The forge had fallen silent, the last echoes of hammer on steel fading into the warm evening air. Aelric stood at the workbench, his hands stiff and sore from a long day of labor. The sword he had been working on now lay cooling in the water trough, the steam rising slowly from its surface. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones.

Rurik approached, his heavy boots thudding on the stone floor. He reached into his worn leather pouch and pulled out a handful of coins, dropping them into Aelric’s palm with a grunt. “That’s your lot for the week,” he said, his voice rough but not unkind.

Aelric glanced at the small pile of coins in his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him going for another week. He nodded in thanks and pocketed the money, his mind already drifting toward the tavern at the edge of town. The thought of a drink—something strong, something that would dull the edges of his mind—was appealing. Perhaps, for a short while, he could forget the whispers, the rumors, and the fear that clung to the streets of Delsworth like a sickness.

“Be careful, lad,” Rurik said, his gaze lingering on Aelric for a moment longer than usual. “You’ve been looking… worn lately. Don’t let the drink get the better of you.”

Aelric forced a tight smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

The tavern was already buzzing with noise by the time Aelric arrived, the low hum of conversation and clinking mugs filling the air. The dim light of the room flickered with the occasional sputter of the oil lamps, casting long shadows on the rough wooden walls. Aelric made his way to a corner table, keeping his hood up as he slid onto the worn bench. He ordered a mug of ale, the bitter liquid washing down the dryness in his throat, and for a few brief moments, he allowed himself to relax.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

It started with a few stolen glances from the nearby tables. Quiet whispers, eyes that lingered just a moment too long. At first, Aelric tried to ignore them, tried to convince himself that it was just his imagination. But as the evening wore on, the stares became more pointed, the whispers more audible.

“Heard he keeps to himself,” one of the men at a nearby table muttered.

“Yeah, always skulking about like he’s hiding something,” another added, his voice dripping with suspicion.

Aelric’s hands tightened around his mug, his pulse quickening. He knew what they were talking about—knew that the rumors of witchcraft had started to spread through the town like wildfire. He had done his best to stay under the radar, to keep his head down, but it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, the whispers followed him.

“Heard it from Calder himself,” one of the men said, his voice louder now, clearly meant for Aelric to hear. “Said he’s got his eye on him. Reckon it’s only a matter of time before they catch him.”

Aelric’s jaw clenched. He felt the burn of anger rising in his chest, a hot, seething rage that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He had spent years hiding, suppressing the truth, and now they dared to accuse him—without any proof, without any reason other than their own fear.

Before he knew what he was doing, Aelric pushed back his chair and stood, his fists clenched at his sides. The tavern seemed to fall silent, the air thick with tension as all eyes turned to him.

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“Is that what you think?” Aelric said, his voice cold and sharp. “That I’m some kind of witch? That I’m hiding something from you?”

The men at the table exchanged uneasy glances, but one of them—bolder, or perhaps just drunker than the rest—stood to face Aelric. “People talk,” he said with a sneer. “You keep to yourself, always looking over your shoulder. Makes a man wonder what you’re hiding.”

Aelric’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew he should walk away, knew that engaging with them would only make things worse, but the anger was too strong, too raw. He couldn’t let them win.

“I’m hiding nothing,” Aelric spat, his voice laced with venom. “But if you’re so eager to accuse me, then say it to my face.”

The man’s sneer faltered, but before he could respond, one of his friends stood, stepping between them. “Come on, enough of this. You’re making a scene.”

Aelric’s vision blurred with rage, and before he could think, he swung a fist at the nearest man. The blow landed with a dull thud, sending the man stumbling back into the table. The tavern erupted into chaos as chairs were knocked over and shouts filled the air.

It didn’t take long for the crowd to turn against him.

Someone grabbed Aelric from behind, pulling him to the ground. Fists rained down on him, and he struggled to fight back, but there were too many. The taste of blood filled his mouth as a boot connected with his ribs, sending a sharp pain through his side.

The world spun, the noise of the tavern fading into a dull roar as Aelric’s vision darkened. His body screamed in pain, every breath a struggle, but somewhere, deep within him, he felt something else—a flicker of warmth, a surge of energy that pulsed beneath his skin.

The magic.

It stirred, restless, angry. It flared like a fire, not to harm but to heal. He could feel it, coursing through him, knitting together the torn flesh, easing the bruises, dulling the pain. It was trying to protect him, to restore what had been broken.

Then, darkness.

...

When Aelric woke, he was lying in a soft bed, the faint smell of herbs and ointments filling the air. His body ached, but the sharp pain from the night before had dulled to a low throb. He blinked, his vision slowly coming into focus, and he realized he was in the infirmary. The light from the morning sun filtered in through the small window, casting soft shadows on the floor.

Elda stood by his side, gently changing the gauze on his arm. Her brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a faint look of surprise on her face as she examined his wounds.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, her voice calm.

Aelric tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent a wave of soreness through his body. “What happened?”

Elda raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember? You picked a fight with half the tavern. Got yourself beaten bloody for your trouble.”

Aelric winced at the memory. “How bad is it?”

Elda finished tying the bandage and stood back, her gaze sweeping over him. “Bad enough. But,” she hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly, “it’s strange.”

“Strange how?” Aelric asked, his heart beginning to race.

Elda’s gaze lingered on his bruises, most of which had already faded to a dull yellow. “It’s only been a day,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “But your injuries… they’re healing faster than they should.”

Aelric’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Maybe I’m just lucky.”

Elda didn’t reply immediately. She studied him for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “Or perhaps there’s something more to it.”

Aelric forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “I’m no healer, Elda. But I promise you, I’m no witch either.”

Elda’s gaze didn’t waver. “I never said you were.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence heavy between them. Then, finally, Elda sighed and stepped back, giving him space. “Get some rest,” she said softly. “You’ll need it.”

Aelric nodded, but as she turned to leave, a cold knot of dread settled in his stomach. His secret was slipping, the magic within him growing harder to contain. He had come so close—too close. And now, with Elda’s sharp eyes watching him, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep it hidden. He knew that witches were more resilient with the use of magic... hell some witches were said to have been burned for days before their wailing screams of pain stopped, and he knew he would be too... but it's too soon for his wounds to heal, how would he hide from everybody that in just a few days, the only mark on him from his scuffle would be in his head.