It’s been a few weeks since that day.

Most of the exterior of the bunkhouse has been finished. All that’s needed for the outside is the door, of which the carpenter is admittedly taking a little too much time on making it his masterpiece, while various apprentices and helping hands put the bed frames together. Everyone was in high spirits. The younger and older children were happy to finally have separate bunkhouses, and the flurry of work had kept everyone busy and looking towards the future.

Of course, some were more busy than others. The Chief in particular was working herself to the bone, making sure every plank of wood and every iron nail were used as efficiently as possible, and that the bunkhouse was sturdy, kept the weather out, and could stand for another hundred years if need be. Quite a few sealed crates were opened in the Cellars, with the pile of unopened crates growing noticeably smaller. While the penultimate goal of the people of Haven was to escape the Abyss, many of the supplies we have are finite and our ability to replenish them is extremely limited or non-existent. Careful consideration and pragmatism are needed to make sure what we have will last.

The other council members all had their parts. Rann and Vann often directed construction duty in alternating shifts, as both of them were trusted by the guards and expedition team members alike to lead with a steady hand. Tiff was taking some of the work off of the Chief’s back, checking in with the artisans and craftsmen daily and helping deliver what was ready to go in the bunkhouse, when she wasn’t working on tasks herself. Several crates full of textiles had been opened, and Tiff and the tailors had gotten to work sewing blankets, clothes, and the occasional curtain from the wealth of material they had on hand.

Anton had the least direct role in the bunkhouse’s construction, but he played arguably the most important part. When the workers made their way to the tavern after many hard hours of work, Anton always had hearty meals and plenty of ale ready to serve, lunch and dinner, every day without fail. We were going through the meat and stock taken from the bloodbeast’s carcass at an increased rate, but Rann was confident that we were more able to hunt the various beasts of the Abyss to stock up on meat again with someone like me on the expedition team.

Speaking of me, my daily flying practice has gone well, though I’ve hit somewhat of a roadblock. I can pretty comfortably stay airborne for ten seconds, fifteen seconds if I push myself, and can fly from one end of the clearing before the Crystalfall to the other. The problems are mastering how to change my altitude while flying, and turning while mid-air I’ve really struggled to wrap my head around. I can turn a little, but turning hard left or right, or turning to face behind me just throws my balance off and I have to land. That said, I’ve gotten very good at landing. Haven’t even crashed once since Arezza returned to the Capital!

When I’m not exercising or practising staying airborne, I’m helping with whatever needs an extra pair of hands. I personally helped quite a bit with building the roof. It’s easy to get building materials up onto it when I can basically jump from the ground to the roof without a problem. We’re doing pretty well, wings. So, I’ve been just as busy as everyone else. Doing my part. Being a productive citizen of Haven.

It’s best I keep myself busy, because if I’m idle for even a moment, the recurring nightmares of what happened to my family creep back into my mind.

They’ve been more common lately. More… vivid. Visceral. I didn’t know why, until I saw what the date was.

Assuming that the calendars are consistent down to the day between my previous life and the Underlands, it’s my birthday tomorrow.

And the day after my birthday marks one year of my life since I, and the rest of my family, died.

Birthdays aren’t really something you think about after dying, since you, y’know, died, but according to the calendar mine’s right around the corner. My sixteenth… or however old I really am, birthday. Or my first birthday, given it’ll also be a year since I awoke in the Underlands. Or my second birthday…? Point is, it’ll be the 3rd of Samhraine. Or the 3rd of January. My birthday.

And the day after that, the day I died.

A whole year already.

There have been other things on my mind, of course. Thankfully, no more dreamwalking has happened from me or from Minegumo, nor has that other dreamwalker appeared in my dream, or dragged me into his.

While his style of dress and choice of weapons certainly stood out, there was nothing else remarkable about his appearance. Putting aside the pitch-black hair, pointed ears, red eyes, and white pupils, he was an ordinary man.

There was one thing on my mind about him, though, that I worked up the courage to ask Minegumo about. Things had become… a little awkward between us, not that we spoke that often before. Being inside someone else’s dream is a deeply personal experience, after all. Especially when it’s the nightmare of how she died; huddled up in a run-down hut, slowly freezing to death as the unrelenting blizzard outside batters the walls. Still, there was one thing I had to ask her, about why she was so invested in this dreamwalker business in the first place. I thought, for a moment, that maybe the dreamwalker I encountered was her father? Or even the other man, presumably also a dreamwalker, who killed her father?

