The town was silent. A harsh wind blew through the square as a shadow hurried across, hopping over a large pothole and skittering into the side alley beyond. Above, the sky was as black as night. Thick, heavy rain clouds bared down on the town but hadn't begun to spill out the gallons they held. Everyone else was inside, either fearing being caught in the storm or rooting for it to come. The water would finally wash the bloodstains that splattered and pooled in the cobblestone streets.

Everything stank of war. The smell of copper came whenever he grew too close to the ground. It scraped at the back of his throat and pushed bile up to the edge of spilling. And what did not come with the smell of blood came with the smell of fire. Charred buildings appeared at every turn. Scorch marks ran along warped planks, and whole buildings laid in a state of collapse. What used to be a baker shop, one Tedric was strictly forbidden from entering, was now a scrap heap. It was propped up by one good wall and a blackened support beam. The rest lay open to the bitter breeze and the first raindrops that splashed against the single intact display case.

Clutching his black hood tighter, Tedric bounded up the steps of the shop. He peered around once, then twice, before slipping behind the empty counter and sliding open the unattended case. Where shelves of fresh baked goods had sat were now half empty plates of day old bread. His fingers hesitated. They brushed the icing of the miniature cakes and trailed over large loaves of wheat bread before settling on a pile of poppy seed buns. Snatching two, he stuffed both in his empty satchel in one swift motion and then hurried out of the store.

North knew he could have eaten back at the Elusian camp. There was food there, mainly salty, watery broth that was meant to be soup, but he didn't have the stomach for it - the people that was, not the food. The boy couldn't remember a day until this that he would've passed up a hot meal over scavenging for something to eat. The idea of sitting with those people, though, with death clinging to their skin and the heaviness of war hanging in every word made him shutter. All they wanted to discuss was war and tactics of a conflict they were quickly losing. That, and they wouldn't shut up about the destruction and death the Adrigolians had spread across Valden. But they weren't the only ones. Half those scorch marks and blood stains were caused by the knights protecting Elusia. They were just too dense to admit it.

Specks of rain peppered the streets. They painted the stones wet, falling thicker and faster the longer the boy took to navigate the wrecked cobblestones. All of the bodies had been moved, at least. Those that weren't lying beside the medical tent in a vain attempt to save them were dragged out into the field at the edge of town. Tedric was on a route to a building opposite that direction. He wouldn't be able to bear recognizing any of the faces.

Instead, after the water had thoroughly soaked through to his skin and his dripping wet hair had glued to his forehead, North found himself in front of a tavern. A sign hung above the door on one hook instead of two; the left siding held a dark canvas to try and cover the blackened marks it wore; otherwise, it was the same home Tedric had always know. The slick doorknob became jammed when he tried to twist it. With a skilled hand, the boy wiggled the handle first to the left and then down to open it.

Inside, it smelled of pine and ale and smoke. The tables were all empty and the lanterns turned low. A single woman stood in the back, her hands hard at work. She was scrubbing the bar in long, strong strokes of her arm. Soapy water splashed off the counter and onto the floor as she shoved the rag over the wood harder, but she made no gripe about it. Her eyes didn't even glance up until the wind slammed the door faster than Tedric could. The bang sent him leaping forward and her gaze darting up.

"We're closed." Fable's voice was a growl as she tossed her towel into the wash bucket and wiped her hands on her apron. On any regular day, it was stained with grease and alcohol. Now, it was burned on the left corner. She brushed back a strand of blonde hair from her eyes when North did nothing but shift awkwardly in front of the door, unsure if to come in or come back later. A sigh passed her lips, her head shaking knowingly. "Take a seat, kid. I'll find a towel."

Nervous and small as it was, a smile touched Tedric's lips. He pulled his hood down and sloughed off his wet coat. It was hard to bundle up in a way that it didn't drip on the floor as he crossed the tavern floor and plopped down on the seat closest to the edge of the bar. He wouldn't have called it his regular seat, because he'd never really sat there during business hours. When everyone thought you were cursed, it tended to drive business away. But he sat there when no one else was around. The seat was always a bit more broken in than the others, the leather more worn.

Fable yanked the coat from his hands and replaced it with a brown, slightly ratty towel before he could argue. When he tried, lips parting, she merely tapped his wet head and promised, "I'll give it back when it's dry." She gave his hair a ruffle, splattering water onto the counter. "And once you're dry, too."

"...Thanks." The word felt odd on his lips, known but unused. He couldn't quite remember what it felt to sit here relaxed anymore. The dagger in his belt hung off his hip heavily. His shirt collar was pulled high to hide the new mark of black ink. Every creak of the tavern as the storm poured outside was no longer a soft exhale in his ears but a threat the whole place would collapse.

The barkeep's lip twitched. She reached down, stooped beneath the bar, and fetched two mugs. A few seconds beneath a tap had them filled to the top. One slid across the bar to the boy, while the other rested before her. Fable leaned both elbows on the wet counter. "I'm glad you came back in one piece. I was worried I'd get a corpse when Sonja came back without you." Her tone was light, bordering on jokey as she took a small sip of foam.

