Chapter 2.2 - The Fire: Tills Ash

- Emmet and Marsh -

Emmet was sitting in the back, keeping a brave face, as usual. The wound he’d suffered from the guard's sword hadn’t seemed too bad at first—he’d even made light of it.

“It’s just a scratch,” Emmet had said, even though the deep gash in his arm was enough to make most people wince. He had immediately wrapped it himself, improvising a bandage from one of Marsh’s old shirts. “Look at this! Now I’ve got your terrible taste in fashion to go with my wound,” he’d joked, despite the pain evident in his eyes.

Marsh had rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling at Emmet’s defiance. It had become evident that hiding his pain behind jokes was his way of dealing with it. However, as the hours passed, it became clear that it would only become worse from here.

The first signs were subtle: Emmet winced a little more often, his grip on the makeshift bandage tightening. Then, the pain grew sharper, more persistent. Emmet would rub his arm absentmindedly, trying to mask it, but Marsh noticed the way his jaw clenched every time he moved.

The pain started to sear, a deep, throbbing heat pulsing in rhythm with Emmet’s heartbeat. “Feels like my arm’s been set on fire,” he’d muttered under his breath one night when he thought Marsh wasn’t listening. His bravado was starting to wear thin.

Marsh had finally insisted on checking the wound. "Let me see it, Emmet. You’re not fooling anyone."

With a reluctant sigh, Emmet had unwrapped the bandage, revealing the sickly red flesh beneath. The skin around the gash was swollen and inflamed, radiating an unnatural heat. Marsh's stomach twisted at the sight.

“Damn it,” Emmet had whispered, his usual smirk gone. “That’s not looking too good, is it?”

By the time they reached Veinfall, things had gotten worse. Yellow pus had started to seep from the edges of the wound, the stench of infection unmistakable. Emmet tried to joke about it, but even his wit had begun to fade under the weight of the sickness.

The townspeople hardly spared them a glance as they arrived. Veinfall was a rough place, a village hardened by years of suffering and death. People were too busy keeping themselves alive to show any real compassion. When Marsh asked for help, they barely offered more than a bucket of dirty water and some half-hearted advice.

“Wash it out,” one man had said, not even bothering to look at Emmet’s arm. “He’ll live or he won’t.”

Death was just a part of life in Veinfall—no one had the luxury of caring. Marsh had done what he could, washing the wound as best he could, but it was clear the infection had set in deep. Emmet, always the stubborn one, waved off Marsh's concern, trying to make light of it, but his body betrayed him. He grew weaker, his movements slower, his voice softer.

When they finally reached Emmet and his sister's city hut, Shyann was already there, her posture more refined than her rugged surroundings might suggest. She glanced up from her tasks with a look of genuine relief upon seeing Emmet. Her small figure was complimented by a no-nonsense demeanor, yet her movements carried an air of subtle refinement. Her autumn-red hair, reminiscent of her brother's, was pulled back neatly into a ponytail, and though her clothes were practical, they bore the subtle elegance of someone who knew how to present herself.

“Emmet!” she exclaimed, her voice a blend of joy and concern. She moved to embrace him, her touch both familiar and a bit overly delicate. Her eyes briefly flickered to Marsh, sizing him up with mild curiosity, but her primary focus remained on her brother.

Emmet, though visibly weary, managed a exhausted smile. “We had some trouble on the road. This is Marsh,” he said, nodding toward his companion.

Shyann gave Marsh an intrigued nod, her attention mostly on Emmet as she began to fuss over him.“What happened to you Emmet, You look dreadful—let's get you inside before anyone else sees you like this,” Shyann fussed, her hands fluttering more than actually helping. She threw a quick glance at Marsh, straightening her posture, then turned back to her brother. “I’m sure it’s nothing too serious, right? We’ll clean it up, and you’ll be just fine. You always bounce back, don’t you?” Her tone was upbeat, but a flicker of unease flashed in her eyes.

