The clatter of spoons on half-emptied bowls and the faint steam curling from mugs was the last residue of their breakfast when Siwena drifted back to their table. Her gait was neither hurried nor idle—measured, practiced, almost like a dance rehearsed through years of tending to wanderers and locals alike. She held a slim parchment slip in one hand, the faint pencil marks tally already visible in its careful strokes. When she reached their table, she inclined her head with that professional softness of hers and set the bill before Luke with the grace of someone placing down an heirloom rather than a mundane tally of debts.
Luke leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of the table as he drew the slip toward himself. His eyes scanned over the words, lips parting slightly, murmuring under his breath—
"Hunter's Plate … twenty-eight thousand. Baked Apple Bowl … fifteen thousand. Large Cup of Ironwake … eight. My total—fifty-one thousand."
His brow twitched upward in mild amusement, though no complaint colored his tone. His gaze wandered over the other names, reading them aloud, not for necessity but for rhythm, as though giving the inked figures life.
"Vivy … Molasses Scones, twelve thousand. Hearth Tea, seven thousand. Nineteen thousand."
Vivy's fingers toyed with the rim of her cup as he read her share, her mouth curving into the faintest sardonic smile, her voice dropping in that cutting softness she so often wielded."Cheap tastes, hm? You'd think me the miser here."
Luke's mouth tugged at the corner. He continued—
"Liora … Two Fenland Fishcakes, thirty-six. Herbal Omelet, eighteen. Tartlet, twelve. Cider, eight. Seventy-four thousand."
At that, Vivy tilted her head toward Liora with a pointed arch of her brow. Liora, in turn, didn't so much as flinch, already mid-bite at the last corner of her tartlet. She chewed with deliberate serenity, eyes half-hooded, lips faintly pursed as if savoring not just the sweetness of plum and fig, but the quiet attention she had drawn. She swallowed, cleared her throat faintly, and replied,"What can I say? A woman must eat. I do not apologize for appetite."
Luke let out a low chuckle, not mocking but companionable, then read the final tally—
"Kairo … one Fishcake, eighteen. Root Mash, fifteen. Nut Milk, seven. Forty."
He lowered the slip, giving a soft exhale through his nose, then mused aloud:"All told, one hundred and eighty-four thousand … 0.184 Tylen."
The words lingered as though the number itself were heavier than its worth.
With an unhurried motion, Luke reached to his pocket, fingers dipping into the fold of leather that clinked faintly with its metallic burden. When he drew forth the Tylen coin, the table shifted in atmosphere.
It gleamed not like any mundane coin but like a fragment of crystallized sky, smooth and polished, its translucent azure catching the inn's muted lamplight, speckled with shimmering flecks like captured stars. As Luke tilted it slightly in his hand, those flecks seemed to drift deeper, as if the coin held not metal but an imprisoned night sky beneath thin glass. Cool against his skin, fluid in its texture yet solid in weight—its glow deepened when the morning light from the inn's narrow window struck it, leaving the others to gaze for a breath longer than they intended.
Kairo, eyes narrowing slightly, studied the coin with unvoiced thought. He carries Tylen like it were silver trinkets … not a poor man, then. To spend such for a morning meal without a tremor … He let out a low sigh through his nose, barely perceptible, yet in it lived a reluctant recognition: Luke was not merely resourceful—he was, in truth, wealthy.
Luke, without flourish, extended the Tylen to Siwena. She accepted it in one smooth gesture, not fumbling nor hesitating, her long fingers curving as if she had handled wealth far greater in stranger days. The azure glow spilled across her palm for an instant before she exchanged it for change: eight hundred sixteen Vrin.
The Vrin shimmered like steel kissed by moonlight—sleek metallic gray, polished to a gleam, almost gunmetal yet bright. Even as she set them carefully into Luke's open hand, the faint chime they made rang clear and crisp, like bells struck against glass. A sophisticated resonance, the kind that drew eyes without demand.
"Your change," Siwena murmured, a small bow of her head. Her tone held warmth, but beneath it was the cadence of one accustomed to dealings with more than common folk.
Luke gave a faint smile in return, polite yet unburdened, then slipped the Vrin back into his pouch, the sound of them settling muted, final.
The table exhaled in silence before Luke's voice broke it. He leaned back, folding his arms loosely, then tilted his head toward the three with a half-smile that was both command and courtesy."I'll go stock up on supplies, and while I'm at it, see what whispers drift through this place. No doubt Easthaven hides more than fish and bread. You three … wander if you wish. Stretch your legs, lose yourselves a little. I'll return here by noon."
The words carried like a father's admonition yet softened by camaraderie.