No, was her answer. She never saw the man that killed her father, and if the dreamwalker I encountered was her father, I would have commented on the large scar running down the left side of his face, a scar Minegumo said her father had all her life. The dreamwalker I encountered had no such scar.

Ugh, this is exactly what I mean. I’m idle for just a moment, and all these thoughts just push into my mind. There’s no point worrying over any of them. Normally, the Chief has something for me to do the minute I get up, but she’s taken much longer than usual to find me a job. I’ve just been sitting by the fire in the library, watching the embers crackle as I poke at my porridge every now and then. I haven’t had much of an appetite this past week.

After a while, the front door on the ground floor opens, but the footsteps coming up the stairs are far too heavy to be the Chief’s.

“Rann?” I stand and turn to face Rann as he reaches the top of the stairs, carrying a large, empty leather sack over his back.

“Marina.” Rann smiles, then tosses me a thick pair of gloves. “Ingrid’s run out of scrap iron. We’re going to fix that.”

“W-what? How? Where?” I ask, but Rann just heads back down the stairs, so I have no choice to follow him down and out into Haven.

A small group is waiting outside the Chief’s residence on the main street. The usual faces; Johnny, Einar, Arshak and Arshiya, the Chief, who looks quite annoyed, and… Ingrid, surprisingly, carrying a sack and dressed in gear like she’s ready to head out somewhere.

“I have not given you permission to leave Haven, Ingrid. No one, especially those not on the expedition team, leaves Haven without the Chief’s permission.” The Chief explains, but her crossed arms, restlessly tapping foot, and the venom in her voice is apparent with how she enunciates Ingrid’s name.

“I’m out of scrap metal for reforging. Do you want us to have no spare iron on hand?” Ingrid responds matter-of-factly, ignorant of or simply uncaring of the Chief’s agitation.

“I’m aware we’re low on metal after the bunkhouse’s construction. That doesn’t mean you have to go with the expedition team to get more!” The Chief huffs, stamping her foot to make her point.

“I have nothing else to do in Haven until we get more metal. Why shouldn’t I go with them?” Ingrid crosses her arms, indifferent even now.

“If you’re that desperate for work, go help with the furniture inside the bunkhouse!” The Chief yells.

“Why would I? I’m a blacksmith, not a carpenter.” Ingrid shrugs.

“Gods, you’re insufferable!” The Chief finally notices Rann and I standing outside her home, watching this argument unfold. “Rann! Don’t tell me you told her that she could go with you!”

“It’s a short trip, Chief. We’ll be back well before sundown. Ingrid knows what she’s looking for, and she’s a capable lass. We’ll be fine.” Rann shrugs lightly, patting the Chief on the shoulder.

“Ghhhh…” The Chief growls, grabbing Rann’s shoulder and pulling him down enough that she can whisper something in his ear in a harsh tone. Whatever she said, Rann just shrugs again in response.

“Ugh… fine. Just this once. You better be back before sundown.” The Chief relents, throwing one last annoyed glare at Ingrid before disappearing into her library, closing the door behind her with some force.

“So, now that that’s over, are we gonna get movin’ or what?” Johnny asks. I don’t know how long the others were standing there in awkward silence while the Chief and Ingrid argued with each other.

“Yeah, let’s get a move on. Hopefully she’ll have cooled off by the time we get back.” Rann sighs to himself, moving to the front of the group as they set off towards the gate. I quickly hurry up to match his pace.

“You still haven’t told me exactly what we’re doing, Rann. Where are we going to find piles of scrap metal in the Abyss?”

Rann glances across at me briefly, before returning his gaze to the gate as we wait for it to open. “You’ll see.”

“You say that about everything in the Abyss…”

“Ah, I’ll tell ya, Feathers. Rann’s just too annoyed after dealin’ with the Chief and Ingrid buttin’ heads over nothin’ again.” Johnny moves up to my right, as our little group sets off into the Abyss.

“I don’t see what she got angry about. I asked for the metal, why can’t I help gather it?” Ingrid chimes in from behind us.

“Because there are rules, Ingrid… rules the Chief doesn’t like being broken.” Rann sighs to himself again, shaking his head.

“It’s not like I’d run away and tell them where Haven is. I live there. I wouldn’t jeopardise it.” Ingrid tries to explain her side with her own somewhat warped reasoning, but Rann isn’t having it.

“So about where we’ll find this scrap metal, Johnny…?”