Shyann hurried them inside. The hut's interior was simple and practical, with an old, sagging bed pushed against one wall and a rough wooden table surrounded by four mismatched stools. Along one side, a pile of firewood was stacked unevenly, ready to fend off the cold.

In the center of the room stood a raised fireplace, crafted from clay and stone, its elevated position allowing the warmth to spread more evenly throughout the small space. Above it, a chimney, cleverly fashioned from stone and clay, curved down from the roof, drawing the smoke away. Though the design seemed basic, there was a subtle ingenuity to its construction, hinting at an inventive touch behind it.

Shyann guided Emmet to one of the worn wooden stools by the fire, and hurried to fetch a ragged cloth and a small bowl of murky water. The room was dimly lit, and though it was tidy, it lacked the care and resources that might have been present in better days. She knelt beside Emmet, her expression focused, but her hands shook ever so slightly as she dunked the cloth into the dirty water.

“I’ll clean it up. You’ll be alright,” she said, her voice a little too chipper. She started dabbing the wound, but the water only smeared the dirt around, doing more harm than good. Emmet winced, but Shyann kept going, oblivious to his discomfort.

“There, almost done,” she mumbled, reaching for a torn strip of cloth that looked like it had seen better days. She tried to wrap it around his arm, but the fabric frayed and barely held together. Her fingers fumbled with the ends as she tied it off, the bandage uneven and too loose.

“That’s good, right?” she asked, stepping back with an uncertain smile. The knot she'd tied was already slipping, and the cloth hung limp over the wound.

Emmet exchanged a glance with Marsh, both of them silently acknowledging the bandage wouldn’t hold. Still, Emmet forced a grin, “Yeah, Shyann, it’s... perfect.” as beads of sweat gathered like pearls on his forehead.

Shyann beamed, visibly relieved by his words. "See? I knew it wasn't that bad." She turned away, picking up the discarded rags, clearly pleased with herself.

As she busied herself, Marsh quietly moved in to fix the bandage, pulling it tighter so it would actually stay in place. Emmet gave him a small, grateful nod, but neither said anything. Shyann remained unaware, continuing to fuss with the few supplies they had, maintaining the illusion that everything was under control.

The hours passed, and the day soon turned to night, Emmet jolted upright in bed, breathing heavily, his body drenched in cold sweat. Ever since the fight with the guards, nightmares had plagued his sleep, leaving him dreading the thought of nightfall. His eyes darted across the dark, empty room, faintly illuminated by the last glowing embers of the fire. The flames, once strong, now flickered weakly, locked in a losing battle with the charred wood, which had nothing left to offer.

At his feet, Shyann slept soundly, unbothered by her brother's restless movements, hardened by years of sharing the tight living space. Across the dying fire, Marsh lay on the floor, his silhouette still, except for the quiet shift as he pulled himself upright.

"Again?" Marsh whispered, careful not to wake Shyann. Emmet said nothing, only giving a silent nod before lying back down on the creaky wooden bed.

The room grew colder as the last ember surrendered to the inevitable, leaving only a faint warmth that slowly faded into the dark. The ash crumbled into the pit, remnants of what once gave light and heat, now reduced to nothing but a quiet reminder of what had been. Marsh watched the embers die, then, with a soft sigh, closed his eyes and drifted off, leaving Emmet alone with his thoughts.

Emmet stared at the ceiling, his eyes adjusted to the dark. All that effort to survive, and now a simple scratch would be his undoing. The pain was sharp and hot, pulsing with every beat of his heart. But even pain had its limits, and soon it, too, would let him slip into sleep—a restless, troubled sleep, where the nightmares waited.

- Shyann and Emmet -

The streets of Veinfall are cold and unforgiving, lined with dark, soot-streaked snow that clings to the buildings, insulated only by layers of manure and clay. A pervasive stench of decay lingers in the air, mingling with the heavy odor of livestock. Townspeople shuffle through the bleak landscape in thin, ragged coats—barely enough to stave off the biting cold, forcing them to huddle against their animals for warmth once their meager tasks are done for the day.

