Eugene stood frozen, fists clenched, staring at the bloodied toucanfolk man lying on the ground. His bright feathers were marred with streaks of crimson, his beak cracked and leaking blood onto the cobblestones. The pitiful way he twitched, wheezing with ragged breaths, made Eugene’s stomach twist. He wasn’t sure if stepping in had been the right move—was this guy even innocent?—but it didn’t really matter now.
I really, really hope I didn't just jump in to defend a criminal.
The two guards advanced on Eugene with the slow, deliberate swagger of men too accustomed to winning fights. Their armor was dented and tarnished, their swords hanging loosely in their grips. Then Eugene noticed something—when one of them went to unsheath his blade, it took longer than it should. He yanked at it, struggling for a moment before it finally came free with an unbalanced wobble. The other stumbled a little as he stepped forward, his feet unsure beneath him.
They're drunk, Eugene realized, his pulse quickening. Okay, okay. That’s something.
But they still had swords, and Eugene had...well, his hands. He glanced around desperately, grabbing a handful of dirt and gravel from the street. It wasn’t much, but maybe he could blind one of them and make a break for it.
The first guard, the burly one with the scar across his cheek, raised his sword and brought it down toward Eugene with a grunt.
And in that instant, everything became real.
The whistle of steel through the air, the sheer weight of the blade slicing downward—Eugene’s stomach flipped, and his heart rammed into his throat. He barely dodged, stumbling backward and tossing the handful of dirt at the man’s face. It missed entirely, sprinkling harmlessly to the ground.
“Oh, crap,” Eugene muttered, legs already moving on their own. He darted around the guards, weaving between barrels and crates, his breath ragged as he sprinted away.
The guards gave chase, their footsteps clumsy and uneven but determined. The whole thing started to feel ridiculous—like something out of a slapstick comedy, Eugene zigzagging around stalls and weaving through crowds while the two intoxicated men tried to corner him.
That’s when he heard it.
At first, it was so faint he thought he imagined it. A voice, warm and smooth as honey, slipping through the frantic pounding of his heart.
“Darlin’,” it murmured, “why are you runnin’ so much when you could just ask for a little help?”
Eugene’s grip tightened instinctively around the lantern tucked beneath his clothes. “Not now,” he hissed under his breath, his eyes darting around for an escape route.
Cozimia’s voice was soft, teasing. “Oh, sugar, but it is now. You need a little push, don’t you? Just reach out, take it. A teeny tiny bit of power.”
Eugene shook his head sharply. “No. I don’t need magic. I can handle this.”
A loud clang behind him as a sword struck a wall made him reconsider his words. He ducked under a low-hanging awning, sprinting harder.
Cozimia chuckled in his ear, the warmth of her voice wrapping around him like a comforting hug. “You don’t have to do much, darlin’. Just a little spell, something to distract them, and you’ll be on your merry way.”
He gritted his teeth. “I said no.”
Another blade swung, missing him by inches, slicing through a wooden post that splintered in half. Eugene swore and kept running, his lungs burning.
Cozimia’s voice remained calm, steady, patient. “Are you sure? You’re not lookin’ too graceful right about now.”
Eugene didn’t respond, but deep down, he felt himself wavering.
He stumbled over a loose cobblestone, falling hard onto the street. The breath left his lungs in a rush as the guards loomed over him, their faces twisted into amused grins.
“Gotcha,” one of them slurred.
Eugene’s heart pounded as they pointed their swords at him.
“Alright,” he muttered desperately. “Fine. Fine! Help me!”
Cozimia’s voice cooed sweetly. “Atta boy.”
A warm sensation flooded through Eugene’s chest, spilling out into his limbs and filling his mind with sudden clarity. He instinctively raised a hand, and the knowledge of the spell—Hospitable Rebuke—was just there, sitting in his thoughts as if he had known it all his life. His fingers tingled with raw energy, his palm heating like a freshly lit hearth.