“Ah, yeah. Turns out, there’s piles of weapons all over the place down here, if ya know where to look. Problem is, they’re rusted ta hell an’ back, and often cursed too.” Johnny sticks his hands out, wearing a similar pair of thick leather gloves that Rann gave me. “That’s why we got these. A good blacksmith can turn ‘em back into perfectly good metal, but ya don’t wanna get even the tiniest cut while gatherin’ them. Believe me, ya don’t wanna know what the curse does.”

“Your jaw swells, and you lose the ability to talk or eat, until you starve to death.” Einar cuts in.

“Oh, who asked you? Have you got no appreciation for the art of suspense?” Johnny scoffs, tossing a glare back at Einar.

“Why have suspense when you’re supposed to be telling her about the dangers of what we’re doing?” Arshak narrows his eyes at Johnny.

“Johnny likes telling stories, Arshak. I like listening to them.” Arshiya smiles.

“It’s not even a story! Johnny’s just dragging out explanations again!” Arshak argues with his sister.

“I get it, wear the gloves and make sure I don’t get cut, aha…”

A curse from a rusty blade, that causes your jaw to swell, making you lose the ability to talk and eat? Tetanus, by the sounds of it. A curse is probably the best way of understanding it, especially given there’s likely no cure available. The gloves are a sensible choice.

South we go. Thankfully, not east to the mud pine forests, but west, closer to the western black cliffs of the Abyss. The forests to the southwest grow featureless and mundane… as forests in the Abyss go, anyway. There are no features or landmarks to navigate with, but for the ever-present cliffs looming on the horizon. It’s easy to get lost, if you don’t have a destination in mind. Not that I’m aware of anything of note, in these south-western reaches, between the southern mud pines and the rocky outcrops shielding Haven from sight.

That said, the stench of smoke grows thicker in the air in the direction we’re headed. Fire pits, I presume. Holes in the earth within which great roaring fires burn, never extinguishing beneath the blood rains. Real hellish stuff. Whatever’s burning in them, it’s an unpleasant smell, even for the abyss. It’s not like wood or coal burning, or something organic, but it’s like…

Rotten eggs, maybe? Doesn’t that mean it’s burning sulphur So… brimstone?

Fire and Brimstone. Hell or not, it’s sure ticking a lot of hell-adjacent boxes.

“Aren’t we close enough? That smell is really starting to get to me…” Arshak complains, pinching his nose.

We come to a stop in a small clearing. There’s a faint yellow glow coming from behind the trees to our right, and judging by the smell, we’re pretty close to some fire pits.

“Well, Arshak. Can you see any metal?” Rann asks.

Arshak moves a few steps forward, scanning the ground around his feet, before leaning down to grab something from the mud with a gloved hand. He pulls up something filthy that vaguely resembles a sword.

“How’s…” As he grabs it more firmly, the rusted-through sword practically disintegrates under his grasp, falling back to the mud in two pieces. “This.” Arshak sighs.

“That won’t do.” Rann shakes his head. “But it means we’re in the right place.”

“Hmm.” Ingrid leans over to grab something she spied in the mud; an axe head, by the shape of it. She gives it a couple flicks to check that it’s solid, and nods to herself as she drops it into her leather sack. “They’re good enough for nails and hinges. Not much more than that.”

“That’s what we need, Ingrid. Alright, let’s fill these sacks. Don’t take more than you can carry, and make sure it won’t crumble on the trip back.” Rann gives the order, and the rest of the group spreads out across the clearing to scour the earth for more weapons. He turns to face me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Marina. Be careful moving through the mud, so you don’t step hard on anything sharp. If you see something, bend or crouch down to grab it, don’t kneel. Even a tiny cut can be fatal. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good lass.” He smiles, patting my shoulder and handing me a sack.

The others seem to have no problems finding random bits of weapons and armour, so it shouldn’t be too hard. I move to an unoccupied corner of the clearing, watching my steps, carefully scanning over the ground…

All I see is mud.

The others are having to dig a bit to find anything, so I should do the same. I crouch down, feeling through the mud with a gloved hand. These gloves are so thick it’s difficult to move my fingers, so they should keep me safe. It’s hard to notice the shape of anything metallic-looking, so it’s more likely I’ll feel something before I see it… ah?

My hand brushes against something hard and solid. Big, too, somewhat round, but oddly shaped… a helmet? After digging away some of the mud, it looks like a helmet. With horns, I should add. Maybe I can pull it out by the horns… If it isn’t stuck so firmly in the mud… gah!