Rising ominously above the town are five massive chimneys, their towering forms stretching toward the sky. Thick clouds of soot billow endlessly from their gaping mouths, choking the sky in a shroud of darkness. The ever-present plume hangs low over Veinfall, casting an oppressive shadow over the already bleak town below. It’s as if the very air conspires to suffocate any hope that might remain.

Veinfall is a mining town, home to a population largely made up of prisoners of war, forced into grueling labor under the guise of "freedom." These captives, once warriors or citizens from far-off lands, now toil endlessly in the mines or eke out a living through degrading, menial tasks. All the wealth flows upward, lining the coffers of a distant, indifferent lord who cares little for the suffering of his subjects as long as his luxuries are maintained. The mines, the town's lifeblood, offer only back-breaking work that slowly erodes the strength and will of those who labor within, turning even the strongest into frail remnants of their former selves.

For the people of Veinfall—whether prisoners or so-called free citizens—there is no escape from the unrelenting misery. Though technically liberated, the free citizens are bound to the same crushing servitude, their existence no less bleak. Death, while not a constant, is a familiar specter in Veinfall. Frozen bodies occasionally turn up in the alleyways, grim reminders of the town’s merciless nature. It’s not unusual to see children prodding these stiffened corpses with frozen sticks, their innocent curiosity a stark and haunting reflection of the town’s despair.

The ever-present hardship has bred a rise in crime, with the desperate turning on each other in pursuit of whatever meager scraps remain. Theft and violence thrive in the shadows of the town, where the distinction between prisoner and citizen is blurred, as both are bound by the same chains of survival—trapped by the cold, the mines, and the indifference of the powerful. Life in Veinfall is a slow, grinding march toward exhaustion and hopelessness, where any glimmer of hope fades with each passing day.

That was why Marsh had already left in search of work, while Emmet, too weak to venture outside, remained in bed, absorbed in tinkering with his odd contraptions. Shyann had started to feel increasingly isolated. However, today a flicker of hope stirred within her. Marsh’s arrival and the changes he had brought had renewed her spirit, filling her with a determination she hadn’t felt in weeks. Yet, with Emmet’s ineptitude in handling money, Shyann feared she might soon need to cover a grown woman’s share of their dwindling income to keep them afloat.

She glanced at Emmet, struggling with his tools. His frailty was evident; the bed groaned under his withering weight as he stared blankly at his metal scraps. Sweat glistened on his pallid skin, and his shivering legs barely moved, a stark contrast to the frigid air seeping through the thin, drafty walls of their shelter. The only source of light was the flickering greenish glow of a beetlewax candle, casting sickly shadows that mingled with the sour, dirty smell of the room and the fire burning to keep them warm.

Suddenly, the front door burst open with a deafening crash, sending a flurry of snow dust swirling into the room. A burly man stormed in, his massive frame accompanied by a huge lizard draped over his shoulders. The creature, about the size of a large dog, was flat and mottled in brown and green. It clung to its master with a desperate cold-blooded urgency, its beady eyes darting around the room with a predatory glint, as if everyone in sight was a potential meal. Two smaller men followed closely behind, each wielding a heavy wooden club.

“It’s time to pay what you owe, Emmet!” the large man bellowed, his voice echoing ominously through the shed, sending a shiver down Shyann’s spine.

“It’s fine, we have what we owe him right here,” Shyann said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. She retrieved a small sum from beneath their moldy mattress and tossed it toward the intruder. The man’s booming laugh filled the room, reverberating off the cold walls and mingling with the oppressive stench of decay and desperation.

“Let me guess, the same amount as last week? Well, the rent’s gone up by 10 Seeds,” the thug said with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with greed.

“What? That’s more than double what we already pay!” Emmet protested weakly, his voice rasping as he struggled to get up from the bed. “Well, isn’t this just a delightful turn of events?” he said, his feeble body working against him. “I couldn’t ask for a better way to end the day. Maybe you’d like to take my sister’s prized blanket as well?”

