"They say the flame cannot lie. So why do we cover its truth in silk and ceremony?"
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She'd read about this in the forbidden texts she kept hidden beneath her inn's floorboards. Books that detailed the true nature of the king's blessing, the ritual that bound chosen warriors to the crown through blood and a sacred oath. The mark wasn't merely ceremonial; it was a physical manifestation of the magical covenant that granted supernatural abilities at the cost of absolute loyalty.
Looking at the wanderer now, broken and bleeding on a farmer's bed, she found herself questioning everything she'd read about the blessed. The stories painted them as unstoppable warriors, divinely protected champions who could cut through enemy armies like wheat before the scythe. This man looked fragile, mortal, desperately human in his suffering.
Perhaps the books had lied. Or perhaps even divine favor had its limits.
Working alongside Miren, she began the careful process of cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Most were superficial, painful but not life-threatening. The real concern was the internal damage. His breathing remained labored, and she could feel the fever building in his flesh. Broken ribs, certainly. Possibly internal bleeding. Without proper healing magic or trained physicians, his survival would depend on luck as much as care.
"There," Miren said softly as they finished wrapping the last bandage around his left arm. "That's all we can do for now. The rest is in the gods' hands."
Nisheena doubted the gods were paying much attention to Baelur these days, but she kept that opinion to herself. Instead, she pulled a chair close to the bed and settled in to watch. If the wanderer woke, she had questions, many questions about his true purpose in their cursed town.
They returned to the main room, where Kael waited with barely contained anxiety. His mother immediately fussed over him, checking for injuries and demanding details about the rescue. But it was clear the young man's thoughts were focused on larger concerns than his own well-being.
"Lady Nisheena," he said once his mother's initial panic had subsided, "we need to talk. Things are falling apart in town faster than we expected."
She nodded, settling into the chair by the fireplace. "Tell me."
"The Dabru and Urartu families were in negotiations tonight, some kind of last attempt at peace. But while we were coming back here, we heard war horns sounding from both family compounds. I think the talks failed."
The news hit her like a physical blow, though she tried not to show it. War horns meant the end of pretense, the formal declaration that blood would answer blood. Once those ancient instruments sang their grim song, there would be no stepping back from the precipice.
"I was afraid of this," she admitted. "Even though Arzash is a wise man, I doubted he could convince Tarkun to see reason. The Urartu lord has been itching for a fight since the burgomaster's death."
They sat in heavy silence, contemplating the implications. Baelur had survived many hardships, harsh winters, attacks from the cursed lands, and plagues that swept in from the eastern wastes. But civil war was different. When neighbors turned against neighbors, when families that had shared meals and celebrated harvests together suddenly saw enemies across their dinner tables, the very fabric of community dissolved.
"What happens to the rest of us?" Kael asked quietly. "The townspeople who aren't sworn to either family?"
It was a question that had been haunting Nisheena's thoughts since this crisis began. In theory, the common folk should be safe both families depended on farmers, craftsmen, and traders to maintain their power base. But theory had a way of crumbling when blood ran hot and old grievances demanded satisfaction.
"We try to stay out of the way," she said finally. "Find somewhere safe to wait until they've finished killing each other."
Before Kael could respond, the door burst open again. Adnir stumbled in, his face flushed with exertion and his eyes wide with shock. Kael jumped to his feet, immediately alert.
"What happened? Did anyone chase you?"
But Adnir ignored the question, his gaze darting between them as he struggled to catch his breath. When he finally spoke, his words fell into the room like stones into still water.
"Lord Arzash is dead. Lord Tarkun killed him."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to quiet its crackling, as if the very elements held their breath at this pronouncement. Nisheena felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach, the death of hope made manifest.
"Are you certain?" Kael's voice cracked slightly on the words.
"They declared war and sent his head to the Dabru family," Adnir continued, his young face pale with shock. "Both families are preparing their men. The whole town is going mad."