Wrapping the towel around his soaked shoulders, the boy shrugged. His throat felt tight and his spit thick like it was clogging his voice. "You knew I'd come back," he managed after a long moment, unable to meet her eyes. He couldn't get hurt. It wasn't a question or not if he came back, but it was a question for everyone else. All the stupid, naive children that got roped into fighting a war they weren't meant to fight. He didn't know how many he had killed; he didn't want to.

Tedric pushed the thought as far from his mind as he could, afraid that if he even stared at his hands too long he would begin to see all the blood he'd washed off them. Instead, he busied himself with reaching into his satchel and pulling out the bread he'd brought. The first went straight into his mouth, a chunk torn off before he handed the second to Fable. Unsurprisingly, the bread was a bit stale and had lost some of its sweetness in becoming tough. Chewing through it anyway, Tedric pulled his mug closer to himself. The drink was lukewarm against his lips but burning as soon as it reached his throat. Its taste was unpleasant and its aftertaste worse. His nose scrunched against the bitterness.

Fable smiled. Her own teeth sank into the roll after she'd brushed the poppy seeds off the top. "Starting a little early, aren't you, North?" she teased, nursing her own glass.

The name made the bread in the boy's mouth go a few days staler. He had trouble chewing the bite he had and swallowed the large lump with a forced cough. That was only another mystery he'd forced into the back of his mind. He couldn't will himself to care about what Garner had said or what it implied. Trying to figure it out would only make his head hurt, and if he found what he was hoping to find, it'd hurt his heart. Leaving it alone was for the better.

And yet, he couldn't help but wonder. What was it? A family plague of some sort? No, it'd been called a curse too many times for that to be true. Tedric bit down viciously and ripped apart the rest of his roll to gulp it down in a single bite. It made his stomach feel sick. At least calling the thing a curse meant there could be a cure, something to lift it, some ritual of magic that would cleanse his skin of the ink that ran beneath his skin.

Once, he'd heard it been called a blessing. A blessing. The thought was almost funny. His hand gravitated to his chest, touching and probing the spot over his left breast gently. That was where the darkest mark of ink sat. It wasn't a pattern but a dark hole through his chest that had stained his back too. A blessing stopped you from dying, a curse took the choice away from you.

A soft hand fell over his. It wrapped around his fingers and pulled them back, away from where they dug into his shirt so tight his knuckles drained white. "Tedric." Fable's voice was a soothing as it could get, not sticky sweet or motherly but understanding. "You alright?"

His eyes risked a glance up. She was staring down at him, waiting. Her straw hair was tucked delicately behind both ears and her brown eyes wide. A little wrinkle had creased her forehead where her eyebrows knit. Physically, yes, he was alright. He tried to respond, but his lips were stuck together and dry. His tongue pressed painfully against the roof of his mouth. It was a desert.

How was he supposed to say he was alright? His life had clung to his ankles like a heavy bolder tied on by a string. His curse, the loss of his father, his only family, his home, it'd added to the weight until it was barely light enough to drag anymore, and then the war had come, a sweeping ocean of loss and sorrow, of confusion and death, and it had dragged him under. He was drowning, not for the first time, but the second. And it was only going to get worse.

A laugh escaped Tedric's throat. It was short-winded and painful as it rose up and out of his chest. The amusement brought a thin smile to his lips. "Yeah," he tilted his chin up and met Fable's eyes, "I'm alright." The answer hollowed out his chest, leaving room to fill it full of lead. His heart was heavy. Then, without prompting, he felt a question spring to the edge of his lips. Drumming his fingers on the wet counter, he willed himself to get it out and took another swig of ale. "Do you think sanity is something you can choose to lose?"

His heart hammered nervously as he waited. His mind was stitching together some desperate, half-formed thoughts. Fable scoffed. Dropping his hand onto the table, she took another drink and waited until he'd done the same to speak. "If you're asking me that, you've clearly got some left."

North bit down on his lip. The skin there was peeling, and he worked to rip a piece free. It was soft between his teeth as the taste of copper warmed his lips. A shiver worked up his spine at the reminder of blood. He spat bitterly and dragged his mouth over his sleeve. The green fabric stained crimson. It was nothing compared to the way his clothes had looked the day before. They were drenched in red, slashed to strips of cloth that barely held together. If he didn't have his sanity, he wouldn't have cared. Maybe the war would look less ghastly, feel less hostile, then he'd be able to breathe again.

"If you could lose it, would you want to?" Fable asked, her words bringing his arm away from his mouth, his eyes away from the blood.

"Honestly," Tedric drew a hand through his black hair, playing with the thick knots and teasing his damped locks, "I don't know."

She shook her head at him. It was with a look that he knew meant she thought he was being foolish. Grabbing his cup from him, she refilled it until the foam was spilling over the top and set it down again on the counter, making a fresh stain on the wood. "Well, hold on for a little longer. The war's got to be over soon, kid." Her words weren't reassuring but tired and lazy. It was a simple fact, one that everyone was being made to face sooner rather than later.

Pulling his cup across the counter with a scrape, the boy let his chin rest on the bar. "And when it is?" he asked, letting himself slip into the idea, only for a second, that this might have an end in sight.

"That's a problem for powers a lot higher up than us." She tapped his cup's lip with hers in mock cheers and downed the glass. A soft smile spread across her reddened cheeks, and Fable sighed, a sound so content that it made Tedric envious. "For now, I suggest you drink up."