“Well, it is what it is,” the thug replied dismissively, his tone dripping with malice. “If you can’t pay now, I’ll just add it to next week’s rent. But by then, you better be able to pay, or the lord might take some other compensation.” His gaze lingered hungrily on Shyann, while his henchmen snickered behind him, their laughter a cruel echo in the tiny space.

“We’ll get the rest,” Emmet said, his voice trembling with effort as he tried to sound authoritative, though it was clear he was struggling to maintain his dignity. “Just take what you have and leave. You’re not welcome here.”

The thug laughed again, the sound harsh and cruel, like gravel scraping across a cold floor. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? Soon your sister will wake up beside your cold body, and when that happens, her money will dry up, and she’ll become my lord’s plaything. If she’s lucky, she’ll end up like that witch in the outskirts of the forest.”

With a sneer, the thug advanced on Emmet, shoving him effortlessly to his knees. Emmet, overwhelmed by the humiliation, felt a surge of impotent rage. He clenched his teeth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The knowledge that resisting would only make things worse, combined with the helplessness of his situation, left him feeling utterly powerless.

“Pathetic,” the thug spat, snatching up the seeds before turning to leave. “Don’t forget next week’s rent.” He tossed a piece of stale meat onto the fire. The lizard darted off his shoulder to devour the meat, colliding with their only bucket of murky water and spilling it everywhere. The lizard’s ravenous feeding left a trail of greasy, torn flesh in its wake as it comfortably snuggled up inside the fire, enjoying the warmth as the flames licked its dry, scaly skin.

“I’m really looking forward to collecting it,” the thug called out as he and his men departed, the lizard tearing into the meat with a voracious hunger. The sound of the lizard’s ravenous feeding and the thug’s departing laughter lingered in the air, a grim reminder of their dire situation.

- Marsh -

Marsh had just finished cutting the last brick in the cobblestone courtyard, his hands raw and blistered from hours of labor. It was a lucky break—offering him 1 seed for every wagon he could deliver—but exhaustion weighed heavily on him as he stood, muscles aching from the relentless work. With a deep breath, he braced himself for the next haul.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

He gripped the wagon’s handle and began dragging it across town to the mason. His arms were still sore from getting Emmet home, a lingering ache that reminded him of the burden he carried. The heavy stones piled behind him made every step a struggle, the weight pulling at his body as if it wanted to anchor him to the ground.

He had stripped off his shirt to avoid overheating, sweat glistening on his skin as he walked. As long as he kept moving, the warmth of his overworked muscles kept the cold at bay. But the moment he slowed, the bitter air bit at him, icy tendrils stinging his sweat-soaked skin. He was locked in a battle between the heat driving him forward and the freezing chill that threatened to seize him if he stopped.

Every footfall was a test of will. He focused on the next lamppost, his gaze fixed on it like a lifeline. Just one more, he urged himself, forcing his legs to keep moving despite the pain gnawing at his muscles. He grunted as he passed the post, the cold surging in the brief moments he hesitated. So he kept going, knowing that stopping would only make the sting of the air worse. That was why he kept telling himself, Just one more post!

“You did well, kid,” the mason said with a nod, his hands on his hips. He had spent the day overseeing the work, but the sweat on his brow was nothing compared to what Marsh had endured.

Marsh nodded, too tired to say much, and slipped his coat over his aching shoulders. The mason tossed a small pouch of seeds his way. Marsh caught it in one hand and loosened the drawstring, peeking inside—seven megen. Not much, but enough to get by for now, grinding him a much-needed sense of hope before the mason’s news.

“You earned it, Marsh,” the mason said, his tone almost apologetic. “But... I don’t have enough work to keep us both busy. I’ll have to let you go for now. Maybe another day.”

The words hit harder than Marsh expected. He forced a smile. “Sure, I could use the work.”

“I’ll call you when I can,” the mason added, though his focus had already drifted elsewhere, his mind moving on to the next task. “Until next time, then.”

