The inn held its own, separate stories within its dimly lit corners. The two men at the table next to him argued over a game of dice, their voices a mixture of bravado and slurred curses, the clink of bone against wood a rhythmic counterpoint to their heated exchange. At another table, three figures huddled in their cloaks, speaking in hushed tones, their faces obscured by shadow. Kael caught snatches of their conversation - "Shadow Hand," "new shipment," "iron blades." He knew those terms— whispered rumors of the city’s most notorious gang, tales of forbidden goods smuggled through the docks, tales that made his skin crawl with a mixture of fascination and fear. He turned away, focusing on the flickering candlelight that illuminated the surface of his rough, scarred hands.

The scrape of a chair, the swish of fabric against wood. A young woman, her face weathered, but her eyes kind, placed a bowl of steaming soup before him, along with a hunk of thick, crusty bread. A faint smile touched her lips as she caught his gaze. “Eat up,” she said, her voice soft, a welcome contrast to the gruff tones that dominated the room. "Looks like you need it."

He nodded, his throat too tight for words. He picked up the spoon, the rough wood warm in his hand, and dipped it into the steaming bowl.

He took a tentative sip. The taste exploded on his tongue—rich, savory, a mix of flavors he couldn’t even begin to identify. He'd never tasted anything like it before. It was more than just food. It was life, warmth, a balm to the raw, bleeding emptiness that had gnawed at him for so long. The flavors seemed to bloom on his tongue, filling his senses, driving away the cold, the hunger, the fear that had wrapped itself around his heart like a vice. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, letting the warmth spread through his body, easing the tightness in his chest, the ache in his bones.

He tore a chunk from the loaf of bread, its crust crackling beneath his fingers. The bread was rough, substantial, the flavor a welcome contrast to the gritty sweetness of the wild berries he'd scavenged in the realms. He dunked it in the soup, the bread soaking up the flavorful broth. He’d forgotten — if he'd ever known — how satisfying food could be. How it could quiet the ever-present gnawing emptiness, the desperation that threatened to consume him. It wasn't just about survival, it was a taste of something he’d almost forgotten existed— a taste of comfort, of warmth, of belonging.

He was halfway through the bowl when a shadow fell across his table. Kael looked up, his hand going instinctively to his club, a tremor of apprehension returning. The man from behind the counter stood there, arms crossed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Kael froze, expecting a challenge, an accusation. Had he done something wrong? Had someone recognized him?

“Good?” the man asked, the gruffness of his voice softened by a note of genuine curiosity.

Kael nodded, his mouth too full to speak, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips. He was still hungry, the ache in his stomach a constant reminder of his meager resources, but for now, for this moment, it was okay. He felt… human. Not just a starving, desperate creature scrabbling for survival, but a person, a boy, and adult, someone who could feel something other than pain and fear and despair.

The man chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the room. “Looks like you need another,” he said, gesturing to the bowl with a calloused thumb. "Ella! Bring the lad another bowl. This one’s on the house."

He stared at the man, unable to speak, his throat tight, his eyes burning with unshed tears. Kindness was a rare, fragile thing in Mudtown, something he’d almost forgotten existed.

Ella appeared moments later, another steaming bowl of soup, a fresh hunk of bread, and a small cup of ale balanced on her tray. She placed the food on his table, and the ale. He picked up the heavy mug, the cold, rough pottery against his hand a pleasant shock, and took a hesitant sip. The flavor was bitter, tangy, completely unlike anything he'd ever tasted. His brow furrowed at the unusual, yeasty flavor but he finished the small cup, finding it strangely comforting.

“You alright, lad?” the man said, his gaze fixed on Kael with a sharp intensity that made him squirm.

Kael nodded, hoping his nod conveyed the gratitude that words failed to express. He hadn’t expected this— this simple act of kindness from a man whose face seemed etched with the hardship of the slums. He’d braced himself for mockery, for dismissal, but all he received was warmth and an understanding nod.

“Just… tired.” It was a partial truth. The events of the past few days—the betrayal, the realms, the battles—weighed heavily upon him, an unseen burden that he carried within the confines of his own battered body, within the even more fractured remnants of his soul. He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of running, tired of the constant gnawing fear that gnawed at his edges. Tired of being alone.

The man grunted, a sound that could have been agreement, or dismissal, or perhaps just a simple acknowledgment of shared experience. He didn't press for details, didn’t intrude on the fragile silence that settled between them. It was a courtesy that surprised Kael, a recognition of boundaries, of privacy, in a place where such things were usually trampled beneath the weight of survival.

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He ate the second bowl, the rich broth and hearty bread filling the empty spaces within him, soothing the ache in his stomach, replacing the gnawing hunger with a warmth that spread through his limbs, through his heart. He finished the ale, the bitter taste growing familiar, and let the warmth settle upon him, a gentle heat that loosened the tight knot of tension in his shoulders, that chased away the chill that had seeped into his bones during his time in the desolate realms.

