“When one inherits a mess, it is often wiser to sit quietly, watch the chaos unfold, and wonder how to avoid taking responsibility.” — The Tao of Idleness, Book 5, Verse 12

The town square of Eldhaven wasn’t exactly what I would call “welcoming” at the best of times, but today, with the addition of a fairly dramatic decorative centrepiece, it was downright brutal. The moment Lia and I passed through the gates, all I could do was stare at the sight in front of us.

Her father, Jorgen, hung on a crucifix in the centre of the square.

I blinked. Then blinked again. “Shit,” I whispered to no one in particular, although that barely covered the wave of horror creeping up my spine. But it wasn’t just the sight that was appalling. It was the fact that Jorgen wasn’t dead.

Yet.

The displayed stats above his head were slowly ticking down, each number taking him closer to the edge. His Health was low, and there was no respite in sight. Just that slow, agonising trickle as his body fought against his wounds to stay alive. The nails driven through his wrists and ankles were visible, thick with rust. And cruelty. Lots and lots of cruelty. Blood had caked around his injuries, but he didn’t seem to be actively bleeding anymore—not that it made things look any less horrific. Nor, now I thought about it, suggested Lia’s dad was much longer for this world.

The placard around his neck, scrawled in harsh, jagged writing, made it clear who was responsible: Debtor to the House of Galtor.

From all the context I’d picked up around the situation, it didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. Jorgen had borrowed from the wrong people, and now they were making an example of him. But crucifixion? I mean, what the actual fuck?

Jorgen’s face was a mess, and not just from what looked like a pretty professionally done punishment beating. His features still held the echo of what had probably been a good-looking man, once. Strong jaw, broad nose, thick brow—but the wear and tear of years of heavy drinking had more than left their mark. The splotches of red across his cheeks and nose, the cracked lips, the slight yellow tint to his staring, wild eyes . . . this was a man who had seen better days, and that was long before someone had introduced the nails and the cross to his day-to-day experience.

His body, though, now that was a true sight to behold. Beneath all the blood and grime, he was lean and muscled, still strong despite the years of hard living he had put it through. Even now, I could see the cords of muscle straining beneath his skin as he kept trying – with a sad futility - to pull himself up. To try to relieve the pressure that was in danger of crushing his lungs. Fun fact. When I was at Primary School, I had a teacher who had delighted in ensuring her class of thirty eight-year-olds all understood the full implications of what Jesus had suffered on the cross.

Faith School. Don’t judge.

It turned out that the nailing and the blood and the crown of thorns and all that was just window dressing. The thing that got you was slow suffocation. The nails were the least of your worries when you were laid out on a cross. No, it was the slow, inevitable collapse of his chest that would do for Jorgen. That is unless someone stepped in to help him . . .

And Lia? She stood there, arms by her side, watching the whole thing like she was observing the weather.

“Are you . . . okay?” I asked, which felt like the dumbest question I could possibly have sought to ask in the moment. But what else was there to say? What was the etiquette in such a situation?

Lia didn’t answer at first. Her gaze was locked on her father, watching him struggle to breathe, but there wasn’t a trace of the rage I might have expected. There was no wild-eyed fury, no ripping her sword clear from her sheath and charging forward to tear down the cross and rescue her daddy dearest. Just a strange, preternatural calm. I found that more disconcerting than anything else.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Too calm couldn’t mean anything good, could it?

“We’re here to hand in the quest,” she said after a long pause, her voice detached. “They jumped the gun.”

The system chose that exact moment to ping the quest completion.

Quest Completed: Gambler's Debt.

XP Gained: +1,200.

Gold Reward: +300.

Almost immediately, the crucifix shimmered and vanished, and Jorgen’s body dropped to the ground like the saddest sack of flour in the shop. He didn’t land well, crumpling into the mud with a sickening thud and a few cracks which sounded like he picked up a bunch more injuries in the descent. Even so, his Health bar ticked up ever so slightly, but he was still on the brink of wipeout.

Oddly, Lia didn’t make any movement at all to help him. She just stood there, staring at the spot where the crucifix had been, her expression blank. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel like the only person in this fucking courtyard with a modicum of common decency.

“If anyone fancies making with a . . . I don’t know, a healing spell, I’m more than good for it,” I said, opening up my inventory and pulling out a handful of gold. Even without the quest reward, my gold was still plentiful after our run-ins with the Rebels, so it wasn’t like this was going to break the bank. “Anyone?”

After the landlord’s reaction to just one gold coin, I expected somewhat of a stampede to make with the glowing. They were all staring at Lia, clearly seeking her permission. “You good with that, right?”

“No.” Lia’s voice was soft. “Don’t waste your money on him. I don’t owe anyone anything.”

Fucking hell. I imagined growing up with a gambling lush couldn’t have been a bed of roses, but the dude had just been crucified. I didn’t think an aspirin or two was exactly out of line. "Well, I guess that’s simply too bad," I said, cutting her off before she could argue further. "Consider it a thank-you for handling Berker."

Before Lia could get another word in, I tossed the gold towards a likely-looking guy in flowing green robes who’d shown a bit of interest when I’d made the initial offer. He fumbled the catch but quickly pocketed the coins. Without another word, he hurried over to Jorgen and placed his hands on his chest, a faint glow emanating from his palms. The shimmering light spread across Jorgen’s body, mending the worst of the damage but still was obviously not enough to bring him fully back to health. From what I could read from the stats above his head, his Health stopped any more of its downward spiral, and seemed to even out.

As the light dimmed, the healer shot a glance at Lia—then, without so much as a goodbye, he bolted, robes flapping behind him as he disappeared into the crowd.

Fucking hell. There were some seriously odd family dynamics at play here. Lia let out a slow breath, the only sign that any of this was getting to her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m starting to lose track of the things I shouldn’t have done, to be honest,” I said. “But I’ll live with it.”

Lia's whole body tensed as Jorgen stirred under the soft glow of the healer's magic. For a moment, it looked like this was the beginning of something—a long-awaited reconciliation. His eyes fluttered, and his head tilted just enough that it seemed like he was going to turn to his daughter, like maybe he’d finally seen her. Lia’s eyes locked on her father, and I could feel the tension from where I stood. She was poised on the edge, ready to either break down or explode. Her hands opened and closed, like she was preparing herself for whatever came next, whether it was words of gratitude or a fresh wave of disappointment. I didn’t dare say anything, I figure I’d done enough . . .

Then Jorgen coughed, his face, slack and bleary, and slowly—painfully—he began to move. Lia’s lips parted, a thin thread of hope barely hanging on, her gaze clearly desperate for a connection that had been lost for too long. But instead of looking at her, instead of a moment of honest recognition, Jorgen let out a low groan, dragging himself to his feet with more effort than I thought possible. He swayed for a second, like a man fresh out of a stupor, eyes unfocused. And then, without a single word to Lia, he turned on his heel and stumbled away, heading toward a building on the other side of the square. The large sign above the door read: Casino.

Of course it did.

I watched him go, a tad dumbfounded. “What the actual fuck?”

Lia’s shoulders sagged for just a fraction, and then she called after him. “Dad...?”

But he didn’t even glance back. She hesitated for a moment, then followed him inside, her steps slow and uncertain. It was the first time I’d seen her look . . . small.

I stayed where I was, unsure whether to follow or give them space. Before I could decide, a voice broke the silence behind me.

One of the Elders, grizzled and hunched, shuffled out from the shadows near one of the stalls. His voice was low and raspy, like gravel grinding underfoot. “You’d do well to avoid that family,” he muttered, shaking his head. “A tragedy waiting to happen.”