With a heave, I yank it out of the mud as I stand back up. It’s a helmet, alright. Big curled horns on the side. The inside of it’s clogged with mud, so I should probably dig that out, there’s just something solid stuck inside it—

“—Gyah?!”

I’d have fallen over backwards were it not for my wings rushing out and gently pushing me forwards to keep me upright. A clod of mud fell away to reveal an empty, pale eye socket of the skull buried within the helmet. The jolt from the shock loosened it, and the skull fell out, crumbling in on itself when it hit the ground. A curled, rigid horn extended from both sides of the skull. Its structure looks human, but… humans don’t usually have horns.

“Sheesh, Feathers. Pullin’ up a skull on your first dig’s some bad luck. Not a bad lookin’ helmet, though.” Johnny glances over at me, holding a rusty sword in his hand.

“You alright, Marina? Not cut yourself?” Rann came over to check on me.

“I’m fine, just… bit of a shock. You could have told me there might still be body parts holding onto these weapons and armour…”

“There isn’t.” Rann shrugs. “Usually.”

“Usually, uh huh… still, not a bad looking helmet.” It has an open face, and the horns have some weight. It looks like the helmet’s horns were made to hold the… original owner’s horns. Means it has more metal, and it’s easier to hold it by the horns.

“Hmm.” Ingrid peers past Rann, her eyes fixated on the helmet as she moves past him. “Mind if I test something?”

“Sure?”

Ingrid thumps the top of the helmet with her fist. The whole thing crumbles and shatters like pottery, leaving me holding two unsubstantial ornamental horns that turn to iron-rich mush in my hands.

“Not good enough. Keep looking.” Is her assessment, as she turns to check on how the others are doing.

“Sure thing, Ingrid…” I really get why she rubs the Chief the wrong way.

So, we spent a good two hours sifting and digging through the mud, backs strained and noses wrinkled from the foul-smelling fire pits. We mostly found small fragments of weapons and armour that we tested for durability before either putting them in the sack or tossing them on the growing pile of rejected iron mush that was forming in the middle of the clearing, but there was the occasional more intact item found here and there. A solid hammer’s head, a nearly intact sword, a vambrace Arshiya found that, fortunately for her, didn’t contain part of its original owner.

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I haven’t bothered to ask why there’s countless bits of weapons and armour strewn about this place, buried beneath the mud as if massive wars have been fought over this gaping hole in the earth. I can guess as much. Something to do with the God of War’s body we’re likely standing on, probably. Weapons and armour and… bodies found buried in the mud makes more sense than some of the other places down here, like the Stonefields or the Ghostwood. A former battle site is more understandable than a silent forest of tombstones or whatever the hell the Ghostwood is.

It took us about an hour to get here, and it’s past midday by now. No one’s been in a rush to get this done, now that we’re all mostly used to the rotten egg stench. This far west, there isn’t much concern about being spotted or followed. Yes, there was the incident with the wildling, but they’ve never caused trouble for Haven itself before. I was a little worried this was being taken too lightly, but Rann assured me that he’d encountered dozens of wildlings over his time in the Abyss, and never has Haven been threatened for it. Wildlings aren’t the social types, if they even still have a basic grasp of human language.

Besides, I trust my wings’ vigilance. They’ll notice if we’re being watched or followed.

“Well.” Rann clears his throat, rubbing his hands together. “I’d say we’ve picked this place clean of all it’s worth.”

“Ya think? We haven’t found anythin’ of worth in the last half hour!” Johnny complains, standing up and stretching his arms. “Backs stooped over nothin’...”

“Hmm.” Rann glances back at the knee-high reject pile in the middle of the clearing. “You think we have enough, Ingrid?”

“We had enough an hour ago, but the Chief insisted we take as much time as we could.” Ingrid shrugs, checking the contents of her leather sack.

“She did? Why?”

“She said to take as much time as we need to get more than what we need, Ingrid.” Rann sighs.

“No, she said-” Ingrid starts,

“Ingrid.” Rann cuts her off. She gets whatever he’s hinting at.

“So does that mean we can head back now? I need to go stand under the Crystalfall for a while to get this stench outta my nose.” Johnny says, swinging his sack over his shoulder.

“I guess so.” Rann sighs, picking up his sack. “Let’s head back. Sooner we get away from the fire pits, the better. Wouldn’t want to deal with any flamecrawlers.”

