Chapter 7
Fall's Rest
He held the concentration until a small, dense orb of the white-red liquid, no larger than his thumb, hovered within the flame. With a final effort, he willed it to cool, to stabilize. The flame died. The orb dropped into his waiting palm. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and vibrated faintly. It smelled… potent. Dangerous. Necessary.
He swallowed it in one gulp.
It wasn't like drinking liquid. It was like swallowing a miniature sun. Heat exploded through his chest, radiating outwards along his limbs, burning away the deepest layers of fatigue and the persistent ache in his bones. It was intense, almost painful, but clean.
The pounding headache behind his eyes receded significantly. A surge of unnatural vitality, borrowed from the dragon's heart, flooded his system.
The quarantine walls around the black energy within him felt momentarily reinforced, pushed back. He gasped, steam curling from his lips in the cold air. It wasn't healing. It was a potent, temporary stimulant, a jolt of pure power.
Feeling marginally more alive, he turned to the dragon haunch. He skewered it on a green branch and propped it over the now-normal campfire he lit with a mere thought. The smell of roasting dragon flesh quickly filled the clearing. It wasn't appetizing. It smelled… wild. Musky.
Like burnt leather and something vaguely reptilian. When the outside was charred, he cut a piece. The meat was tough, fibrous, and had a distinct, unpleasant gamey flavor with an underlying bitterness. It tasted like conflict and ancient power, and it was awful. But it were calories. Protein.
He forced it down, chewing mechanically, washing each mouthful with icy stream water, the taste of the potent potion still lingering on his tongue, a counterpoint to the foul meat.
Finally, sated in the most basic, unpleasant way, Kai leaned back against a smooth boulder, wrapped in his still-damp, stiff, but less bloody coat. He looked up. The sky was breathtaking.
The Milky Way sprawled across the velvet blackness, a river of diamond dust. Countless stars, cold and clear, glittered with indifferent beauty. The air was crisp, clean, smelling of pine from the untouched forest beyond the stream, a stark contrast to the reek of blood, fire, and dragon that clung to him.
The distant glow of the burning forest was a faint smear on the horizon. The silence was profound, broken only by the crackle of his small fire, the rush of the stream, and the occasional hoot of an owl.
He stared at the stars, the stolen dragon core pulsating softly beside him like a captured heartbeat. The golden-eyed power slumbered, a dormant volcano within his skull.
The black energy lurked behind its walls. He was alive. He had survived an ancient terror. He had paid a price, and taken a price. Exhaustion, deeper than bone, deeper than muscle, finally claimed him. His eyes, reflecting the cold starlight, fluttered shut. He didn't dream. He fell into the blank, healing void of utter depletion.
Two days. Two days of walking through landscapes slowly transitioning from fire-scarred wasteland to rolling, forested foothills, then to cultivated outskirts. Kai moved at the steady, ground-eating pace of someone used to distance. The dragon's core, wrapped tightly in its hide, was a heavy, awkward burden slung across his back.
A smaller bundle, wrapped in coarse cloth, contained a section of the dragon's horn a jagged, obsidian-black shard nearly as long as his forearm, surprisingly lightweight but thrumming with latent power.
His coat, though cleaned in the stream, remained stained a permanent, rusty brown and carried the faint, persistent tang of dragon blood and smoke. He smelled like a battlefield that hadn't been properly buried.
On the afternoon of the third day, the settlement came into view. Fall's Rest
It clung to the side of a gentle hill, overlooking a wide, fertile valley. As requested, it wasn't a medieval hovel. The buildings were sturdy, two or three stories high, constructed of warm, honey-colored bricks. Terracotta tiles covered sloping roofs.
Arched doorways and wrought-iron balconies adorned the facades, suggesting a touch of southern elegance, like a piece of Tuscan countryside transplanted here. Vines climbed some walls. The streets, visible even from a distance, were paved with smooth river stones.
Smoke curled from numerous chimneys, carrying the comforting smells of baking bread and woodsmoke. A low stone wall, more symbolic than defensive, encircled the main cluster of buildings. It spoke of established trade, relative peace, and a community that valued a degree of comfort and permanence.
It was civilization. It smelled of people, livestock, and hearths. To Kai, emerging from the wilderness reeking of ancient carnage, it felt alien.
He approached the open gate as dusk painted the sky in hues of orange and purple. A few farmers leading donkey carts laden with late harvest vegetables gave him a wide berth, their noses wrinkling, eyes wide with apprehension.
