A cloud of warm breath streamed between Julien’s cold, stiff fingers. Dense with moisture, the air left his dirt-speckled skin sticky and riddled with goosebumps. He shivered as the hairs on his arms swept against the itchy wool of his cloak, his only choice to melt away the chills which ran bone-deep. Once it was drawn over his shoulders, he locked his arms around his chest, leaning forward to press his forehead against his knees. He took a deep breath. The pungent stench of decay pervaded his nose; it worsened by the hour.

He lifted his head to peer into the shadowed corner where his cellmate lay curled up on the floor. When Julien first arrived, the old man appeared to have already been there for quite some time, and from the beginning he refused to take food or drink. A couple of days had passed by since he last moved at all. Not once had he left his corner. Julien never saw his face, and he felt it disrespectful to look now.

It was silent, perhaps for too long. For days he’d watched hooded figures dragging people away one by one. Earlier they came to claim a screaming, flailing Gildvari woman. Before her, a Mezthrin man, weakened enough to know struggling would not serve his dignity, thus he went calmly. Before him, many others were taken, and whatever torture lay beyond the corridor compelled screams of terror from even the most stoic of them. But their cries subsided quickly.

An indeterminate amount of time passed between each incident before the captors returned for their next victim. Sporadic as their timing seemed to be, their method was quite clearly systematic. They spoke a foreign and primitive language, elven derived yet indistinct to the three most common variants – combining the smooth melody of Gildvari, the enunciative twang of Fenvari, and the relaxed trills of Dronvari. During moments of quiet, Julien could pick out muted shreds of words and phrases from beyond the door – Deceased. Retrieve the next. Growth stimulated. Left shoulder. Cull. Retrieve the next. Do not… unless instructed. Idiot. Waste. Cull. Retrieve the next.

He wondered why they didn’t take his cellmate. He wondered if his turn would come and hoped for sooner rather than later. In the unknown depths, no windows were there to shed their light, and he had not a single tool at his disposal. Even were it to be for his death, his only chance to escape lay within the eventual opening of the cell door. Should he fail and be taken like the others, at the very least he would see an end. Anything was better than waiting there cowering like a helpless child.

The wooden doors groaned again. His stomach dropped. Two tall, thin shadows warped and stretched in the flickering torchlight as they drew nearer. They stopped when they reached his cell – one man and one woman. Both peered in as one reached into her pocket for the key. His turn had come. How pathetic he suddenly felt – how not unlike a frightened boy – as visions of home’s comforts flooded in uninhibited.

“Hil ōn thôduri,” said the keyholder and smaller of the two, pointing to Julien’s cellmate. That one is dead, he gathered from the simple phrase. Her slender hand shimmered with an unusual metallic luster, like unpolished silver. Never had he seen anyone with such a skin tone. The barred door swung open, crying out until it slammed into the wall with a resounding clang. Julien flinched at the harsh sound. The taller figure entered the cell first, closing in on his corner as the keyholder approached the dead old man.

One last chance to escape.

Julien scrambled to his feet. Immediately the man leapt forward, reaching out to secure a grip on him. Julien guarded himself with his forearm and wagered what was left of his strength to shove him away. Success – the man stumbled and caught his heel on a crack in the floor.

“Nelea!” the man shouted – presumably the name of the preoccupied woman – to alert her, catching his balance on the wall behind him as Julien bolted out of the cell.

Now free in the corridor, inklings of hope returned, propelling him to run faster than he ever thought he could. He knew, however, that he’d only bought himself time before they would chase after him again. The uncertainty caused his skin to prickle as his heavy breaths became shorter and shorter. Bare feet aching with deep-set cold as they pounded against the hard stone floor, he kept his pace steady and his balance sure.

As he neared the end of the long corridor, the doors came into view. He took in a deep and refreshing breath and his lips curled into a relieved smile. This was it – he’d nearly made it. Determined to see his escape through, he picked up speed and focused only on moving forward. Something caused him to falter, however; a glint caught the corner of his eye. Though he tried to ignore it – though he didn’t understand why – it instilled with him a grave incertitude, heavy enough to slow him down and encumber his footing. Still he ran, and still he made it to the door. The last thing he saw was his hand reaching out to grip the handle. Something struck his head from behind.

