Night fell over Iliadis bringing in a heavy, coastal fog that swallowed the quiet streets. Inside the Greet, Eat, and Sleep, the three travelers had retreated to their respective sanctuaries.
It was incredibly rare for the only village inn to offer fully private rooms, let alone chambers equipped with their own copper bathing tubs. But Iliadis was no ordinary coastal village. Its entire economy was quietly subsidized by the deep pockets and strict privacy requirements of the assassins operating out of Shifton Island.
While Doren, Anya, and Katarina were not members of the shadowy guild, the Limka gold they carried spent just as well, buying them the kind of secure, isolated luxury usually reserved for killers.
In her room at the end of the hall, Anya wasted no time. She stripped off her rigid, dust caked clothes and sank into the steaming water. She let out a long breath as the heat finally chased the week long chill from her bones. The water quickly turned a murky brown as she scrubbed the grime of the road from her skin and slicked the grease from her hair. Once she was clean, she dried off, wrapping herself in a thick woven blanket.
For the first time in days, she felt human. Seeking a momentary escape from their grim reality, she drifted over to a small, dusty bookshelf tucked into the corner of the room, pulling down a couple of leather bound volumes. She curled up in an armchair near the hearth, letting the quiet smell of old parchment settle her racing mind. Ivingrado: The Search for the Four Titans. It was a classic.
One room over, Doren completely bypassed his tub. He collapsed onto the large, feather stuffed mattress fully, his boots hanging off the edge. He just laid there in the dim light, staring blankly up at the wooden planks of the ceiling. The mattress was incredibly soft, a stark and jarring contrast to the hard roots and cold earth they had been sleeping on. But the silence of the room was almost too loud.
Without the constant crunch of boots on dirt or the howling of the wind, the heavy, chaotic hum of the Powerhart in his chest felt magnified, vibrating against his ribs. The souls of the Firsts spoke to him in quiet voices.
He stayed frozen there for a long time, letting the exhaustion pin him down. Eventually, knowing he needed to wash the scent of the past week from his skin before he could truly rest, he forced himself up. He stripped off his ruined clothes and stepped into the water, hoping the solitude of the night would finally give him the space to reflect on the flyer downstairs, on Shifton Island, and on what they were going to do next.
But in the third room, the solitude didn't bring reflection. It brought a shattering emotional collapse.
Katarina had locked her heavy wooden door and slid the iron bolt into place. She stared at her drawn bath, the steam rising in thick ribbons toward the ceiling, but she never made it into the water. She slid down the side of the copper tub, her knees pulling up to her chest as she sat on the hard floorboards.
She had held it together. She had survived the bloody sands of the arena when no one else had. She was on the verge of death. She had stayed stoic on the road, watching Doren's back and pushing Anya forward when the younger girl wanted to quit. She had been the hardened shield for the entire seven day march.
But with the door locked and the threat temporarily paused, the shield finally cracked.
Katarina buried her face in her hands and she broke. A ragged, agonizing sob tore its way out of her throat, echoing painfully in the small room. She wept, violently and uncontrollably.
Meko wasn't just a companion on the road. He was her brother, and even if it was by marriage, a bond forged deep in the messy, beautiful reality of their shared family. She had known him for what felt like her entire life. When he had finally returned from his time serving the King, they had fallen right back into step with one another. They had become practically inseparable, two sharp, capable edges navigating the world together. He was the one person who knew exactly how to make her laugh when the thought of her dancing career failing got the best of her, and the one person who never backed down from her temper. He always put her in her place whenever she got too rowdy.
And now, he was gone. Bled out in a dirty alleyway in Limka because they hadn't been paying attention.
Katarina curled tighter into herself on the floor, the tears streaming hot and fast down her dirty face. For the first time in a week, the fierce facade was completely gone, leaving only a heartbroken woman weeping alone in the dark for the best friend, the brother, she had lost. Katarina let the memories pull her under.
They flashed behind her shut eyes in vibrant, agonizing detail. She remembered the endless, easy nights at the Hearthlight Inn. They had practically lived there, laughing over spilled ale while Mara, the tavern keeper, shook her head and affectionately dubbed them her "favorite ruffians" every time she slammed fresh tankards onto their table.