Children playing near the wall stopped their game, staring silently at the grim, blood-stained figure with the heavy, ominous bundle. Whispers followed him as he walked down the main street, a wide avenue of packed earth flanked by brick buildings housing workshops, a chandler, a smithy (the rhythmic clang echoing loudly), and shops with colorful awnings now being drawn closed.
His destination was obvious: The Grinning Griffin. A two-story brick building with a wide, inviting doorway spilling warm, yellow light and raucous noise into the street. A painted sign depicting a rather tipsy-looking griffin holding a tankard swung gently above the door.
Kai pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside.
The noise didn't die instantly. It stuttered. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Laughter choked off. The clatter of dice on a wooden table stopped. Every head in the crowded, smoky common room turned towards the doorway.
He stood there, framed by the dusk. Tall, lean, impossibly weary. His face was gaunt, etched with lines of exhaustion that hadn't been there days before. His dark eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene with detached assessment. But it was the smell that truly silenced them.
It rolled off him in waves the iron tang of old, dried blood, the acrid bite of smoke, the faint, unsettling musk of something wild and reptilian, and beneath it all, the reek of sweat and hard travel. It was the smell of the deep wilds, of violence, of things best left unspoken. It cut through the aromas of ale, stew, and pipe smoke like a knife.
Eyes widened. Hands instinctively went to noses. A burly man near the door actually pushed his chair back slightly. The barkeep, a stout man with a bald head and a thick, greying beard wiping a tankard, froze, his expression shifting from professional welcome to wary astonishment.
Kai ignored the stares. He walked towards the bar, his boots leaving faint, dusty prints on the clean wooden floor. The crowd parted silently before him, creating a wide path. He reached the polished wood counter.
"Room," Kai rasped, his voice rough from disuse and smoke. "Bath. Bottle of your strongest whiskey. Bring it upstairs." He dropped a few heavy silver coins onto the counter – currency scavenged from older, quieter times. They clinked loudly in the silence.
The barkeep stared at the coins, then back at Kai, his gaze lingering on the dark stains on the gray coat, the exhaustion in the man's face, the sheer aura of otherness that clung to him. He swallowed, then nodded curtly, his professional demeanor reasserting itself, albeit tinged with deep caution. He didn't ask questions. He scooped up the coins.
"Top of the stairs, last door on the right," the barkeep said, his voice lower than usual. He reached below the counter and produced a heavy iron key. "Bath's down the hall, shared. I'll have the water brought up, and the whiskey." He paused, then added, "Food?"
Kai considered. His stomach felt hollow, but the memory of the dragon meat was too fresh. Later, "Whiskey first." He took the key, its cold metal a stark contrast to his grimy palm.
He turned his back on the silent, staring room and walked towards the stairs. The whispers started again the moment his foot touched the first step, a low, buzzing undercurrent of speculation and unease.
He climbed, the sound of his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs, the smell of blood and wilderness lingering in the suddenly stuffy air of the inn.
The room was small, clean, and blessedly quiet. A narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped porcelain basin and pitcher, a single wooden chair, and a small window overlooking the darkening street. Kai closed the door and locked it. He leaned back against it for a moment, closing his eyes, just breathing in the relative silence.
Then he moved. He walked to the center of the small room. He didn't reach into a pocket. He simply held his hand out, palm up, and focused. The air beside his coat shimmered faintly, a distortion of space. He reached into the shimmer, his hand vanishing up to the wrist into nothingness, and pulled out the coarse cloth sack containing the dragon horn. He placed the heavy, wrapped bundle carefully on the bed.
He shrugged off the heavy pack containing the dragon core, leaning it against the wall near the bed. Then, methodically, he began to strip. Off came the blood-stiffened coat, dropped carelessly on the floor.
Off came the rough tunic, the trousers, the worn boots, the simple undergarments. Each layer removed revealed more grime, streaks of soot, patches of dried blood that wasn't his own, the ingrained dirt of days in the wilderness.
His body, revealed in the dim light filtering through the window, was a map of old survival, faded scars, the angry red marks of recent burns now healed to pink skin thanks to the potion, the powerful, lean muscle etched by hardship, and the deep, pervasive weariness that no bath could wash away.
A knock came at the door. "Your bathwater, sir. And the whiskey."
Kai grabbed a thin towel from the washstand and wrapped it hastily around his waist. He unlocked the door and opened it just wide enough. Two young stable boys stood there, wide-eyed, struggling with a large, steaming copper tub. Behind them, the barkeeper held a dark glass bottle and a heavy tumbler. The smell of Kai and the room-blood, smoke, wildness – made the boys flinch.