“... Any what?”

“You’ll… actually, it’s better if you don’t see. Don’t worry about it.” He pats my shoulder.

“Hey Rann, what are these weird marks along the track we followed to get here? It looks like something stabbed the mud hundreds of times…” Arshak calls, crouching in front of the path leading out from the clearing.

Rann grunts; a noise like someone just dropped something heavy on his foot, but he’s pretending that it didn’t hurt to not cause a fuss. “Don’t mind that. We’re leaving-”

SPLAT.

Everyone immediately looks in the direction of the noise. Ingrid lifts up her sack, having just swung it down hard on… whatever it was, it was squashed into a yellowy-green puddle in the dirt.

“The hells did you just flatten, Ingrid?” Johnny blinks, walking over to inspect the puddle.

“A bug. Looked like a centipede. It was going after my foot.” Ingrid explains.

We’re all stopped in our tracks as an entirely new foul stench makes its presence known. An acrid, horrid, burning smell that threatens to singe your nose hairs off, burning like acid down the back of your throat, leaving you wheezing as you try to get it out of your lungs.

“What… the hell…” Arshak coughs, clutching his chest in pain as he nearly doubles over.

“Gods-damned flamecrawler…” Rann wheezes, gritting his teeth. “Where there’s one, there’s…”

To finish his sentence, dozens of flamecrawlers suddenly emerge from the underbrush between us and the flame pits. Centipede-like creatures, ranging from as big as your hand to as big as your arm, rushing out towards us.

“I suggest we run.” Einar calls, and the seven of us, haggard and wheezing, set off running down the track.

The flamecrawlers aren’t that fast, but it’s very hard to run when it feels like liquid fire has been poured straight into your lungs. More of them appear along the track as we run, having to dodge and step over them to avoid squashing another and potentially stopping us in our tracks again. I feel my wings flutter restlessly against my back, and while I appreciate the offer, wings, if we run out of energy, fall, and crash, we’re both screwed. I’m sticking with my feet.

“Gods, Ingrid…” Rann grunts as he runs, taking deep, heaving breaths. “The hell did you squash it for? You squash one, the stench they release draws all the others to them!”

“It was going for my foot. I didn’t want to risk it biting me.” Ingrid explains, remarkably straight-faced as we’re running for our lives.

“You’ve got thick leather boots on, for Gods’ sake! It wasn’t going to bite you through them!” He growls at her.

“Why are they still chasing us?!” Arshak yells while looking back over his shoulder, as more flamecrawlers have appeared behind us, following our trail as they grow into a living carpet of bugs chasing us through the forest.

“Drop the damned sack, Ingrid! It’s got their stench all over them!” Johnny yells, noticing Ingrid’s still got her sack with her.

“But it has the best metal we found…” Ingrid frowns.

“Drop it! Do you want to drag these things all the way to Haven!?” Rann yells, all the more shocking from someone who rarely raises their voice in anger.

Ingrid sighed dejectedly, dropping her sack as we ran. Sure enough, the swarm of flamecrawlers stopped chasing us, scrambling and crawling all over the sack as it disappeared beneath their mass. We kept running as far as our legs would take us, finally coming to a halt once the flamecrawlers were long out of sight, dropping what sacks we still had as we struggled to catch our breaths, that burning sensation in our chests refusing to subside.

“Gods…” Rann wheezes, thumping his chest to try get that stench out of his lungs. “I’m getting too old to run like that…”

“Too old? Since when did you start complainin’ about your age?” Johnny pants, clearing his throat.

“How old are you, Rann? I know you’re older than Vann, despite the fact you’re his grandson.”

“Sixty-something. Haven’t kept count. Been down here some thirty years or more.” He shrugs lightly, picking his sack back up and tossing it over his shoulder like it doesn’t weigh anything. He’s by far the most physically able sixty-something-year-old I’ve ever seen.

“I figured the older members of Haven would be… older, given that only children have turned up for the past twenty years, but I never thought you’d be in your sixties.”

“Ah. We didn’t tell you the whole story then, did we?” He raises an eyebrow at me, then smiles. “Let’s get moving. I’ll tell you on the way there.”