Vivy answered first, her chin resting lightly on the curve of her hand, voice laced with dry cadence."Permission to be aimless. How generous of you, Luke."
Luke gave her a look—half reproach, half amused acceptance—and shook his head with a faint chuckle."A reminder never hurt."
Liora leaned back in her chair, arms folding, lips quirking in an almost predatory smirk. Her eyes glimmered with a subtle mischief, as though already plotting where she and Vivy might slip away."Then we'll squander the morning together," she murmured. "Perhaps see what Easthaven has to offer beyond stews and cider."
Luke's smile deepened slightly, but he said nothing more. He stood, chair legs scraping faintly against wood, then gave them a parting wave casual, two fingers lifted for a goodbye. His figure cut through the inn's dim haze, his stride confident, shoulders straight, until the door opened and sunlight spilled briefly across the floor before swallowing him.
For a moment, Vivy and Liora sat in companionable quiet, eyes drifting toward each other, a silent pact forming without words. Vivy raised one brow, Liora answered with the faintest nod. Their mouths curved, not in smiles but in mirrored acknowledgment.
And when they turned their gaze back toward Kairo. He was gone.
not even a farewell. Vanished between heartbeats, leaving only the faint sway of the door leading toward the street.
Vivy blinked, lips parting."… Well. He's learned stealth."
Liora exhaled a low chuckle, eyes narrowing with amusement, though her voice dripped with equal parts curiosity and faint irritation."Or he grows tired of waiting on words."
They both sat back, the space at their table already emptier than it had been, the morning alive with the subtle reminder that even in rest, the journey pressed forward.
Kairo's footsteps were silent, careful, a subtle crunch against the cobblestones that didn't betray his approach. The morning haze hung low in the alley, curling around the corners of timbered walls, muffling the distant sounds of Easthaven's waking. Faint whiffs of damp stone, scorched soot from nearby hearths, and the acrid tang of refuse drifted in the narrow passage. He paused at the bend, eyes narrowing as movement ahead caught his attention—shadows pressed against stone, jerky and uneven.
At first, it seemed merely a group of children, perhaps roughhousing too close to the walls. But as he drew closer, the alley narrowed, and the muffled, strained noises grew clearer: choking, wet thuds, ragged breaths. Kairo's gaze sharpened.
The half-breed boy, pale purple skin marred with streaks of blood, trembled beneath the brutal onslaught. One glowing eye violet, the other black, flickered with the raw, unadulterated panic of someone barely tethered to the present. His smaller arms twisted weakly, trying to push himself upright as another fist slammed into his ribs, a wet, sickening sound that made Kairo's jaw tighten.
"Fucking dog-spawn," the leader spat, teeth filed to jagged points, catching what little light the alley allowed. "You shouldn't even be walking upright."
The boy gasped, a wheeze that carried both fear and pain, and instinctively curled inward, curling against the harsh embrace of stone. Each new blow seemed to draw the very life from him, sending him staggering, head snapping as another seized his hair and slammed it against the wall. A dull, wet crack echoed briefly—the kind that reverberates in the chest and lodges itself deep in one's bones. The purple-streaked blood traced crooked lines down the rough stone, hot and glistening.
The girl with filthy braids pressed a jagged shard of pottery against his cheek, dragging it downward. The skin tore raggedly, not in a clean line, but in jagged furrows, curling at the edges as blood streamed and pooled beneath him. His whimpering rose to a raw cry and her grin only widened. "See? It peels the same as pig skin." A boot drove into his knee, bending it unnaturally. Another punch to the stomach forced bile from his trembling body. The smell of iron, acid, and earth mingled—a stench that made Kairo grit his teeth.
"Disgusting little bastard," another boy hissed, slamming a fist into the already swelling cheek. "Should've been gutted at birth." The leader, leaning close, shoved his fingers into the boy's mouth, forcing him to open his jaws until the corners split, blood flooding the inside. They grew more inventive. One slammed the shard of pottery into his smaller arms, hard enough to cut deep, not enough to kill. The flesh split open, fat and muscle gleaming wet beneath the skin. The boy screamed until his voice cracked, thrashing weakly, his arm trembling as the blood pulsed out in dark rivulets. The girl pinned his other hand under her heel. She ground down slowly, savoring his struggle. The crunch when the bones in his fingers snapped was sharp, obscene like twigs breaking in the woods. His scream was higher this time, raw, animal. "Listen to him squeal" she laughed. "Sounds just like the beast he is." Tears, snot, and blood mixed on his face, his breaths hitching between sobs and choking gasps. He tried to beg, tried to form words, but the words dissolved into broken noises. His eye was swelling shut, purple and bulbous, while blood ran freely from his nose, his lips split and leaking. The gash in his cheek dripped steadily, and the cut in his smaller arm refused to stop bleeding, soaking the stones beneath him. The leader crouched low, seizing him by the chin, forcing him to look into those filed teeth. His voice was venom, spit flecking across the boy's battered face. "You don't belong here. You're a mistake, Every drop of your mongrel blood is filth. And every one of us will take joy in spilling it whenever we fucking please."
