"No idea who you are," Graylock said. "But you're off to a great start, kid."

That didn't seem to make the kid any happier. He clenched his hands into fists, face fixed in a grimace. Graylock was almost sure he was about to charge right through the doorway.

Maybe it was the disapproving way the Colonel was looking at him, but he slowly started to relax. His fists un-balled themselves. He folded his arms.

"I'm Wixton."

"Ah," Graylock said. "Kedrik's son."

"That's right."

"I suppose I can guess why you're here. Although...how did you..."

"They let me right through," the boy called Wixton said. "Once I told them I was here to talk to you."

"Of course they did." Apparently Graylock's strict 'no disturbance' orders had been overlooked. Violated. But then, it is possible that one's men have decidedly less respect for such orders when one stays in bed past noon. Something to take into consideration.

Meaning, Graylock would have to remember to crack down on his officers for this in the future. Really, this was an Alveranderan army base, and all. Some decorum is implied. Seriously.

"I'm not here to argue," Wixton said. He was beginning to show a bit of timidity, growing more self-conscious about this interaction as the seconds ticked by. His determination was winning out, though. He was clearly on a mission of some kind.

"You just want to know why I deemed you 'unfit to serve'?"

Wixton nodded.

Graylock sighed.

It was a bright, warm, cloudless day. Light glinted off the beads of sweat in the boy's mussed hair, dangling like dewdrops.

It was too bright for this. It was too hot for this. And it was definitely too early for this, whatever Lott(or the world itself) had to say about it.

Once again, Graylock found himself thinking about the vial of Amethyst in the bottom drawer. Waiting for him. But he would need space and privacy first. And this boy didn't seem like he was yet willing to lend him either of those things.

So there was nothing for it.

"You already know," Graylock said. "We both do. But fine. If you're going to be so insistent about it."

He grabbed his hat off the rack to the left of the door and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

The office was more of a small, somewhat isolated cabin. To north, the barracks. In front of the barracks was the training yard, where soldiers were performing drill exercises even now. Exposed skin glistening under the heat of the full sun, beating down.

Looked exhausting. Absolutely dreadful. Luckily, because of his position, Graylock would never have to do anything like that again. He could coast. More than that, he could do basically anything he wanted, especially with Lott around to handle things.

Unfortunately, Graylock didn't think this issue with Kedrik's boy would be something Lott would be willing to deal with. It was on him.

No matter.

He led Wixton at a northeastern trajectory, toward the shooting range. He could hear the boy's boots on the dry dirt, following at ten or so paces behind him.

He stopped in front of the range. He pivoted to face the boy, who had already stopped in his tracks, arms still folded.

Graylock drew his Wulther.

This garnered little to no reaction from the boy, except for the slightest of flinches, just as Graylock held the gun level, barrel pointed down-range.

He held it out to Wixton, holding it by the barrel so that he could grab the grip. "Go on. Take it."

Wixton's nostrils flared. His brows furrowed, but his eyes were wide, fixated on the Wulther. He seemed to working himself up, for some reason.

"Go on," Graylock said. "What are you waiting for?"

No answer. The boy was averting his eyes.

Graylock pointed to a target down-range. "If you can take this gun, and get reasonably close to hitting that target there, we'll talk. If not, then I think we're done here."

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The boy's shoulders slumped. "He told you."

He meant his father, Kedrik, had told him. He didn't want his son marching off into the military just yet. Or ever. And by telling Graylock what he had, he'd succeeded in preventing it.

Graylock nodded.

"There has to be something I can do," the boy said earnestly. Lo and behold, he was peering up into Graylock's eyes. Hoping to appeal to some semblance of humanity, no doubt. And good Gods, were there tears somewhere in there, threatening to pool over past the eyelids?

Barking up the wrong tree, kid. That's not going to get you anywhere.

"I'm afraid not, kid."

"Wars aren't fought with arms alone," the boy said. "You need janitors, people to file paperwork--"

"And if we're suddenly attacked--don't give me that look, it could happen--can I trust you to take up arms then, and to stand by your fellow officers in defense of this town?"

Wixton frowned back, disbelieving. Perhaps at the prospect of a place like Tantern being a potential target for an attack from Daroven. Maybe because, given the things he must have heard about Graylock, this was not a direction he'd expected the conversation to turn.

"I'm not serious about a lot of things," Graylock said. "But I'm serious about this. I'm not going to endanger my men because of your malediction."

"I--" The boy swallowed, stared out at the target. "I don't know why I can't do it."

Graylock did. But he wasn't going to get into it. It wasn't any of his business.