As he finished, he looked around, his gaze drifting over the faces of the other patrons. It wasn’t a friendly place, not really. It was a refuge, a haven for those who had learned to navigate the city’s darkest corners, a place where trust was earned, not freely given. And yet, for a brief moment, as the warmth of the soup settled within him and the murmurs of conversation washed over him like a wave, he felt a sense of… belonging. A recognition of shared hardship, a silent pact of mutual understanding, that transcended words, that spoke volumes about the unspoken rules that governed this place, this life.

He pushed his bowl away, feeling stronger, steadier, his body grounded, the weariness easing, replaced by a flicker of hope that had been absent for so long. He glanced over at the counter, meeting the man’s gaze across the crowded room. “Thanks,” he said, the word raspy, but genuine.

The man nodded. “Take care of yourself, lad,” he said, his voice a low rumble, but the gruffness was tempered by a hint of something softer, something akin to… concern. "This city will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.” It wasn't a threat, but a warning. Not a dismissal, but a challenge. "Garrick," the man said, pointing at himself.

Kael felt his chin lift, a flicker of defiance stirring within him. “Kael. And I will,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, the aches in his limbs less pronounced, his posture straighter. "I'll try." He made his way toward the exit, navigating the crowded room with a new sense of confidence, the weight of the metal token against his chest a comforting presence, a promise of possibilities, of a future he was beginning to believe he might actually have.

The air outside was sharp and cold, a slap against his face after the warmth of the inn. The market’s cacophony assaulted his ears, the push and pull of the crowds an overwhelming wave of energy. But he wasn't afraid, not anymore. Not really. He had survived the realms, had faced creatures that would have sent him running for cover just days ago. He had eaten a meal that hadn't been scavenged, hadn’t been laced with the bitter taste of fear. He had found a moment of peace in the midst of chaos. He took a deep breath, the scent of the city both familiar and unsettling.

He had a place to go now. Back to the basement, back to the portals. Back to the only hope he had of becoming more.

But what did that hope really mean? Was it just another illusion, another fragile dream that would shatter beneath the weight of reality? He had seen what the realms demanded, had felt the cold, ruthless hunger that pulsed through them like a living thing, a beast that devoured everything it touched. He had bled, fought, and clawed his way through horrors that would have broken a stronger man. And for what? To come back here, to this broken city, this broken life, and face the same struggles, the same pain, again and again? The thought gnawed at him, a dark, corrosive doubt that whispered of futility, of defeat. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t give up. Because if he did, if he let go of that fragile, flickering hope, there would be nothing left but the darkness.

Kael moved through the winding streets of the city, the crowd thinning as he made his way further from the market. Shadows stretched long and dark, but Kael barely noticed. His thoughts were a whirl of plans and possibilities. The grimy, twisting alleys of Mudtown came into view, the buildings leaning over him like silent, watching sentinels. This was home, at least for now.

The deeper he went, the quieter it became. The laughter and shouts from the inns and markets faded, replaced by the soft murmur of distant voices, the creak of shutters in the wind. He slipped through the maze of alleyways, each turn bringing him closer to the hidden place he had found. The world of men and light receded, replaced by the familiar dark corners and hidden dangers of the city’s underbelly.

When he reached the abandoned house, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling facade. For a moment, he hesitated. Slipping through the broken window, he made his way to the secret stairs that dropped into the basement. It felt like stepping into another world. The cold, still air, the faint echo of his own breathing, the rough stone beneath his feet—it was as if the rest of the city didn’t exist down here.

The basement was his refuge and his prison, the only place where he could be himself, where he could face the truth of what he had become. He let out a slow breath, the sound echoing softly in the stillness, and felt the weight of it settle over him like a shroud. The basement was safe, but it was empty. It was home, but it was hollow. It was everything, and it was nothing. It was just him, the silence, and the darkness.

He shrugged off his clothes, the new set rough but far better than the shredded rags he’d worn before. Each movement sent a dull ache through his limbs, the cuts and bruises a stark reminder of what he’d endured. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small clay pot of salve, its label marked with a white slash along the side. Carefully, he smeared the thick, cool paste across his chest, wincing as it touched the raw, scabbed, and barely healed wounds. His fingers moved steadily, spreading the salve along his arms and legs, covering the worst of the cuts and abrasions. A soft sigh escaped him as the sharp sting dulled to a throbbing warmth, the salve’s soothing effect easing the constant, gnawing pain.

He crossed the room and settled onto the ground, back against the wall. The aches and bruises from the day’s efforts made themselves known, but he ignored them, his focus turning inward.

He would rest now. Rest, and then return to the realms. Because what else was there for someone like him? He had to keep pushing forward. Keep fighting. It was the only way to survive.