Julien blinked. A drop of water had landed on his lashes. In the morning sky, a misty drizzle drifted down gently as the sun’s rays fought to pierce the dense clouds. Tiny blooms peeked out of buds in the trees and bushes, and it had rained all night. With just two weeks left in the Wakening – spring’s first half – new life had nestled itself even into the mountains of Grimros.

The muddy road transitioned to cobblestone pavement, offering relief from the muddy road as Julien neared the gate to Kho’gul. The thick scent of wet earth permeated the air as he trudged behind wagons and entrants on horseback, his borrowed leather shoes soaked through. His cloak itched without mercy through his dampened shirt.

He found himself absorbed in a sea of voices as he let the crowd swallow him. Alone yet surrounded by strangers. Everyone and everything looked the same – every building dull, rugged and gray, and every person indistinct. The constant noise and bustle swelled all around him in such a way that it became a backdrop, and everything felt still and silent. Even as he pushed through the crowds of the city’s market circle, the bright, gaudy canopies appeared muted and plain, the shouts of merchants muffled and unenticing.

Beyond the marketplace, trees and shrubs grew in abundance, their cover thickening as the road branched out to winding byways brimming with tightly packed houses. In the distance, off the road to the left, the Oath’s guild hall overlooked the area from atop the hill. Julien stopped a moment to look up at it, a strange sense of unease sinking in as he beheld its singularity. Oftentimes when he’d pass by, he had the idle thought to follow the road up and join them, but each time he considered the thought more foolish.

He moved on, setting down the narrowest path on the left. Under the shade of the trees, the streets seemed intimate and safe. It was certainly much quieter than the city’s center, with few souls to be seen aside from those tending their gardens and laundry. There was, too, the occasional squeal of children at play, but they stayed out of sight in their yards. Julien slowed his pace as he approached a house much smaller than the others – which were already quite small themselves.

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He knocked on the door. No one answered. Long gone was his key after a time he had worked out to be sixty days or more – just over a month. He’d been gone since the end of the Resting, which constituted winter’s second half.

“Grandmama, it’s me, Julien,” he said, projecting his voice as he knocked thrice more. Perhaps she was away at the market and he’d just missed her in the crowd; she did, after all, like to stay vivacious and sociable in spite of her age.

She’s just gone to the market, he told himself.

He took a step back and looked around, craning his neck to check the alley beside the house. Drawing his arms in close, he entered the narrow space and peered into the kitchen window. A light coating of dust had settled on the table and countertops, as well as the rim of the cauldron. The pot hung in the fireplace over a stack of blackened wood from which ash fell to the ground below.

A chilling breeze brushed by, leaving him with shivers that did not stop once it had passed. He moved on to circle around the house and checked every other window. Those that didn’t have the curtains drawn revealed no more than dusty, empty rooms. Guilt crawled under his skin. He wasn’t home to help her, to keep the house warm and livable; though Grandmama had been able to do these things before he left, he worried that his absence afflicted her.

He completed his circle and tried the door one more time.

“Grandmama,” he shouted, pounding at the door. His fist lingered in place as he hung his head.

She’s just gone to the market.

He decided it best to wait a while before panicking. A recessed corner beside the door offered him a place to lean back and collect his thoughts unexposed. Forcing his eyes shut against the will of his bestirred mind, he focused on the breeze tousling his hair while listening to the caws of banter between crows. Yet still his arms and legs wailed for him to move, and his cloak tightened around his neck, growing itchier by the second as sweat formed around the collar.

He couldn’t stand there any longer. Another circle around the house wouldn’t hurt. As he slipped past the side alley once more, he entered the backyard, where something caught his eye that he didn’t notice before.

A rusted trowel led a trail of other garden tools spilled out of a bucket. Winds were harsh as of recent and may have knocked them over, but they appeared to have been lying there long enough to flatten the grass and settle into the muddy ground. Grandmama cared well for her tools. It was hard for Julien to imagine she’d leave them strewn about the yard on purpose. More alarming than that, however, was the state of the garden itself – so much so that Julien found himself holding his breath at the sight of it.

Every year in spring, Grandmama planted gildenblood flowers – hardy, long-blooming flowers, deep red in color with a golden sheen that appeared only when the sunlight dared to peek through the treetops and strike them at the right angle. It appeared she had done so this year as well, but failed to care for them as she typically would. The garden was overgrown with weeds – so overgrown they managed to choke the life from the flowers. Darkened petals fell from their wilted stems.