"Hey," he said, adopting a more playful tone. "So what if you're no gunman? I wouldn't worry about it. There's more than enough killers like me to make up for it." He winked.

Wixton didn't seem to understand what was supposed to be funny about that.

"You're not cursed," Graylock said, holstering his Wulther. "Having one of these is a curse."

And thankfully, mercifully, that was it.

The boy muttered something that might have been thanks. And then he left.

For a moment, Graylock watched him go. Maybe it was the bad mood inflicted by his headache, and the swirly feeling in his guts, but he found himself feeling pity for the kid. It was the first time Graylock had met him. He had no actual affection or feeling attachment for him. But he did feel a sort of kinship. What little he did know about Wixton reminded him of his own past. And of things he wished he could forget.

He felt bad. Real bad. And it was another in a hundred things with nothing to do about it.

When he got back to his office, retreating into the dimly lit cabin, he sat back down at his desk. Again, he opened the bottom left drawer. Again, he touched the vial, running a finger along the smooth, glass cylinder. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to do any more than that. Taking the Amethyst would numb his emotions. And the things he was feeling today...it seemed wrong, somehow, to let them go un-felt.

*****

The forge at the top of the hill was much the way that Wix had left it. The doors were still open, and the ember light of the forge's flame flickered within. Except that the cart, and Dusty, were both gone. Whatever Kedrik's business had been, he had concluded it. And he had headed home on his own.

As far as Kedrik's temperament went, going off of past experience, this was a bad sign. Very bad. But Wix was almost past the point of caring.

He felt stupid. And silly. Frankly, he was embarrassed.

Kedrik had been right. Because of course he had been. It was obvious. Common sense. The only reason Wix hadn't truly realized it himself was because he'd been living in a delusion. It was the only way to explain the fact that he'd sent in that application, actually believing he had future in the military

He had cried--actually cried--in front of the Colonel Graylock. He had failed spectacularly at the exact moment it mattered. And he didn't even understand why. He was at odds with his own body. His own mind.

And Kedrik had known it would happen, too. Not only had he known, but he had gone the extra mile to ensure that it did.

He wants me here, in this dusty little town. He doesn't want me to leave. If he has his way, I'll never get to see the rest of Alverand. I'll never get to see anything east of Roldart.

Except that he could, couldn't he? There was nothing stopping him. He had some savings. Nothing as good as a few years in the military would have got him, but more than enough to take a train. He could find work. There was always work. And it would be his decision. He was free to choose.

And he had chosen. He was ready to be free of this place.

*****

The sun was just starting to dip in the sky when Wix got back to the farm. Both Jenny and Kedrik seemed to have finished their work, because they were nowhere to be seen when he rode up. Likely Kedrik would have all manners of chores he intended for Wix to do. Wouldn't that be a disappointment for him.

It took mere moments to stable Willow in the barn. Dusty, who was already put away in his pen, watched--and occasionally snorted--as Wix removed Willow's bridle.

He would miss them. He would even miss this barn. Dark, musty, and full of flitting motes of hay-dust as it was. Not a day had passed--that he could remember--without having to throw hay, clean the pens, or do some other chore out here. It was almost like a part of him. That was weird, wasn't it? Did it even make sense? The idea that when he walked out of this four-walled shed, he would be leaving a part of himself behind?

He led Willow into her stall, shutting it behind her. She pivoted in a circle and poked her head out over the door to look at Wix. He patted her on the neck. And slumped, pressing his forehead against her nose. "Be a good girl, okay? I mean, I know you always are. But keep it up. Jenny's gonna need all the help she can get."

Dusty snorted, peering out of the door of his own stall.

"And you, too, of course." Wix patted his nose. "Try not to go running off so much. You're a pain in the ass when you do that. Both Jenny and Kedrik are getting too old for that."

He took a step back, letting his arms fall, fingers gently brushing each horse's coat, and gripping the top of the stall doors.

Why was he being so sentimental? Now, all of a sudden? It didn't seem fair, considering what he needed to do. What he was about to do.

The barn door creaked on its hinge as Wix pushed it open, and dragged on the dirt. He shoved it back into place and threw the latch.

Wind whistled through finger-width gaps in the barn walls. The sun's rays were warm, but the sudden breeze was surprisingly cool and pleasant, and strong enough that Wix felt the urge to reach up and grab his hat on the way to the house, for fear of it flying off.

His boot heels thumped on the front step. The front door squealed as he pulled it open.

As soon as Wix was through the doorway, he was met with a horse-kick punch to the jaw.