Marsh nodded again and left, a hollow feeling settling in his chest. Rent was due today. There was no food at home, and Emmet was too weak to even leave the house, let alone work.

He had been doing everything alone—dragging, hauling, cutting—because Emmet couldn’t. A deep ache settled in Marsh’s bones, the kind that went beyond exhaustion, settling somewhere closer to despair.

At the town gate, Marsh approached the armory where his sword had been stored. The lord’s guard on duty nodded in recognition, handing over the weapon with a casual indifference.

As Marsh took the sword from the guard, he felt the cold steel against his palm, a jarring reminder of a past life that felt so distant now. The blade’s weight was both familiar and strange; the comfort it once offered now starkly contrasted with his weariness. He traced his fingers along the cold steel, the sword had once been a source of pride but now seemed to mock him.

He paused to stare at the sword, trying to reconnect with it and the part of himself that had wielded it with purpose. The steel, no longer sharp or unyielding, was now a relic of battles fought and victories won. It felt more like a burden than a tool of power.

The setting sun’s red glow reflected off the blade, casting a long shadow. Marsh’s grip tightened around the hilt, a desperate attempt to find something familiar in a world that felt increasingly alien. He sighed, a sound of resignation and nostalgia, before sheathing the sword and turning away.

But then it hit him. Dammit! I need to buy food! They hadn’t eaten all day.

Marsh cursed under his breath and quickened his pace, heart racing as he made his way back toward the town center. Every step felt heavier with the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

- Emmet -

The visit from the ravenous thug that morning weighed heavily on Emmet’s mind. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to earn an income, and he couldn’t just expect Marsh to take over; they had only known each other for a little over a week. Worrying about next month’s rent seemed pointless if it meant risking his life. No—he needed to get better first. Everything else could come afterward.

Determined to find a solution, Emmet had been stumbling through the dark, snowy forest for what felt like hours. Each step leaned heavily on his walking stick—a branch he’d pulled from a small oak tree earlier on the trail. His legs felt like lead, his body ached from the cold and strain, but he pushed forward, gritting his teeth against the fatigue.

He was searching for a witch rumored to have settled in this part of the forest, someone who supposedly brewed an all-healing potion. Emmet had yet to see any proof of this so-called magic, but his curiosity still got the better of him. The witch had earned quite a dark reputation. Some said she’d gained her powers by lying with Sjael himself, while others claimed she slaughtered farmers’ cattle for blood rituals. Emmet didn’t know what to believe, but if there was any chance she could help him, it was worth the risk.

His thoughts quieted as he finally reached a clearing. He paused, resting heavily against a tree, chest heaving as he caught his breath. The last rays of the blood-dimming sun pierced through the trees, casting elongated shadows across the black snow, which glittered like a thousand black diamonds. At the far end of the clearing, a small hut stood among the shadows of the setting sun.

Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived, replaced by doubt. Was this really the right choice? Stories of witches and blood sacrifices flashed through his mind. For all he knew, stepping any closer could mean offering himself up to dark rituals. Yet, what choice did he have? Starve, freeze, or trust a witch? His body was already too tired to turn back. This hut might be his only chance of surviving the cold night.

As he limped closer, he noticed a small woman sitting outside, her hands busy binding herbs with string. The air was still, save for the gentle rustling of dried leaves in her lap. She didn’t notice him until he was almost at her porous wooden fence. Startled, she looked up. Her sharp eyes flickered, undecided—was it the sight of someone in need or the wariness of someone who had seen too many strangers seeking her aid?

For a moment, silence fell between them. Emmet stood at the edge of her territory, uncertain whether to cross the threshold. The silence hung heavily between them, broken only by the distant rustle of the trees.

The young woman’s gaze softened, if only slightly. Her long hazel hair fell freely, partially obscuring her face. She looked nothing like what he had expected; his mind had conjured the image of an old hag, yet this woman was almost pretty. She finally broke the silence.

