(Charles)

None of this was new to Charles. He’d already pieced it together during his conversation with Rono and Dreadfang. He could tell Dylan was fishing for sympathy—something Charles would have to attempt, despite his discomfort with showing it.

Charles hesitated, searching for the right word. “That sounds... inconvenient.” Dylan’s questioning look told him he hadn’t quite nailed it. “And what happened before all of that?” Despite his lack of social grace, Charles pressed on, determined to keep the conversation going.

“We climbed to the top of the tallest building and jumped off,” Dylan said, making an exaggerated diving motion with his hand.

“We?” Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s new.’

“Yeah, wannabe Christian Bale lied to me. He mated off to Mother knows where, and I ended up in the lake,” Dylan explained. Charles took a deliberate sip of his tea, resisting the urge to interrupt. “I don’t know how to fly this thing,” Dylan added, tugging at the corner of his cloak. “So, I overshot the road—by a lot.”

“Probably for the best,” Charles muttered, unable to hold back.

“Why?” Dylan asked, his curiosity piqued once again.

Charles knew gliding enchantments worked by converting vertical speed into horizontal, slowing the fall while increasing glide speed. It wasn’t a full conversion, but enough to reach impressive speeds quickly. He considered explaining, but keeping Dylan on track was harder than managing a theropod pup.

After a moment of careful consideration, Charles replied, “Hitting a lake is much safer than hitting the ground.”

Charles had only suspected it before, but Dylan’s description confirmed it—he’d been at the Ebonscale stronghold. It was the only logical explanation; beyond the winding road and the guild stronghold, there was nothing but wilderness for miles.

Willing to risk another tangent for the sake of clarity, Charles asked, “Before jumping off the building, were you at the Ebonscale stronghold?”

Dylan shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Do they have a lot of paintings of a perpetually pissed-off princess?”

‘Guildmaster Maeve.’ Charles recognized her immediately. As the campfire waned, reacting to his aversion, its embers cooled. He noticed the fire dying and swiftly checked his emotions. Then the fire flared back to life. He folded a couple of nearby sticks and fed them to the flames; the crackles and pops renewed.

“Yes, that was Ebonscale,” Charles confirmed. Judging by Dylan’s flippant description, he truly had no idea who Guildmaster Maeve was—or what she was capable of. Everyone either respected or feared her, and those who didn’t simply disappeared. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, the mention of her name made Charles shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Why were you on the roof?” Charles asked, his curiosity piqued by yet another strange detail.

“We were trying to escape. There were these... terror tubes,” Dylan said with a shutter. “Awful things.” Charles resisted the urge to ask for clarification, knowing better than to interrupt Dylan’s erratic process. “So, the guy who was helping me—”

“Christian Bale?” Charles interrupted. Curiosity lingered in his voice.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t actually Christian Bale,” Dylan said. “But yeah, that guy.”

“I’ve got to say, Dylan, you’re quite terrible at explaining things,” Charles said dryly.

Dylan frowned, his expression tinged with frustration. “That happens a lot. Should I keep going?”

Charles could see the aura of an onset migraine approaching. Still, he motioned for Dylan to continue.

“This guy shows up and murdered everyone,” Dylan muttered, his gaze fixed on his unfinished meal. Charles could see the weight pressing down on him. There was no telling how someone would react after facing death for the first time, and it was clear Dylan was still sorting that out.

“First, he took out Abs... or maybe Bronze? I’m not actually sure who died first…” Dylan said, his voice trailing off. “But then he fought White. White lost, and... I watched him die…” He plucked a long blade of grass, staring down at it intently as he broke it apart piece by piece, his hands moving absently while his mind wandered.

‘Abs, Bronze, and White?’ Charles mused, his brow furrowing slightly. He didn’t recognize any of those names. Even the okamijin didn’t reduce themselves to mere pigments.

“After White was gone, I found Bronze’s body in the terror tube,” Dylan continued, his words detached. “She’s the one who murdered me before.”

“She…” Charles paused, narrowing his eyes as he processed the statement. This time, it was Dylan’s turn to wait as Charles chewed over a new concept. “She murdered you?” he repeated slowly, testing the words out loud.

