Sil woke up with the worst headache of his life, a tongue that felt like sandpaper (he would know), and muscles that preemptively screamed at him not to move. For a second, he just lay there thinking of nothing but his miserable condition. The next second, he noticed the soft rustle of bedsheets that were not his own. The second after that, everything else came rushing in and he shot up.

Sil pushed aside the dread in his heart to sit up, despite his aching back and core, and cry out.

“Where’s Dad? Where am I? What- what happened?”

He heard a distant clatter and finally took in his surroundings. “Crap,” he muttered. Being in the healer’s clinic was not a good sign, though the lack of scalpels or herbal mixtures lying next to him was. But more importantly…

If I’m in the clinic, where’s my dad?

Finally, a familiar middle-aged woman burst through the cloths hung up for privacy. Once she saw his wide-eyed staring at her, her face softened. Sil had never seen Cassandra look so gentle, and it scared him.

It felt like an eternity passed while she walked over to his side and sat on the stool next to his bed. Sil still couldn’t think of anything but questions to ask. She took a deep breath and he resisted the urge to hurry her on as she spoke.

“My boy, your father…” she started. She didn’t have to finish, even though she did. Her tone, her face, her words. Sil had failed. “There was nothing you could have done.”

He doubted that.

“Really. Nothing. You were up against… look, none of us know what went wrong, but we know where it came from. Here - you haven’t looked at your wrist yet, have you?”

My wrist? Sil didn’t move. When he continued to stare vaguely past her, Cassandra grabbed his right hand for him and dragged it in front of his face. Is that a tattoo?

Sil couldn’t help himself and refocused on the small picture on his wrist. A rough image of two feathers, one a dark, dark black and the other a lively green. They intersected, trying to occupy the same space. Sil couldn't help but note that the black feather was on top.

Cassandra didn’t say anything. The two of them knew she didn’t have to. Sil knew what he was looking at: the Mark of a Favored. He was a Favored.

“No-” Sil started. His voice cracked. A storm picked up in his chest, swirling like a dune ripper. “No, this-” he looked up at Cassandra. He could see the curiosity in her eyes, the excitement checked by grief over losing a dear friend. My dad. He couldn’t explain anything to her - he couldn’t explain anything to himself. Sil didn’t notice he was trembling. “Please come back later.” His voice trembled, too. Sil wanted to add something, but he didn’t know what it was.

Cassandra nodded, stood up, and walked towards the slit in the privacy screens.

“You’re the only one in the clinic right now,” she informed him kindly. “And Sil… no matter what happens now…” She choked up.

Sil managed to tear his gaze away from his wrist and look up at her.

“He loved you. He really did. And he would have been so, so proud to see you chosen.” With that, Cassandra left the room. A second later, Sil could hear the door to the clinic open and close, too. He was the only one in the building. He was alone. In his room, in the building, in the town - he was alone.

It took more than a while for Sil’s mind to callous to the sharp edges of his thoughts. The first thought, the least offensive, that snuck into his consciousness were the colors on the underside of his wrist. I recognize them, Sil wondered idly. It was comfortable to consider how the black of the feather on top swallowed light the same way that crow had. He ignored the jab of pain in his chest thinking about that crow. Even more interesting, the green flames that he could assume had saved him were exactly the color of the green feather.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Sil knew more than that. There were instincts, feelings ingrained in him now that were not there before. He knew the black feather belonged to Medvos, the Crow. He knew the green belonged to Imfir, the Hummingbird. He knew he held both in himself. He knew he'd never heard of that, not in any of the legends.

He felt something else, too. An energy all around him and one flowing erratically inside him. Ether. He'd heard of the substance from his-

Sil knew of the substance. It was a powerful energy that allowed the Favored their greatest feats. More importantly, it powered the Auguries that kept his town and others like it afloat. Even more importantly, his-

He'd heard stories from those who had worked with ether before. Supposedly, it made materials impossibly sharp or durable; if used correctly, it could imbue special attributes onto products, though no one in the town was even an amateur enchanter.

Now, Sil could feel that ether was capable of all that and more. He could feel the potential in the energy that suffused the air, and he could feel the touch of Medvos and Imfir in the flow inside of him. It hurt, softly, like he was being torn apart from the inside slowly and gently. Sil attributed that to the jagged edges of the internal energy. It was fair, since the only reason he had access to it was-

Dad is gone. Sil knew loss, but he'd lost his mother very young and felt little when thinking about her absence. He’d always had his father, after all, and that was enough. Mateo had raised him to be strong, honorable, clever - he’d let Sil be himself. His father had always had answers.

Now… Sil didn't even know why. A heart attack or a death to a monster was tragic, but it had precedent. Sil could conceive of it. He knew people that had suffered like that. He could relate to them, at least. Now, though, it was all damn blanks.

Given the mystery, Sil supposed it was possible that he wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help his father. But he shifted uncomfortably in his bed - the pain seemed far away now - in thinking about the other possibility: that if Sil had been just ten seconds faster, his father would have made it.

For a while, Sil lay there, imagining all the ways things could have been different. But none sunk in. Sil kept expecting his father to come bursting through the screen, explaining that it was all some cruel joke. That the tattoo on his skin was just that - a tattoo.

Eventually, it was the hunger that spurred him to action. The gnawing, gaping hunger saw Sil get up, struggle into his same clothes that had been left by the bed, and make his way over to Nio’s in a two-legged limp. It escaped Sil’s notice that a weight significantly heftier than before remained in his coat pocket - in the box that contained the night cedar root.

By no small mercy of the Heralds, it was already early morning and Emma was dutiful enough to open the tavern early. She greeted him with a gentle smile and merciful silence as she brought him a hearty serving of eggs and salamander flank. Sil didn't notice the way her smile faltered when she first met his eyes, or the way she maintained eye contact with a searching look.

A few awkward moments passed trying to eat the meal before Sil realized how dry his mouth was. He raised his hand for Emma to see - it wasn’t difficult, since he was the only one in this early - and asked for some water.

It took four full cups before he felt somewhat normal again. After, Sil felt almost guilty at the pleasure of tearing into his meal and resolved to enjoy it less.

Two unfamiliar figures walked down the stairs mid-meal. Sil didn’t recognize them, but he didn’t try to: a quick nod, and he was back to minding his own business. Strangers weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard of.

What will happen to the shop now that… Dad… he supposed he’d have to run it himself. Woodworking was a passion, and Dad had made enough good friends that would help him get back on his feet. Two fewer now, though… Sil had almost forgotten about the innocent bodies in the room last night. He’d owe their families an apology when he could look anybody in the eye.

Sil finished his second breakfast and motioned to pay before Emma shushed him.

“I’ll hear none of that,” she admonished softly. “I don’t want to see your hands move into your pocket again. My dad would kill me if he found out I took money from you.”

In hindsight, it was silly, how light of a brush it took for the crack in him to spread in an instant. Sil shattered. Her dad, huh? He collapsed onto the table, put his head in his arms, and started to sob.

Emma turned pale. “Oh, no, I’ve- I didn’t-” She had nothing to say, but pulled up a chair next to him and wrapped her arms around him. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered, haltingly, casting a wary glance at the two foreigners who were doing their very best to avoid looking at the two of them.

Emma was too young to know what to say, but Sil could feel her genuine concern and heart-wrenching empathy as she whispered platitudes and rubbed his back. The world would be brighter, perhaps, if kind nothings could ever mean something to a young man who lost his father as the world flipped onto its head.