“And who might you be?” she asked, her voice calm but firm. “What brings you here?”

Emmet swallowed, annoyed with himself for being distracted, and struggled to find his voice. He had never believed in witches or magic, always assuming there was a logical explanation for everything. Yet here he was, hoping he had been wrong. His lips parted, but no words came out. He shook his head, trying to come back to reality and finally found his voice.

“I—I’m Emmet,” he introduced himself. “I have this wound. And I heard you might know how to fix it.” He unwrapped the fabric to show her the infection.

She studied the wound closely, her face betraying no sign of what was going through her mind. It felt like an eternity had passed before she finally gave a slow nod. “Come closer, then. Let me take a good look at it.”

Her tone was a bit too welcoming, and it gave him a sense of unease. Swallowing again, Emmet hesitated but then stepped through the threshold, feeling as if he had crossed an invisible line—one that might be difficult to return from.

- Syann -

Shyann had her own plans for the evening as she opened the door to The Lucid Totem, a sizeable tavern on the outskirts of town.

“Shyann!” a high-pitched voice called out from the bar, where two figures sat, waving her closer. The anticipation that had built up while waiting for her arrival thickened as the other patrons turned their unwanted glares toward the trio for raising their voices. Shyann, however, seemed to relish the attention, confidently making her way over to Dari'n and Rhien.

Their striking appearances had already drawn glances from the surrounding patrons. Dari'n, in particular, caught the eye of many. His delicate, feminine face, slender build, and long blonde hair often led people to mistake him for a woman–a misunderstanding Shyann found amusing. In contrast, Rhien's pale gray skin and eerie green-yellow eyes seemed to repel most onlookers, though her unique beauty had its own allure. She often hid under the hood of her cloak, avoiding attention, while Dari'n thrived in it.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, it’s been a difficult day,” Shyann sighed, exhaustion heavy in her voice. She had come to know Dari'n and Rhien well since joining the local resistance.

“What took you so long, Shy?” Rhien asked quietly, shrinking further into her cloak.

“Ugh, it’s the Truculent—they raised the rent to an impossible amount, and on top of that, my brother has disappeared,” Shyann explained as she slumped onto a stool between them. Initially, she hadn’t thought much of Dari'n and Rhien, but their persistence in getting to know her had eventually won her over. It was hard not to appreciate people who genuinely cared.

The Truculent was a militia loyal to the local lord, enforcing his increasingly oppressive laws and keeping the lower class in check. To most, they felt more like a gang than a protectorate, emboldened by the unfair laws they upheld.

“We really need to find you a new place,” Rhien muttered, staring blankly into space.

“Yeah, moving into our territory would be so much better,” Dari'n added with a spark of excitement.

“It’s too much trouble to move right now,” Shyann said, rolling her eyes. “It’d be easier if we could just get rid of them.”

“I think they’re working on it,” Rhien replied, her gaze still distant, which made Shyann uneasy. Rhien’s pale gray skin didn’t help, on her ghostly appearance.

“Speaking of which,” Rhien continued, turning her gaze toward Shyann, “they’re waiting for you in the back, Shi.” She stood up, her chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Yeah, we’ll swing by your place and look for your brother on the way home,” Dari'n added eagerly as he, too, rose to leave.

“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it,” Shyann said, waving them off. At least the beetlewax lanterns had been lit up tonight, so they should have no trouble finding their way home, she thought as she slipped behind the counter and headed into the back of the tavern.

Shyann had started working at the Lucid Totem before winter, unaware at the time that its owners were quietly trying to make a change. Their conversations often tread dangerous ground, but they had begun to stir something in Shyann—a sense of hope that a better future was within reach.

Though the Lucid Totem wasn’t a goldmine, its stable clientele and side businesses kept it afloat. The massive totem stood in the center like a guardian, creating a calm, welcoming atmosphere that spoke of safety and warmth. And as one of the few places that allowed animal companions, it had become a favorite among the Re'faim who called Vainfall home.