We set off back to Haven at a leisurely pace as Rann regales us of his early days in the Abyss. I was told that only children had been turning up in the Abyss for the past twenty years. Partially true, but not the whole picture. In Rann’s time, some thirty years ago or more, there were no children in the Abyss. Most of those who were reborn here were who you’d expect, given the likelihood the Abyss is the earthly remains of the God of War. Warriors. Those who died fighting. Haven didn’t have a schoolhouse back then, and it was less of a unified village and more a rest spot for those inhabiting it. It had the farm going, but there were several expedition parties, who all usually headed out on hunting trips. They had weapons, food, supplies, and roofs over their heads. Most had to have the ability to fight, hunt, and gather, but the craftsmen of Haven had settled in; the tanner, the tailor, the previous blacksmith, etc.

Occasionally, the expedition parties would return with an extra member. Rather than absorbing whole groups, the modus operandi was to rescue those lost by themselves. Those that managed to survive on their own likely wouldn’t be a burden, and also likely had no connections to other groups who may go looking for them and risk discovering Haven. This was how Rann joined Haven. It was, later, how he found Vann. They started to notice a trend, though; the people they found kept getting younger. Einar was in his late teens when he was found; meaning he’s roughly forty years old by now, but was still an adult by the standards of the time.

Johnny, however, is thirty. He’s been in Haven for twelve years, meaning he was found when he was eighteen, making him an adult. The turning point came when, twenty years ago as Rann was accompanying the previous Chief out on a hunt, they found a glum, quiet nine-year-old boy. That boy was Rob. The first child they found in the Abyss. They never found anyone older than twenty after they found Rob. They kept getting younger and younger. Johnny is, like me, an exception. He was the only person aged fifteen or above they’d found, until they found me. Minegumo and most of the kitchen and tavern staff besides Anton, the Chief, Tiff, and almost everyone under thirty were found as children.

The expedition parties brought back every child they found. None of them had the heart to leave a child to fend for themselves in a place so dangerous and wild. This dramatically changed how Haven was run. The residents of Haven all collectively agreed to protect, nurture, and raise the children they found as if they were their own. A couple spare buildings were turned into the schoolhouse and the bunkhouse. Yvonne, the oldest member of Haven still with us, was a teacher in her past life, and took up the main role of teaching and raising the children. Many of the craftsmen took on young apprentices to teach them their skills, more or less adopting them in the process. Anton practically raised everyone who works in his kitchen. The town was called Haven, after all, and that’s what it would be: a haven for the children left adrift and alone in a harsh, cruel world.

“So… before you found Rob, you’d never heard of or seen any children in the Abyss before?” Arshak asks, having also just heard this story for the first time.

“I can’t say if Rob was the first child sent to the Abyss. He was just the first one we found.” Rann answers, keeping his eyes forward.

There may have been other children in the Abyss before Rob. It’s a big place. Rob was just the first one to get lucky… as if being reborn down here meant you had any luck left.

“How old were you when you were found, Ingrid?”

“Seventeen.” Is her blunt response.

“Eh? But-”

“She means when you first woke up down here, Ingrid.” Rann calls back from the front.

“Oh. Twelve, then.” Ingrid corrects herself.

“Ah, I guess you were found by the Keepsguard first, then.”

“Yes.” She clenches her fist, frowning at the mere mention of them.

“Boy, that was sure a day when Ingrid walked straight into our camp. Your fingers still hurt from that day, don’t they Einar?” Johnny grins.

“That was years ago. They’re fine.” Einar squints back.

“He took a swing at me from behind. I simply defended myself.” Ingrid defends herself, despite the fact that she hasn’t yet been accused of anything.

“You broke half his fingers when you whacked him with that stick you were carrying, Ingrid. Not the best way of introducing yourself.” Rann sighs to himself.

“Attacking someone from behind isn’t a good way to introduce yourself, either.” Ingrid huffs.

“Wait, so Einar took a swing at you from behind like he did to me?”

“You didn’t block it?” Ingrid asks, seemingly surprised at this.

“I didn’t have a weapon!”

“Your wings have weapons.” She points out.

“I didn’t know how to use them!!”

“Why not?” She tilts her head, perplexed.

“Kids…” Rann stops, sighing like a tired, worn-out parent.

“Hey, you chose ‘em. It’s up to you to make sure your kids don’t fight.” Johnny chuckles, patting Rann on the shoulder as he passes him.

Before long, we’re back home, making our way up the main street of Haven. The Chief stands at the road’s apex outside the tavern, talking with Anton before she notices us, raising an eyebrow as she crosses her arms.

“I said to take as much time as you need, but I didn’t expect you to be this long…” The Chief questions.