Kairo's pulse quickened from the simmering, coiled rage that rose like molten steel through his chest. He felt the heat of indignation, the pure, sharp need to act, and yet he moved silently, shadows draping his form as he approached the scene.
The half-breed's eyes flickered toward him, confusion and hope intermingling. Who is this? Another bully? Or … someone who might stop them? The boy's breath came in short, ragged gasps, shoulders heaving under pain and panic.
Kairo's hands found the collar of the leader's hold on the boy, gripping firmly. The half-breed blinked, wide-eyed, panic breaking into a fragile hope as Kairo hoisted him gently but decisively, muscles coiled beneath calm control. "Don't … don't hurt me more," the boy whispered, voice cracking, lips trembling as blood slicked them.
Kairo's eyes swept over the remaining children. Their faces pale, mouths agape, fear evident even as adrenaline tried to mask it. His jaw tightened. Without another word, he hurled the boy forward, the arc sending him nearly clear of the alley's narrow mouth. The boy landed with a stumble, still trembling, but free.
"Don't you gonna follow your leader?" Kairo's voice carried through the narrow space, calm yet unyielding. No anger, no malice—just certainty. The leader had already begun to leave, too startled by Kairo's presence to act.
The remaining attackers froze, eyes wide, the fight draining from them as if pulled out by some unseen hand. The girl, the smaller boys, even the leader—all began to retreat, stumbling over themselves in their haste to vanish down the alley, their earlier cruelty evaporating in the face of Kairo's quiet authority.
The half-breed boy's chest heaved, breaths coming in shuddering gasps. Tears, blood, and sweat mingled on his bruised, battered face. He stared at Kairo's back as the others fled. The boy's trembling began to ebb slightly, replaced by a fragile, awed relief. He… he didn't even look intimidating… yet they ran. He didn't even have to raise his voice. Why?
Kairo stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet the boy's level, voice calm, soft, but deliberate:"You're safe now. They won't touch you again today." His eyes scanned the narrow, debris-strewn alley, checking for any overlooked threats.
The half-breed swallowed hard, nodding weakly, fingers twitching as he tried to rub at the wounds along his arms and face, but flinched at the sharp sting. Safe? How? How can someone just appear and change everything?
Kairo's mind ran parallel to the boy's—calculating, observing, measuring the potential danger left behind, yet a quiet satisfaction settled over him.
The alley was silent now except for the ragged, uneven breaths of the boy and the faint, distant sounds of Easthaven waking beyond the alley's mouth. Sunlight began to brush the tops of the crooked rooftops, casting long shadows, brushing the stones with a thin gold.
The boy's glowing eyes—violet and black—met Kairo's gaze, tentative but steadying. A wordless understanding passed between them. the cruelty had ended for now, and protection, however brief, had been granted.
Kairo exhaled, straightening slowly, letting his body relax but keeping his senses alert. "Come on," he murmured, voice low, steady. "Let's get you cleaned up."
The half-breed blinked, a fragile thread of trust weaving itself, unsure, but compelled by the silent promise in Kairo's measured stance, his careful movements, and the calm authority that required no display of intimidation to command obedience.
A parallel ran silently in Kairo's mind—the alley had been a crucible, the cruelty an unmeasured fire, and yet in the quiet aftermath, even this corner of the world seemed to breathe a little easier. The boy, battered but alive, and the silent guardian who stood over him, formed a brief, fragile symmetry—a promise that even in darkness, someone could be the shield.
The morning sun edged further over the rooftops, light spilling into the alley in streaks that glimmered off puddles of blood, yet in that contrast, life persisted.
Kairo crouched low in the dim, fetid alley, the stench of blood and rot thick in his nostrils. The boy lay curled among debris, dirt and grime clinging to his slick, elongated limbs, each small, underdeveloped arm twitching as if seeking balance and protection. His black-and-violet eyes, one sharp, one deep and enigmatic, glimmered in the muted sunlight that strained into the alley, scanning Kairo's face with raw, unfiltered fear.
"Breathe," Kairo murmured, voice low, gravelly with effort to remain soothing. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'll treat your wounds." The words were a lifeline, a tether thrown across the void of pain and terror. The boy's chest heaved violently; each breath was ragged, shallow, as if even inhaling burned.