The tavern's wooden sign—carved with the image of a totem—swayed outside, barely visible beneath layers of snow and ice. Inside, the totem glowed with a relaxing warmth, offering a haven for those seeking shelter.

In the back, The rich scents of simmering stews and dried meats clashed with the murmur of voices from the main hall. The dim lights from the hearth and candles on the table softened the mood, making the intense conversation between the two Re’faim seem at odds. They were seated across one and another at the preparation table; their heated arguments still seemed buried, as though their words were hidden from the outside.

“This has gone far enough. The fees are squeezing us dry!” M’ria burst out, forcefully brushing the ashes from her raven-black feathers. Shyann leaned over her broad shoulder, refilling her cup with stale mead. M’ria was noticeably smaller than most Re’faim, yet she commanded a loud authority. Her tendency to act quickly in desperate situations drew more attention than her size. Between her messy short hair and sharp features, no one wanted to get into a fight with her.

“I know,” Egi’l replied, his voice steady yet strained, “but if we strike now, everything we’ve done will be for nothing. We just don’t have the tools or manpower to stand up to them yet.”

Shyann refilled his cup as well, while his Great Dane lay down at his feet, providing warmth despite the well-heated kitchen. Egi’l, though significantly older than M’ria, still called her "Sister," acknowledging her as part of his family. For a Re’faim as big as him, it was a sign of tremendous respect.

“No one will be able to stay here unless we go down into those gods-forsaken mines,” M’ria explained, her frustration spilling into every word. “You and I might be able to stay afloat, but no one else will.”

Egi’l maintained his composure, though weariness showed in his eyes. “I get it. But we have to let them go—for now. We’ll get them out when the time is right.”

“Are you really willing to sacrifice everything? Rhien, Dari’n, even Shyann?” M’ria asked, nodding toward Shyann, who was receiving a warm bowl of soup from Egi’l's wife.

“I’m not sacrificing anyone, Sister!” Egi’l snapped, his voice steady but simmering with restraint. His enormous frame seemed even bigger as he leaned over the table—his patience clearly growing thin. “You make it sound like I want this,” he said, frustration creeping into his tone. “I’d fight them all myself if it would help, but every time we try to recruit, we fail. We need to be stronger than the Truculents, to get more members.”

“That dirty gang is literally being paid by the Dailan lord to keep us dirt poor. Why can’t anyone see that?” M’ria growled. Shyann had encountered the Truculents that morning as they patrolled the streets, enforcing the ever-changing rules that made it impossible to stay within the bounds of the law.

“It’s hard for them too, M’ria,” Egi’l sighed. “They’ve got families to feed as well. Most of them don’t want to do this. They simply have to.”

Egi’l glanced out the window to clear his head, the dark sky catching his attention. “When did it get so late?” he asked, his expression mirroring the gloom outside.

“It’s been dark for a while now,” Shyann replied. “The Loomlighter even started before I came.”

The bubbling stew sounded like drums in the heavy silence that followed, as M’ria and Egi’l turned wide-eyed toward each other. Just a second later, M’ria leapt to the window, her chair falling behind her.

“The Loomlighter!” M’ria exclaimed, her voice rising in panic as she froze, observing the green hue from the beetle wax lanterns.

“Where are Rhien and Dari’n?” M’ria demanded, turning to Shyann.

“They left a while ago. They wanted to help look for my brother,” Shyann said, startled by their sudden alarm.

“The Truculents only light the lamps when they’re patrolling! We have to find the girls—now!” M'ria shouted, tossing Egi’l his coat as she grabbed hers.

Without another word, they rushed outside. Shyann’s heart raced as she struggled to keep up with their quick pace. The freezing cold hit them like a wall, biting into their skin and stealing their warmth as they plunged straight into the green-lit night’s ever-shivering shadows.