“We took our time.” Rann shrugged, as the rest of us handed him the half-full sacks we were carrying. “Had to run for our lives a bit. Nothing unusual.”

“Run for your lives from what, exactly? And why are you missing a sack? You each had one when you left.” She pushes, noticing we’re short one leather sack.

“Flamecrawlers. That sack’s theirs now.” Rann answers.

“And how did…” The Chief looks across at Ingrid, who noticeably did not hand her sack to Rann, as she doesn’t have one. “I suppose it’s no matter. Did you bring back enough, then?”

“It’s enough. I had to leave the best metal behind, though.” Ingrid frowns.

“Now do you see why there are rules about this, Ingrid?” The Chief flashes her threatening smile.

“I wasn’t told of the flamecrawlers. We’d be fine if I was told.” Ingrid shrugs indifferently.

“Alright, you, let’s get this back to your smithy.” Rann says, guiding Ingrid to follow him towards the blacksmith and away from the Chief.

“Honestly…” The Chief sighs to herself, rubbing her forehead.

“Well, now that that’s over.” Anton watches Ingrid and Rann disappear from sight, then glances over the rest of us. “I’ve kept a pot of soup warm, so if you want lunch, you will find it in the tavern.”

“Soup?” Johnny blinks. “I’ve been smellin’ something sweet, and it sure ain’t soup.”

“Soup is what you’ve been offered, and it’s what you will receive, Johnny.” Anton glares back over his shoulder before disappearing into the Tavern.

There is an unusual sweet smell in the air, but it’s not coming from the tavern. No, It’s coming from…

“The bakery…?”

“You just gonna stand there, Feathers, or are you gonna get some food?” Johnny slaps me on the shoulder as he passes me, the rest of the group making their way to the tavern.

“She’ll be coming with me, Johnny. I need her help with a few other matters.” The Chief clears her throat to get our attention.

“Eh? I don’t get lunch…?”

“You’ll get lunch! Just stop fretting and come with me.” She huffs, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me towards the library with an unusual amount of force.

…

So far, the only “tasks” I’ve helped the Chief with is to have lunch with her, and then just sit by the fireplace reading books for most of the afternoon. In her spare time, she’s been teaching me to read the Underlander script based on the Common language, and has decided that this afternoon will be dedicated to putting those reading skills to practise by reading books written in Underlander. Not that I’m complaining, as I have read through nearly all the Giornovan and Drachensprache-written books already. The majority of the library’s contents are written in Underlander, so it’s good to unlock access to the rest of the library’s content.

The Chief recommended me the series of short stories known as Tashina’s Tales, recollections of the adventures the legendary Damned explorer, Tashina, and the nameless author who writes down their journeys and sells them as adventurer’s novels, a hallmark of cheap literature from the Overlands that have proven just as popular in the Underlands. Such stories are often embellished to a ridiculous extent, but the nameless author accompanying Tashina seems far more concerned with sharing his own opinions on the matter at hand then whatever almost unbelievable thing Tashina’s gotten up to. It makes for a fun dynamic, and a nice distraction.

Though, the distraction from my distraction has been the Chief, seated across from me. She’s been pretending to read the same rather light book this whole time, and I know she’s pretending because I know how fast she reads. She seems far more concerned with watching me like a hawk than the book in her hands. Every time I go to meet her gaze, she hurriedly glances back down at the book she’s pretending to read, then looking back up at me the moment my gaze shifts from her. There’s the occasional knock at the door every now and then; every time, the Chief insists I stay put as she hurries down the stairs, speaks in hushed tones with whoever’s at the door, then comes back up and sits down like nothing happened.

She’s not nearly as good at hiding things as she may think she is, even if I don’t know what exactly she’s trying to hide. Again, I can’t complain about having a front seat to this rather adorable performance of hers. Though, I try not to think about how cute this is whenever I see her brows furrowed into her sharp, scornful glare.

The Chief’s unusual antics aside, it’s been a pleasant, quiet afternoon. I woke up in a bad headspace, but running for your life, then sitting down with a few good books can do wonders to clear your mind.

…

Finally, dinnertime rolled around. Whatever the Chief was fretting about seemed to be resolved, and she finally settled in to actually start reading her book, and the other two she blitzed through the hour before dinner.

The tavern was bustling with energy, more so than usual as the second bunkhouse neared completion. The dinner rush came and went, as people slowly filtered back out into Haven to make their ways home, with a few groups staying behind. I sat over in my usual quiet corner, content to idly eat my stew and people-watch.

