Ficool

Chapter 3 - Priestly Apprentice

The squeaks and fluttering of birds mingled with the constant murmur of the city, a chaotic harmony of life and labor. The street pulsed with movement: hawkers calling, wheels rattling, voices clashing like waves. Through it all trudged Waelz and Fawkin, no longer in their green-tinted work uniforms but back in civilian wear.

Waelz stooped forward, his workbag dragging against the ground as though it weighed a hundred stones. His right arm, drained of nearly all its strength, hung limp at his side.

Fawkin, somehow, looked even worse. His left arm was bound in heavy bandages, and his right arm dangled lifelessly. His workbag was absurdly strapped across his forehead, forcing him into an awkward gait.

They both looked miserable.

They both looked exhausted.

And yet, their faces told different stories: Waelz scowled with grumpy fatigue, while Fawkin's dazed eyes shimmered with betrayal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Fawkin's voice was quiet, wounded—like a boy abandoned in a storm.

"Tell you?" Waelz snorted. "No, I only started speaking COR'en North last Tuesday. Like I haven't been trying to warn you since the second week of this madness." His tone was dry, sarcasm laced like salt on an open wound.

"That… that girl deceived me!" Fawkin burst out, his words tumbling with anger. "'Oh, I've never had a boyfriend. You're cute. You're charming.' All of it lies." He grumbled darkly, walking faster as though trying to outpace the memory.

"So, Mister Nicolas Fawkin," Waelz suddenly said in a poor imitation of Manager Eric's crisp Yharnorian accent. "Should I still help you persuade this fair maiden into becoming your lady?" His childish mimicry jabbed directly at Fawkin's sore heart.

"You son of a Dhanmanese ratworm! I'll kiiillll you! Do you hear me? I KILL YOU!" Fawkin lunged, trying to grapple his friend, but his body betrayed him—one arm strapped, the other weak. Every attempt ended in clumsy failure.

They had been dismissed early from work that day. Fawkin's injury had forced the matter, though Waelz too had been excused under the pretext of watching over him. Normally the factory opened at 7:30 and closed at 3, but today they had been dismissed at 1:46.

And so they walked, limping and laughing in equal measure, trading jabs to cover their exhaustion. Without noticing, their steps carried them to the three-faced junction.

Waelz hailed a gorse carriage, pulling the door open for his friend. He bent, ready to help Fawkin climb aboard, when Fawkin casually raised his supposedly injured right arm and waved him off.

"What are you doing, man? Do I look like some helpless damsel?" Fawkin slid the bag off his forehead and gripped it with suspicious ease.

Waelz froze, one eyebrow arched. Realization dawned. "Wait a minute… did you fake your injury just to leave work early?"

"You said you had an appointment with your brother, didn't you?" Fawkin muttered, already climbing inside the carriage.

Waelz stared at him for two heartbeats, then smiled slowly. "You sly bastard… thank you."

"What's with that look? You'd do the same for me. Right?" Fawkin leaned out the carriage window, studying him.

Waelz inhaled sharply, cold and evasive.

"Right?" Fawkin pressed, eyes narrowing.

The door clicked shut. Waelz's smile turned sly, almost devilish. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

Suspicion and horror flickered across Fawkin's face. "You monster… what have I done?"

Waelz laughed wickedly as the carriage rattled away, carrying his friend into the distance.

Turning back, he hailed another carriage, this one better kept—polished wood, finer gorse, reins neat in the driver's long hands. The driver himself was a middle-aged man with a drawn face, thin lips, and ash-grey skin.

"St. J. Kart Monastery?" the man rasped.

"No. Madame Vetma's barbing salon," Waelz answered with biting sarcasm.

"Two hundred inco and fifty kiesh," the driver intoned without expression.

Waelz hissed under his breath. So expensive?! Gods, I miss when it was only a hundred inco.

"Fixed price," the driver said flatly, though inwardly he muttered curses of his own about cheeky passengers.

"Worth a try," Waelz muttered, climbing in.

The carriage jolted forward. The world outside became a blur of streets and shouting, stone walls and smoke-stained air.

Twenty-eight minutes later, the carriage screeched to a halt at Jezrata Middle Square. Flyers of blue, red, and orange fluttered across the stone, caught in the whirl of countless feet. Merchants barked prices, porters shouted for space, hawkers sang out their wares.

The square was a river of humanity—an endless press of shoulders, shawls, and carts. Sweat and oil mingled with the reek of smoke and beasts.

Waelz paid the driver, stepped down, and plunged into the crowd. The throng pressed him on all sides: a shawl brushed his cheek, a hawker screamed in his ear, a child darted between his knees. He clutched his bag to his chest and forced his way through.

His eyes never left the pale silhouette ahead—the three-crowned dome of St. J. Kart Monastery. Rising from the city like a clenched fist thrust toward the sky, it gleamed faintly even through the haze.

Somewhere along the way, unseen fingers plucked at his side. The weight of his coin pouch was gone, stolen and vanished into the folds of another cloak. Waelz, intent on the monastery, never noticed.

At last the press thinned. The noise dulled. Before him stood the monastery gates, solemn arches of blackened wood and iron.

And there, at the threshold, stood a figure he knew before he saw the face: his brother.

Jenniel was everything Waelz was not—clean, orderly, composed. His black coat was pressed, his shoes polished until they caught the faint glow of the setting sun. In one hand he carried a case, in the other a newspaper and a small transparent linen bag filled with fried buns.

To Waelz, he was many things: quick to judge, sharp-eyed, frugal to the point of cruelty, humorless, hopeless with women… yet still his brother, still the man he looked up to.

Waelz slowed, the crowd falling away until only the two of them remained.

"Surprised to see me?" Waelz asked.

Jenniel lifted his brow. "Yes. I thought you stayed longer at work. Why are you here early? You close at three… or was it four?"

"Gee, so many questions." Waelz shrugged. "Fawn broke an arm, so I was told to watch over him. But he insisted I not keep you waiting, since I mentioned you had business with a clergyman."

Jenniel sighed, opened the linen bag, and offered it. Waelz immediately snatched three buns, stuffing one into his mouth and chewing greedily.

It was then that a third figure approached—a young man in priestly robes of dusky brown, his skin pale-ash like the carriage driver before. His hair was soft, his eyes golden, and his smile… his smile was remarkable. Learned, calm, fatherly without being overbearing.

He bowed lightly. His voice, when it came, was smooth and respectful, each word measured as though weighed for worth.

"Greetings, children of Jephearsuin. Blessed be upon you, who have remembered your God and come to honor His name."

Together, Waelz and Jenniel responded:

"Blessed be the Father of architecture, mountains, craftsmanship, and labor. Blessed also be His guides of man."

The young priest inclined his head, pleased. "You must be Jenniel and Waelz, am I correct?"

"Yes," Jenniel replied.

"Then please, follow me," the priest said with warm dignity. "And if it pleases you, address me as Apprentice Vhoiad."

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