a shrug. “But I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

Charles wasn’t sure what a horse was, but that didn’t matter—flak was all he had, and in his mind, it was superior to all other food. Magically infused, it fulfilled every dietary requirement and was universally digestible by all races, transmuting calories into the precise nutrients each body needed.

Flak could be eaten alone or alongside other food, supplementing any deficiencies and burning off excess. But Charles found it hard to understand the need for inferior, unnecessary meals. The idea of stopping to eat multiple times a day seemed inefficient—a single serving of flak sustained him until the next day.

Charles found it unbelievable how much time people wasted on food—preparing meals, setting the table, eating, and then washing up—only to repeat the whole process a few hours later.

Though flak required a kitchen for preparation, Charles had his own mana-sieve—the only non-standard tool he needed. A couple of days spent making a large batch would last him for years, a perfectly efficient system.

Flak was the only remnant of Charles’ family—a recipe passed down and the sole thing he was allowed to keep from before his time at Ebonscale. Though the scrap of paper was tattered and incomplete, he’d managed to piece together enough of the recipe to bake flak for himself, preserving that small part of his past.