He frowned, wondering, ‘Another mistranslation?’ Meanwhile, Dylan quietly continued picking apart another blade of grass, allowing Charles to work through his thoughts.

“But... you’re alive?” Charles pointed out, still trying to reconcile the contradiction.

“Yep,” Dylan nodded at the conundrum.

“I’m not sure you understand how murder works…” Charles said dryly.

“I told you—it doesn’t make much sense.” Dylan sighed, tossing the blade of grass into the fire before glancing away.

“It’s okay,” Charles said calmly, raising his hands to keep Dylan engaged. “What happened when she killed you?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Dylan turned back to him. “Which time?”

Charles let out a small chuckle at the absurdity of it all but quickly stifled it, not wanting Dylan to think he didn’t believe him. “How many times have you died?” he asked.

Dylan held up two fingers. “Twice.”

“So, you got your revenge,” Charles said thoughtfully, his mind working through the implications.

“Nope. I’m pretty sure that guy killed her.”

“Christian Bale?” Charles asked again. Dylan couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it lightening the mood.

“Technically, he never told me his name. So, sure, for all we know, he could’ve been a Christian Bale,” Dylan quipped, eyeing the flak warily before finally working up the courage to take another bite.

“You’re difficult to follow,” Charles said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “Your descriptions are vague, and you constantly swap details with varying colloquialisms—invalidating context and making you nearly impossible to understand.”

“Wow, harsh,” Dylan muttered before taking another bite of flak. His face contorted into expressions Charles had never seen before, each one more painful than the last.

“Apologies,” Charles offered. “That happens a lot,” he admitted.

His craftsmaster had always praised him for the efficiency and quality of his work, but his peers constantly complained about his bluntness. It frustrated him to no end. They couldn’t see the direct link between efficient work and the efficiency of words.

It took him years to realize that efficiency for the sake of efficiency didn’t always produce the best results. There were other aspects to consider and integrate. This applied to life as much as it did to crafting, and though he’d been trying to work on it, his interactions with Dylan made it clear there was still plenty of room for improvement.

Dylan coughed, quickly downing the rest of his tea to help keep the flak down. After a rough swallow, he cleared his throat. “Oh, I’m not complaining.”

“You’re not?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. You’re right, and I’ll try to work on that,” Dylan said, as he leaned forward to reach for the teapot. Charles’ pulse quickened—he knew what Dylan was about to do, and panic flickered beneath his calm exterior.

‘The toxin!’ Charles thought. There wasn’t time to stop Dylan without raising suspicion, so he took a gamble.

“Your boots!” Charles exclaimed, intentionally speaking with more energy than he preferred.

Charles kept his eyes locked on Dylan’s feet, praying he’d take the bait. Proprioception warned him that Dylan’s hand hovered dangerously close to the teapot. Then, according to plan, Dylan complied, shifting his attention to his boots.

“My boots?” Dylan sat up straighter, momentarily forgetting about the teapot as his focus shifted completely.

“I noticed they’re a size too small.” Charles smoothly took advantage of the distraction. He picked up the teapot with both hands and began pouring. “Would you like them resized?” He asked casually, filling their mugs.

“You can resize my boots?” Dylan asked, his curiosity piqued. “Just like my pants?”

“Just like your pants,” Charles confirmed. “I can resize them now; if you’d like?”

Charles carefully placed the teapot on the edge of the table closest to him. He’d already planned on sorting out Dylan’s attire after the interrogation.

“Oh Mother, yes, please,” Dylan said eagerly, swinging his legs over the campfire toward Charles. Thump, thump—his heels hit the ground heavily in front of Charles, his excitement palpable.

Charles glanced down at the boots in front of him. “It doesn’t work if you’re wearing them,” he pointed out, mentally noting that he’d need to be more specific next time.

“Oh. Okay.” Dylan swung his legs back over, narrowly avoiding the fire for the second time. Instead of setting his loaf down, he jammed it into his mouth for safekeeping as he wrestled with his boots. After a series of grunts, curses, and three ‘ow’s’, he finally handed them over to Charles.