Eugene squeezed his eyes shut and thrust his hand toward the nearest guard.
The world went silent for a moment.
“SHOW THEM THEY ARE NOT WELCOME!”
Then, a sound Eugene could only describe as the crack of reality itself filled the air. The air rippled around his outstretched fingers. When he opened his eyes...
The burly guard was gone.
No, not gone. Half gone.
His legs stood there for a moment, wobbling slightly, before they crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud. The upper half of his body—gone without a trace, as if it had never existed. No blood, no gore—just an eerie emptiness where flesh and bone used to be.
Eugene’s mouth fell open in horror.
The remaining guard stared at the sight, frozen in place, eyes wide and pupils dilated with terror. A moment of silence stretched on, then:
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“AAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!”
The scream tore through the streets, sending a ripple of panic through the alley; there weren’t many people around, but the ones that were nearby ran. The guard turned and bolted, stumbling over himself as he sprinted away, shouting a name at the top of his lungs. It sounded like ‘Clyde’ but the man wasn’t enunciating very well at the moment.
Eugene remained sitting on the ground, staring at where the burly guard used to be.
Cozimia’s voice purred in his ear, sweet and satisfied. “Now that’s what I call effective hospitality.”
Eugene gulped, chest heaving. “W-what did I just do?”
“Only what needed doin’, darlin’,” she replied. “Gotta make a good first impression, after all.”
Eugene’s hand trembled as he tucked it against his chest, feeling the lantern's shape through his shirt. What the hell did I just sign up for?
The toucanfolk man groaned weakly nearby, snapping Eugene out of his shock. He forced himself to his feet, wobbling slightly, and stumbled toward the injured figure.
“You alright?” Eugene asked, his voice hoarse.
The toucanfolk nodded weakly, looking past Eugene to where the guard had been moments before. “Th-thank you,” he stammered, eyes wide with awe—and fear.
Eugene swallowed hard, forcing a shaky smile. “Yeah, no problem.”
Behind him, the lifeless lower half of the guard still lay there, a grim reminder of what had just happened.
And Eugene had no idea how to feel about it.
“Hospitality can have teeth too, sugar.”
----------------------------------------
Eugene slammed the heavy wooden door of the mushroom tower shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the strangely organic structure. He leaned against it, panting, his heart still hammering in his chest. The toucanfolk man limped in behind him, clutching his injured wing, his brightly colored feathers marred with blood.
Eugene’s hands were still shaking. He stared down at them, flexing his fingers as if trying to convince himself they were still his. What the hell just happened out there?
He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep, shaky breath. "Did anyone see us?" he muttered under his breath. Of course they did. Of course they saw. That other guard—he had run screaming into the night, and half the city was probably awake by now. Eugene groaned and buried his face in his hands.
What was that power?
His mind replayed the scene over and over—the desperate chase, the whispers in his ear, the moment he accepted the power, and then... that crack, the guard vanishing in an instant, or at least the top half of him.
Hospitable Rebuke.
He let out a humorless laugh. "Hospitable my ass," he whispered to himself. Was that really just a little spell? If that was the smallest bit of power Cozimia could offer, what the hell would a fireball look like?
Eugene felt his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat. He had killed a man. There wasn’t even a body, just...half of one. Was this what warlocks did? Was this what he was now?
He sat down hard against the wall, sliding all the way down until he hit the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him. He felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts.
The toucan man stood a few feet away, watching him cautiously, his eyes darting around the room like he was expecting an ambush at any moment. His beak—what was left of it—was cracked and broken, a large chunk missing from the upper part, giving him an awkward, crooked look. Blood still dripped slowly from it, staining the worn wooden floor beneath him.
The silence stretched on uncomfortably until the small toucan man cleared his throat with a squawk, breaking it. “Thanks,” He croaked, his voice still sounding rough and strained. There was a pause as he coughed some blood on the floor. “Really, really, thanks for stepping in. My name is Qlaark by the way. I mean, I know I get myself into trouble all the time, and those guys were probably just waiting for an excuse, but hey! You really saved my feathers back there! Literally!”