"Put it there," Kai said flatly, nodding to a clear space near the washstand. They hurried in, avoiding looking directly at him or the pile of stained clothes, heaved the tub down, and scurried out without a word. The barkeeper placed the bottle and tumbler on the small table beside the bed. His eyes flickered towards the large, wrapped bundle on the bed, then quickly away.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Food later," Kai repeated. "Leave me."
The barkeep nodded and retreated, closing the door firmly behind him. Kai locked it again.
He poured steaming water from the pitcher into the basin, testing it, then added the rest from the large jugs the boys had brought, filling the tub. The steam rose, carrying the clean scent of hot water and the faint, underlying mineral smell of the town's supply. He unwrapped the towel and lowered himself into the tub with a groan that was pure relief.
The water turned murky almost instantly brown, then grey, then a disturbing reddish-black as layers of ash, dirt, and dried blood sloughed off his skin. He scrubbed himself with a rough cake of lye soap he found beside the basin, the harsh scent cutting through the lingering reek.
He worked methodically, from his matted hair down to his cracked feet, scouring away the physical remnants of the dragon, the fire, the fight. The water became a thick, disgusting soup. He drained it partially, refilled it with the remaining clean water, and scrubbed again. Even then, his skin felt like it might never be spotless, the memory of the gore etched into his pores.
Clean, shivering slightly, he stepped out of the tub and dried himself with the thin towel. He pulled on clean, simple underclothes from his pack, the only relatively unstained items he owned. He left the dirty water in the tub and the stained clothes in a heap on the floor.
He felt raw, scrubbed pink, but the deeper exhaustion, the ache in his bones, the thrumming presence of the dragon core and horn, and the silent, quarantined darkness within him remained.
He picked up the whiskey bottle. It was cheap, raw stuff, smelling sharply of grain and alcohol. He didn't bother with the tumbler. He uncorked it and took a long, deep pull straight from the bottle.
The liquid fire burned a path down his throat, spreading warmth through his chilled core. It was harsh, unrefined, and exactly what he needed. Numbness. Oblivion in a glass bottle.
Another knock. "Your supper, sir." It was the barkeep again.
Kai unlocked the door, still holding the bottle. The barkeep handed him a wooden tray: a bowl of thick, steaming stew smelling of root vegetables and cheap meat, a hunk of coarse brown bread, and a wedge of hard yellow cheese. He took it wordlessly, closed the door, and locked it.
He placed the tray on the small table beside the bed, next to the whiskey. He sat on the edge of the bed, the dragon horn bundle beside him. He ate mechanically. The stew was bland, salty, filling.
The bread was dense. The cheese was sharp. He tasted none of it. He chased each bite with long swallows of whiskey, the burning liquid washing away the taste of food, the memory of dragon meat, the lingering phantom smells of blood and fire.
The whiskey worked fast on his empty stomach and depleted body. A warm, heavy fog began to descend, blurring the sharp edges of the room, muffling the sounds from the street below.
The image of the dragon's molten eyes, the feel of the dagger sinking into scale, the sound of its death scream, the crushing weight of its presence… they all began to recede, pushed back by the insistent, numbing tide of alcohol.
He finished the stew, the bread, the cheese. He kept drinking. The bottle was half-empty. He looked at the wrapped dragon horn. He looked at the pack containing the core. He thought of the golden eyes, the black snow, the long road that had led him to that forest, and the longer road still ahead. It was too much. Too heavy.
He took another long, final pull from the bottle, draining a significant portion. The room tilted gently. The candle flame on the washstand blurred into a soft halo. The weight on his shoulders, the pressure in his skull, the gnawing darkness within… they all faded into a welcome, thick, buzzing silence.
Kai swayed. He didn't bother getting under the rough woolen blanket. He simply toppled sideways onto the narrow bed, still half-sitting, the empty stew bowl clattering to the floor. The whiskey bottle slipped from his lax fingers, thudding dully on the rug beside the bed, spilling the last few drops onto the coarse fibers.
His eyes closed. The deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, aided by hard liquor and the aftermath of killing a god, claimed him instantly. The only sounds in the small, clean room were the faint crackle of the dying candle and Kai's slow, deep breaths.
The stench of a dragon and death had been replaced by soap, whiskey, and the simple smell of a man pushed beyond his limits, finally finding temporary refuge in oblivion. The dragon horn lay beside him on the bed, a silent, jagged testament to the violence slumbering just beneath the surface of his exhaustion. Outside, Fall's Rest slept on, unaware of the storm that had passed so close, embodied now only by the reeking, blood-stained clothes piled on the floor of room seven.