- Marsh -

As the small ember caught the hay in the pit and spread to the larger logs, the fire began to slowly fill the room with its golden warmth, just as night descended over the city, with the cold wind whistling through the loose beams. Marsh could hear the Loomlighter a few streets down, lighting the Beetle wax lanterns that cast a deep green glow over the darkened alleys. He sat for a moment, aching and ready to rest, with Kyllians coat thrown over his shoulder while chewing on the stale bread he’d managed to scrounge, his thoughts wandering to Shyann and Emmet, wondering why they weren’t home. His pondering was cut short by a sudden commotion from behind the sheat—screams and sounds of a struggle.

Instinctively, Marsh grabbed his sword, rushing to his feet, though his knees nearly buckled as he rose, sprinting down the dimly green-lit road toward the source of the disturbance. The shouts grew louder as he approached, and it wasn’t long before he reached the scene: a mob of people surrounding someone on the ground, kicking and beating them as they cried out for help. Despite the noise, no one else had come to intervene. Most understood the dangers of getting involved—self-preservation trumped compassion on these streets.

Marsh froze for a brief moment, not out of fear, but uncertainty. The fight with the guards in the forest had taught him that charging in without a plan could be deadly, not just for him but for the very people he hoped to protect.

“HEY, STOP THAT!” he shouted, his voice firm and commanding, though inside he was anything but sure of what to do next. He took a step forward, drawing the mob’s attention.

“Stop what?” A bald, wiry man with a surprisingly deep voice emerged from the crowd, the others parting to let him through. He gestured to two battered girls on the ground, half-covered by thick vines that had wrapped themselves around them.

“As you can see, nothing that concerns you is happening here,” the man said with a smirk, fiddling with a small pouch tied to his wrist. The others laughed, kicking dirt onto the girls as they huddled defensively.

Marsh’s initial instinct was to back away, but he stopped himself, recalling Kyllian’s words. Kyllian, who had always stood up for the weak and defenseless. Visualize what you want to do, assess the situation, then react. Those words had stuck with Marsh more than any other lesson, and they were what kept him standing now, in the face of a hostile crowd. He took another step forward.

“Listen, I don’t want to fight you,” Marsh said, keeping his voice calm. Then his tone hardened. “But I won’t let you hurt these people any more.” He raised his sword, leveling it at the bald man—it felt heavy, unfamiliar even. Though the crowd had numbers, Marsh had a weapon, and he was confident he could hold his own. The crowd seemed to take a step backwards, but the bald man’s smile didn’t waver.

“I see,” the man said,his eyes lingering on the sword. But rather than backing up as Marsh had hoped, the man crouched and pulled out a single seed from his pouch. He dropped it onto the earth, pressing his hands to the soil, as a sprout quickly emerged from the frosty soil. The plant’s leaves unfurled, spreading across the dirt as its roots dug into the cold earth. Long blades of grass shot up, hardening into sharp edged swords.

“It didn’t seem fair that you should be the only one armed,” the man said, plucking a blade of grass the length of a short sword. The others quickly followed suit, tearing the blades from the sprout until it was stripped clean.

The bald man twirled his grass sword, testing its sharpness. “Tell me, how did you help the situation?” he asked mockingly. “How did you help these girls at all?” To drive the point home, he slashed at one of the girls’ already tattered clothes, revealing more of her skin. His intentions were clear—to taunt Marsh, to show him the sharpness of the blade.

The crowd shifted uneasily, the glint of makeshift swords catching the pale light as they tightened their grip, their eyes flicking between Marsh and the bald man, waiting for the command to strike.

Marsh’s heart sank. In trying to intimidate them, he had only made things worse for the girls. Sometimes, even with the best intentions, trying to help only escalated the danger. Maybe that was why no one else had stepped in—why Marsh stood here, alone.

But he couldn’t just walk away. If no one stood up for what was right, nothing would ever change. It wasn’t supposed to be easy, and Marsh knew that. He also knew he couldn’t win this fight—not against so many armed thugs. There was only one option left, a tactic he had learned from Craft: when the dice don’t roll your way, control the next throw. And Marsh would.