Eugene blinked at him. “Uh... you’re welcome?” Apparently his speaking voice had healed quite quickly; he was a blaze of words and blood-colored spittle.
Qlaark grinned, despite his mangled beak. “And, uh, sorry about all this, y'know? I’m usually way more careful, but today? Today wasn’t my day. Nope, not at all. Bad luck. Some people call me Qlaark the Cracked. Not ‘cause of the beak, though that, uh, just happened.” He gestured vaguely at his face. “It’s also ‘cause I talk. A lot. People think I’m nuts! Can’t help it! Makes people nervous sometimes. Or annoyed. Mostly annoyed.”
Eugene stared at him. “Right. I can see that.”
Qlaark kept going, his words flowing like a runaway train. “And I mean, I get it, y'know? Some folks don’t like chatter, but I figure, hey, if I’m talking, at least it means I’m alive, right? I mean, considering the alternative, which is—well, you saw what happened to that guard, huh?” His eyes widened. “Whew! That was... intense. Crazy. Messy? No, not messy. Weirdly clean, actually. Like—poof!—he was there, then gone. You sure you’re not some kinda god?”
Eugene rubbed his temples. “I’m not a god.”
Qlaark nodded enthusiastically. “Right, right, not a god. But maybe like, a demigod? Or a wizard! No, wait, you said it was your first time using magic, so probably not a wizard, but hey, that was impressive. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying. But impressive too!”
Eugene groaned. “Qlaark.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you... maybe not talk for a minute?”
Qlaark opened his beak, then immediately clamped it shut again, nodding rapidly. He stood in place, rocking back and forth on his clawed feet, wings twitching nervously. The silence lasted about five seconds.
“So, uh, do you know what you did back there?”
Eugene let his head fall back against the wall. “No, Qlaark. I have no idea.”
The toucanfolk nodded, beak clicking. “Yeah, that’s kinda what I figured.” He hesitated. “First time killing someone?”
Eugene swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“Yikes,” Qlaark said with a grimace. “Yeah, that’s rough. I mean, it’s not every day you just turn a guy into half a guy.” He glanced toward the door. “You, uh... okay?”
Eugene exhaled slowly. “Nope.”
Qlaark scratched at his beak absentmindedly, wincing at the broken edge. “Yeah, fair.” He fidgeted for a moment before offering another awkward grin. “Look, I don’t wanna keep bothering you, but I just... I really appreciate what you did. I mean, I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t shown up, so... thanks. Again. Mind if I say a little prayer? That's kinda what I do.”
Eugene waved a tired hand. “Yeah. No problem.”
Qlaark took on a more serious tone, closing his eyes and bowing his head. He began his prayer as if he had been reciting it in his head before he spoke:
“...Bestow upon him the fortitude to traverse the rugged landscapes of uncertainty,
And the clarity to discern the true course amidst myriad crossroads.
Let your guiding hand steady his steps,
As he navigates the endless roads that lie before him…”
Qlaark looked up and hesitated before adding, “I’m, uh, usually around the Bazaar District, if you ever need someone who... talks too much, I guess.” He chuckled nervously. “People don’t always like me hanging around, but hey, I know things! Sometimes useful things.”
Eugene smirked faintly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Qlaark nodded and made his way toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. “You should, uh... talk to someone about this.”
Eugene looked at him. “Yeah. Probably. And I think I know who.”
With a final, slightly off-balance wave, Qlaark slipped out into the city streets, leaving Eugene alone.
Once the door was shut, Eugene let out a long, ragged breath. He reached under his shirt, gripping the lantern tightly in his hand.
"Cozimia," he muttered.
Her voice slid into his ears like warm honey. "Yes, sugar?"
He swallowed hard, staring into the flickering light of the room. "I think we need to talk."