Kairo first addressed the cheek gash, a jagged, irregular tear that twisted unnaturally across the boy's high cheekbones, already beginning to swell and bruise. He dipped a rough linen rag into boiling water, cooled carefully by adding spring water from a battered flask, until the warmth was tolerable against the boy's sensitive skin. Pressing it to the wound drew an immediate scream, raw and high-pitched, reverberating off the narrow alley walls. Purple blood mingled with tears and dirt as the rag dragged the crusted filth free.
His fingers paused for a moment, noting the subtle subtleties of the boy's frame: elongated limbs, sinewy yet delicate, skin smooth and unblemished beneath the injuries, small tentacle-like protrusions barely emerging along the shoulder blades. A lineage half-Xelvrith revealed itself in subtle angularity—the sharper nose bridge, slightly larger, almond-shaped eyes, the gentle arc of a high cheekbone, the delicate but precise taper of fingers that had been brutally shattered.
The shard wound on the boy's smaller arms demanded meticulous attention. Each embedded sliver was teased free with a small, sterilized stick, careful not to shear deeper into muscle or tendon. Each extraction elicited spasms of convulsion, the boy's body writhing in pain, but Kairo's steady hands, unflinching, continued. "Shhh, it'll hurt, but it will end," he murmured, almost rhythmically, trying to tether the boy's panic to a stable cadence.
Next, the bleeding. Kairo pressed cloths soaked in crushed herbs into the jagged openings, firm pressure to slow the stubborn pulse of blood. The boy's elongated fingers were individually splinted with thin sticks, each one tied carefully with strips of linen. The effort was painstaking. Each alignment sent tears cascading down the boy's pallid face, lips trembling, eyes squeezing shut as he fought against the pain.
The knee, bent grotesquely from earlier violence, required slow, deliberate correction. Kairo's hands guided it back into a semblance of natural alignment. "Hold still. I need you to trust me," he whispered, noting the subtle flexing of muscle and sinew beneath the skin, the tender curves of his lower limb resisting the unnatural bend. Once aligned, rough sticks were lashed along the leg with linen, pressing against bruised flesh, forcing the joint into a stable form. The boy arched violently, squealing, tears streaking the grime-flecked skin, his small arms trembling along the splints.
The cheek gash demanded crude sutures. Kairo threaded coarse linen fiber through the torn skin, pulling each stitch tight enough to approximate the edges but not so tight as to rip further. Blood mingled with saliva and tears on his own hands, the boy's labored sobs punctuating each puncture. The forearm wound, too irregular to fully close, was packed with linen soaked in herbal antiseptic—bitter, damp, but necessary to prevent festering.
A final poultice of crushed willow bark was pressed against the worst contusions, dulling the edge of agony just enough to maintain control. Kairo's voice was the only constant: "Breathe. You are alive. That is all I can do."
The boy's sobs gradually softened into gasps, tremors rocking his entire frame, yet life persisted. Kairo's gaze lingered, taking mental notes: the subtle elongation of forearms, the small emerging tentacles along the back, the smooth, slightly glistening skin that hinted at Xelvrith ancestry, the almond-shaped, expressive eyes that now began to shine more with awareness than panic.
Step by step, Kairo wrapped every wound. Fingers splinted, arms bound, leg stabilized, cheek stitched. The boy now resembled more a fragile, graceful human than the mangled mess of moments prior. His movements were tentative, each twitch betraying lingering pain, but his appearance had regained a measure of dignity—elongated, sinewy, sharper features, expressive lips, high cheekbones catching the alley's weak sunlight.
Kairo finally leaned back slightly, letting the boy settle among the refuse, wrapped in rags, splints holding bones in approximate alignment, the scent of herbs masking the metallic tang of blood. "Keep it clean. Change the cloth. Watch for fever," he instructed, voice low but firm, an echo of authority without menace.
The boy's gaze tracked him, black and violet eyes reflecting shock, pain, and nascent awe. Each shallow breath, each trembling shiver, hinted at trauma but also survival. He flexed his fingers experimentally, small tentacles along his shoulders quivering faintly. Kairo's mind cataloged the details—subtle anatomy, the half-human proportions and the emerging traits that would later define his Xelvrith heritage.
The alley itself, once oppressive and reeking of despair, seemed to exhale slightly with each slowed sob, each steadying breath.
Kairo watched silently, noting the parallel between the boy's fragile, battered body and the fragile thread of trust forming between them. A quiet tension remained, the boy's breaths and Kairo's presence a careful counterpoint to the earlier violence.