Marseille harbor reeked of salt and rotting fish. Dockworkers shouted, ropes scraped against wood, and iron fittings clanged in the chaos.
Ewan sat on an empty barrel, pretending to sharpen his knife.
Behind him, two merchants, one in flowing Arab robes, the other a bearded Spaniard from Toledo, traded gossip while waiting for their cargo.
"I heard in Andalusia," the Arab murmured, voice low as if reciting a prayer, "there is a legend of a creature that cannot die. Stabbed, drowned, burned, it always rises again."
The Spaniard snorted. "Nonsense."
"No, truly. But there is a condition. It will only truly perish… if its head is separated from its body."
Ewan nearly dropped his blade. The knife slipped from his hand and landed in the sand with a dull thud. He bent down to pick it up, masking the stiffness in his face.
Well… that explains my underground nap.
The memory surged back, earth pressing in from all sides, lungs burning, neck almost severed, the blackout before waking up inside his coffin.
His hand crept to his throat, fingertips brushing the phantom scar that had once crusted with dried blood.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "So that's how it is…" he muttered under his breath, loud enough only for the waves to hear.
But relief never came.
All those years of foolish experiments, throwing himself off cliffs, swallowing poison, dangling from ropes, while the answer had already been carried from mouth to mouth, wrapped in sailors' tales.
He rose, dusted off his worn trousers, and walked toward the waiting ships. The clamor of the harbor grew faint, muffled, as if sinking underwater.
Only one line echoed in his skull:
"Only the head must fall."
---
The market fight should've been just another brawl. Knives, shouting, blood, it happened every week. But when the stranger went down with steel in his gut, everyone scattered like rats. I stayed, partly out of morbid curiosity, partly because I'd seen too many wounds like that.
He was dead. Absolutely dead. His eyes had rolled back, his chest stilled. I walked away with the rest, convinced I'd just watched a man's last breath.
Except a few hours later, I saw him again. Same alley. Same torn clothes. But no wound. Not even a scar. He was wiping the blood off his shirt like it was spilled wine.
My knees nearly gave out.
I ducked behind barrels and waited until he staggered off into the labyrinth of streets. Then I followed, keeping distance, heart pounding louder than my boots.
Finally, he spun around so fast I almost ran into him. A blade flashed at my throat.
"You saw it, didn't you?" His eyes were colder than steel.
I raised my hands. "Saw what?"
"The knife. The blood. Then me, walking again." His grip tightened.
I swallowed. "I… might have."
He studied me for a long moment, then lowered the blade a fraction. "Then hear me well. You speak of this, and people will laugh. If they don't laugh, they'll scream witch and drag you to the block. And if by some curse they do believe you, " His lips curled into a bitter smile. ", they'll hunt you down until your head rolls. And when that happens, there's no coming back."
My throat went dry. I forced a shaky smile. "Sounds… dramatic."
He didn't laugh. He leaned close, whispered, "Keep your mouth shut." Then he shoved me back and melted into the crowd like he was never there.
I stood frozen, the weight of his words pressing harder than the knife had.
---
I should've walked away. Any sane man would've. But sanity and I had parted ways a long time ago.
So the next day, when I spotted him again, this time dressed in fine velvet, rings on every finger, striding through the market like he owned it, I swallowed my nerves and went straight for the performance of a lifetime.
I bowed. Actually bowed. "My lord!"
He stopped mid-step, glaring down at me. "Do I know you?"
"No, but I know greatness when I see it." I flashed my most desperate grin. "The cut of your coat, the weight of your purse, the shine of your boots, you're clearly a man destined for more than this filthy city."
His eyebrow arched. "You're flattering me."
"Not flattering, sir. Observing. And if a man like you ever needs… a humble servant, a loyal scribe, a pack mule, even someone to polish those rings until they blind the sun, I would gladly serve."
He studied me, amused and suspicious at once. "And why," he drawled, "would a healthy young man debase himself to follow me?"
I gave a solemn nod. "Because some men are meant to plow fields, others to swing swords. But me? I was born to carry another man's baggage with unmatched enthusiasm."
For the first time, his lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "You're either insane, or clever."
"Both," I said proudly.
He chuckled darkly, then turned. "Fine. Follow if you must. But understand this: I am no lord. I owe you nothing. One wrong word, and I'll leave your corpse in the gutter."
I bowed again. "A small price for proximity to magnificence."
And just like that, I became the willing shadow of a man who might've been my only clue… or my executioner.
---
I didn't expect him to take me seriously. But within an hour, I was lugging a chest that weighed more than a cow through the streets while he strolled ahead, sipping wine from a silver cup.
"Careful with that," he called over his shoulder. "There's at least three centuries' worth of coins in there."
I nearly dropped it. "Three centuries?!"
"Mm. Roman, Moorish, Crusader, Venetian. I collect." He said it like he was talking about seashells.
By the time we reached his townhouse, my arms had turned to jelly. I collapsed on the steps. He didn't even glance back. "Put it upstairs."
"Upstairs?" I wheezed.
"Unless you prefer to sleep in the street. I did say you could follow me."
So up I went, dragging that cursed chest one stair at a time while he hummed like a monk in prayer.
Later that evening, he had me polishing his rings. One by one. Sixteen of them. "You missed a spot," he muttered, holding up a ruby.
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. "Yes, master."
The worst was the tavern. Some brute grabbed him by the collar, shouting about debts unpaid. Without missing a beat, he shoved me forward. "Talk to my servant."
The brute blinked at me. I blinked back.
Next thing I knew, I was dangling upside down by the ankles while my 'lord' calmly finished his ale.
"Don't scowl," he said, dropping a coin on the table. "Consider it training. Servants should be durable."
Durable! I was bruised in seven new colors, and he called it training.
But I endured it. Because every moment with him was proof, he was like me. Different. Unkillable. A man who had stacked centuries on centuries and come out dripping in velvet and arrogance.
And if it meant I had to polish his ridiculous rings for a year straight, I'd do it. Because one day, he'd slip, and I'd learn everything.
---