Anxiety stirred in his chest now. She would never allow this to happen. Even when overburdened with illness and on the verge of collapse, she would never fail to tend to her garden. A few occasions had arisen in which Julien gave his desperate efforts to relieve her of the task, but she could not be convinced that anyone else would do the job right.

An idea sparked. Julien glanced back at the kitchen window. It was the only one of adequate size and height for him to climb through. After a quick skim over the pile of tools, he picked up a hand hoe and approached the window. He wedged the blade between the gaps in the frame and slid it upward, hoping to unhook the latch. As it hadn’t been opened in quite some time, however, it had rusted in place.

His sense of urgency taunted him louder than before, ringing in his ears and sending a jolt of determination through him. He aligned the blade with the latch instead, then thrust the heel of his hand against the handle. The wooden frame answered with a harsh crack as the latch clinked to the floor inside. Dropping the tool, he shook the pain of the impact from his hand and reached out to open the window.

He stepped up onto the sill and entered the kitchen. Dust rose up and whirled through the air as his feet landed on the floor. As the stale odor filled his nose, so too did another much stronger. Acrid. He froze. For a moment, he thought his heart had stopped, but the sound of its steady beat rose above the silence, assuring him of the contrary. Catching his breath, he looked around the room and let the stillness sink in. Though he wanted to announce his presence, his voice failed him.

Each step grew louder than the last as he made his way across the room, despite how lightly he trod. Mouse droppings trailed along the walls leading up to the cabinets, and flour and rice spilled from holes chewed through sacks. As he passed by the dusty cauldron, he found the remains of what may have been a stew, with its solid ingredients charred beyond recognition. Flies buzzed about, taking what was salvageable of it.

The pungent smell was stronger now as he entered the narrow hallway. A sudden force kept him from moving any further, as if freezing his limbs in place. With short, quivering breaths, he focused all his will on struggling against it and managed to push himself forward.

“Grandmama,” he said, unable to muster more than a whisper as he crossed into the living room. The sight that greeted him softened every tense and strained muscle with relief. A fire raged in the hearth, sending a comforting warmth through his benumbed fingers and toes. Grandmama sat in her armchair, focused on embroidering onto a section of cloth.

“Grandmama, you worried me,” he said. “You didn’t answer when I knocked.”

The old woman did not turn around, nor did she pause her craft. She did crack a smile, however, which creased what he could see of her cheeks.

“Is that so?” she asked. “I suppose I was absorbed in my work.”

“The house is in shambles. Have you not been able to take care of yourself?”

“I’ve been taking care just fine,” Grandmama assured as Julien caught a whiff of an apple pie in the midst of baking. She held up her project to show it to him – a new, cotton-lined cloak of dark blue. On the collar, she had nearly finished detailing a small, intricate image of an owl sitting on a cypress branch. “I knew you’d come home eventually, so I thought I’d make something nice for you in the meantime.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be back when I said I would. Were there a way—”

“Oh, don’t speak such nonsense, dear, nor feel pity for me when you stray too far. The world is full of adventures you’ve abandoned for my sake.”

“And I would do the same again, given the opportunity. You took me in when I had nowhere else to go. The least I can do is be sure you’re cared for when sick.”

“Sick?” Her smile grew as she shook her head, letting out a slight chuckle. Now finished with the final touches of the wing, she laid the cloak across her lap. “My sweet little owlet, I assure you I’ve never felt better.”

Julien blinked. When his eyes opened again, the room became a husk of the easeful refuge of laughter, celebration, and quiet togetherness that he’d come to know. Just as in the kitchen, a crumbling pile of spent wood lay in the fireplace. The calming fragrance of cinnamon and warm apples disappeared, giving way once more to the foulness of rot. It was cold again, enough that he could see his breath. Shrouded in the shade of the drawn curtains, Grandmama still sat in her chair, head hanging back, a thread trailing over her hand to a needle dangling between her purple fingers. He had just missed her. Had he returned a day or two earlier, perhaps this wouldn’t have been so.

Julien slid the cloak away from her lap and set the needle aside on the end table. He knelt beside her chair, setting his forearm on it and resting his head. Tremors of sobs wracked his composure as tears soaked into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Thank you, Grandmama,” he whispered.