Thankfully, I’d eaten most of my dinner when the entire expedition team appeared out of nowhere behind me, pushing me from my quiet corner and dragging me to one of the long central tables.

“W-what? Have I done something? Can’t I finish my dinner in peace?!” I stammer out as I’m sat down at the bench beside the table. Johnny, Rob, and Einar sit to my right, with Arshiya and Arshak to my left, as Rann makes himself comfortable across from us.

“Chief’s orders, Feathers! You’re sitting with us now!” Johnny grins, grabbing a flagon off the table and having a mouthful of whatever’s in it.

Others, too, hurry over to the table. Tiff and Vann, Anton and most of the kitchen staff, and some of the kids too. Emi, Rickard and Lizabeth I recognise from back when we met Crow, Hadrian and Mei with… where’s Irie?

“Marina!’ Irie’s soft voice says, as she squeezes onto the bench between Arshiya and I.

“Eirene! But… what’s everyone gathered here for?”

“Ahem.” The Chief clears her throat, standing at the head of the table. “First of all, thank you to everyone who has gathered here. Though it has been a while since we’ve had such a gathering, tradition is tradition, and this is one I’m quite fond of.”

There’s a few chuckles from the adults and giggles from the children. Whatever this tradition is, I’m none the wiser.

“It has been a while. I believe yours was the last, Adri.” Vann smiles. Last what?

“It is tradition in Haven, Marina, that on one’s first birthday after arriving in Haven, a celebratory gathering is held with the whole town. This was started when I was young, to lift the spirits of the children brought to Haven, to help return some normalcy to their lives. However, given the… circumstances of your passing, we felt it impolite to host a large gathering, but still wished to follow tradition. So, Marina…” Everyone’s eyes are drawn to me, as a simple, sweet-smelling cake is placed down on the table before me. “Happy birthday.” The Chief smiles warmly.

“Happy birthday!” Everyone says in near-unison. I glance over my shoulder to see Minegumo standing behind me, having handed me the cake herself.

“Did you bake this, Minegumo?”

“Of course I did.” She states, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her nose up with pride. “I’m Haven’s baker.”

The cake, simple and brown, smells strongly of the maple syrup-like… stuff I encountered when I first awoke in Haven, but it has a wonderful caramel-y smell to it too. Though, one, two… ten… twenty… how is this not a large gathering in the Chief’s eyes?

“It’s going to be really thin slices if everyone wants a slice…”

“It’s your cake Marina. You can have the whole thing if you wish.” The Chief brushes off my concern.

“But cakes are made to be shared! There won’t be enough to go around!”

“Not to worry.” Anton speaks, dexterously placing down a second cake on the table, identical to the first. “Minegumo baked two.”

“Y-you did?” The Chief blinks in disbelief, caught off-guard. “I only requested one cake.”

“When I asked you who would be there, Chief, you listed off more than twenty different names. Of course I baked more than one cake. Your idea of a “small gathering” is warped.” Minegumo says, putting my thoughts into words. “Now we just need a clean knife to cut it. Larousse, did you bring one from the kitchen?”

Larousse shakes his head, looking at the other kitchen staff who all shake their heads in turn, causing a bit of a ruckus as a few of them head back to the kitchen to find a suitable knife.

They needn’t worry, though. I’ve got eight knives with me at all times.

Sensing my idea, my right wing pushes out from under my cloak, its outermost blade extended halfway, dexterously making two clean slices into the cake before me, then slipping its flat-tipped blade beneath the slice to delicately lift it up from the rest of the cake, all while I sit there with my arms crossed and my head held high. Well done, wings. An impressive feat of coordination.

“... Those wing-swords of yours clean, Feathers?” Johnny voices his concern.

“Wh- Of course they’re clean!” I grab the slice and stuff part of it in my mouth for good measure. “Ifhh hey werend, I wouhnn’d done id!”

“Ey, don’t talk with ya mouth half full, fill it up!” Johnny jabs back, and the others laugh. Fortunately, the kitchen staff secured a proper knife, and everyone got to have a slice of Minegumo’s freshly-baked cakes. Their sweetness came from the sweettree sap that the expedition team were gathering when I first stumbled into their camp. Now, that’s come full circle.

The events of my last birthday didn’t cross my mind once that night, or the day after.

I may never see my old family again… no, I should stop pretending.

I will never see my old family again.

But my new one’s doing just fine.

And that’s more than a good enough reason to keep going.