She remembered the sprawling, chaotic rush of the Havenport marketplace years ago. She had wandered off, getting hopelessly lost in the maze of crowded stalls and shouting merchants. When Meko finally found her, the sheer terror etched into his usually calm face had shocked her. He had grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands visibly shaking before he pulled her into a crushing hug.
She remembered the quiet moments on the road. The way he would sit by the campfire, focusing his elemental power down to a single, glowing point on his fingertip. He would sit there for hours, meticulously carving intricate little statues out of solid rock, his face a picture of total peace. She could almost hear his voice echoing in the small room. The steady, calm, always offering those gentle, guiding words.
And now, he was just gone. Erased from the world.
The thought of Meko's mother receiving the news hit Katarina like a physical blow to the stomach. What was she going to think? How could anyone possibly explain that her son had died in the mud, miles from home? Everything about his death felt so profoundly wrong.
Then, the pure grief began to curdle. A hot, toxic seed of resentment cracked open in Katarina's chest, taking root in the hollow space Meko had left behind. Doren.
If they hadn't been helping Doren. If they had just walked away from him in Havenport. If they hadn't gotten dragged into this stupid, suicidal quest to carry the Powerhart across the world. Meko would still be sitting at the Hearthlight Inn. Meko would still be breathing. Meko would still be with her.
The anger and agony twisted together until her chest felt like it was going to split open. Katarina threw her head back and let out a single scream that tore at her vocal cords. She instantly buried her face in her knees to muffle the sound, the scream devolving into a deep, chest heaving sob that shook her entire frame.
The hours bled away into the quiet, fog-choked night. Down the hall, Anya had long since succumbed to the heavy, dreamless pull of exhaustion, fast asleep in her armchair. In the next room, Doren lay trapped in a fitful, half-asleep haze, haunted by the very ghosts Katarina was cursing.
Eventually, the sorrow inside Katarina simply ran out. The tears dried up, leaving her eyes burning and her chest hollow. She had nothing left.
Stiff, shivering, and completely numb, she pushed herself off the floor. She stripped off her ruined clothes and climbed into the still warm tub. The bathwater had long since gone lukewarm, but she didn't care. Katarina slid down the sloping metal back of the tub, letting the tepid water rise over her chest, her shoulders, and her chin, until she sank right up to her mouth. She lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling, letting the silence of the room swallow her whole.
Katarina's hollow, red-rimmed eyes drifted from the ceiling down to the pile of her discarded garments.
Her weathered Havenport clothes lay in a stiff, dust-caked heap on the floorboards. Safely tucked inside her travel bag across the room was the fresh set of clothes purchased for her back in Limka, a purchase made just before their world fell apart. Those garments, along with Meko's sword, which Doren was currently keeping safe in his own room, were the absolute only tangible possessions of his left in the world.
The unfairness of it all was suffocating. She let out a long, ragged sigh, sinking back down until the lukewarm water covered her lips. She exhaled slowly through her nose, blowing a quiet, steady stream of bubbles that broke the surface of the water.
She laid in the tub for hours. When the water finally grew too cold to bear, she dragged herself out of the tub. She wrapped a piece of linen around her and sat on the mattress. The feather stuffed bed offered absolutely no sanctuary.
She lay on top of the covers, staring as the shadows slowly shifted across the ceiling. Sleep never came. There was no comfort to be found in the quiet inn's room, only silence and a relentless reel of memories flashing violently back and forth.
Her mind was trapped in a brutal, exhausting pendulum swing. Resentment and gone. One moment, the hot, bitter anger toward Doren, the Powerhart, and this entire cursed journey would flare up in her chest. The feeling was making her jaw clench and her hands ball into tight fists. The next moment, the anger would simply vanish, evaporating into a crushing, breathless void where her best friend used to be. Resentment and gone. Resentment and gone. The conflict gnawed at her fraying edges. She was completely drained but painfully awake.
Slowly, the impenetrable black of the room began to soften into a hazy blue. Outside, the first rays of morning light began to creep over the distant, turbulent waters of the Shifton Strait and around the massive island. The pale golden light pierced through the small gap in her linen curtains. The light painted a bright stripe across the wooden floorboards.
A new day had arrived, completely indifferent to her mourning.