Charles watched as Dylan struggled with his sensitive palate. The chubby man removed the flak from his mouth, spitting out the taste as if he’d accidentally gotten some on his tongue.

I’d like to hear more of your story,” Charles said calmly, pulling out his needle. “Boots can take a while,” he lied.

Charles didn’t mind deception, but preferred to avoid outright lies—they only grew more complicated with time. Omission was simpler. Using Keen Eye, he gathered the proper dimensions for the boots.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Charles thought, inspecting Dylan’s feet. They were a mess of blisters—some forming, others already broken. With barely any calluses, it was clear Dylan had pushed himself far past his limits in those undersized boots. Still, Charles knew the blisters would eventually harden into calluses, and Dylan would be better off for it.

Charles considered his stash of emergency healing potions. One could easily take care of Dylan’s blisters, abrasions, and likely concussion. But they were expensive to replace—especially when finding an alchemist who could brew them was a challenge.

The gems weren’t the issue; he could always make more. The real cost was in lost experience. Struggling, persevering, and learning—those were the opportunities Dylan needed if he was to grow. Xel’oria wasn’t a forgiving place. If Dylan wanted to survive, he’d have to toughen up quickly.

Charles stitched once, then paused, lifting his gaze to give Dylan his full attention.

“Uh... I was...” Dylan trailed off, thinking back to where he’d left off.

Without looking up, Charles said evenly, “There’s no rush. Take your time.” He said, serving as a reminder for both Dylan and himself.

“Right, so everyone had just been murdered by…” Dylan sighed. “Christian Bale. They—I mean, White and Abs,” he corrected himself, trying to stay consistent. Charles noticed and gave a small nod of appreciation.

“They took me down the terror tube to what I think was an interrogation room,” Dylan continued. “There was a crystal ball on the table, and the whole place had this silent ‘there are four lights’ vibe.” He paused to take a sip of his tea.

‘Terror tube?’ Charles wondered, his mind working to decode Dylan’s jargon. ‘Does he mean the geolift?’

Everyone knew about the subterranean incarceration floor, accessible only by geolift. He’d also heard whispers of more specialized floors beneath it, but the Old Elf’s policies kept such information strictly on a need-to-know basis. Charles was perfectly content with his lack of clearance for anything below incarceration.

“I think they were trying the good constable, bad constable routine. Only, it was more like bad constable, silent constable—and I couldn’t understand them. This was before I had—” Dylan smacked his palm against his forehead, cutting himself off. “Sacred excrement, they were trying to give me a translation ring…”

He leaned back, staring at Charles as the realization fully sank in. He shook his head, then took another bite of flak, wincing as tremors of disgust rippled through him.

Charles gripped the toebox of Dylan’s boot, giving a small, precise tug to widen it. He returned to his work, carefully adding superfluous, decorative stitches that only he would truly appreciate.

Dylan washed down the flak with another mug of tea before continuing. “Then Bronze showed up and started arguing with White. That was my chance—I bolted for the terror tube. I might have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for that pointy-ear, shirtless, bow-hiding elf guy.”

Charles paused mid-stitch, glancing up from his work. “Dylan,” he asked, confusion evident, “why do you keep mentioning pointed ears?”

Dylan pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing in confusion. He blinked a few times, clearly not understanding the question.

“It’s redundant; all ears are pointed,” Charles explained matter-of-factly. After a brief pause, he added, “I apologize if that upset you. I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious about your… deformity.”

Every word he spoke seemed to make things worse, or so he thought. This was exactly why he preferred to avoid people—social interactions were always difficult for him. But to his surprise, Dylan didn’t appear upset or embarrassed, just mildly confused.

“My deformity?”

Charles sighed inwardly. ‘He’s going to make me say it.’ Clearing his throat, he hesitated before finally saying, “Your ears.”

“What’s wrong with my ears?” Dylan asked, instinctively running a finger along their short, blunted shape.

The possibility hadn’t even crossed Charles’ mind until now. His eyes narrowed slightly at the idea. “Wait… are you not elven?”