The walk back to the village was a descent from heaven to earth. Kael parted from Elara at the old stone bridge; she took the high path toward the Manor, smoothing her skirts and her expression, while he took the low road through the muddy lanes of the trade district.
He carried his axe easily over one shoulder, the weight familiar and grounding. The scent of Elara—jasmine and musk—still clung to his skin, a secret armor against the grime of Oakhaven.
The village was waking up. Shutters banged open. The smell of woodsmoke and pig manure filled the air. Oakhaven was a place of stark divides: the rich lived on the hill, where the air was clear, and the poor lived in the Sink, where the fog settled and never really left.
Kael belonged to the Sink, but he walked with the stride of a king.
He passed the bakery, where the morning rush was beginning. The air smelled of yeast and scorched flour. Mara, the baker's daughter, was sweeping the stoop. She was nineteen, with cheeks dusted in flour and eyes that were perpetually wide and hopeful.
When she saw Kael, she stopped sweeping. Her grip on the broom tightened until her knuckles were white.
"Morning, Kael," she chirped, her voice pitching too high.
Kael slowed his pace. He offered her a wink, casual and devastating. "Morning, Mara. Those buns smell like heaven today. Almost as sweet as you."
Mara turned the color of a ripe beet. She giggled, putting a hand to her mouth. "Oh, stop it. You're terrible. My father is right inside."
"Let him be," Kael grinned. "I'm just admiring the view."
He didn't stop, but he felt her eyes tracking him until he turned the corner. It was easy. It was a game. But it was also a survival tactic. In a world where he had no money and no status, his charm was the only currency that didn't depreciate.
But charm didn't buy grain.
He reached the market square, where Master Gorm, the wealthiest merchant in the valley, was overseeing the unloading of a timber wagon. Gorm was a man composed entirely of suet and spite. His face was red, his tunic stained with wine from the night before.
"You!" Gorm barked, pointing a sausage-like finger at Kael. "The wood you stacked yesterday. It's damp. I told you I wanted seasoned oak, not sponge, you useless fucker!"
Kael stopped. The banter died in his throat. He felt the cold, hard reality of his station settle over him. "The wood was dry, Gorm. It's your shed roof. It's got more holes than your logic."
The men around the wagon—the tanner, the butcher, the smith—stopped working. They watched with cruel, expectant grins. They hated Kael. They hated that he was young. They hated that he was strong. Most of all, they hated that their wives smiled at him in a way they never smiled at them.
"Watch your tongue, you little cunt," Gorm spat. He reached into his purse and threw a handful of copper coins into the mud at Kael's feet. "That's half pay. Take it or starve."
The coins landed with a wet plop.
Kael looked at the copper. He looked at Gorm's sneering face. He could feel the violence coiling in his gut, a tight spring waiting to snap. He imagined burying his axe in the wagon wheel. He imagined breaking Gorm's jaw.
But he needed the money. Winter was coming.
Slowly, Kael bent down. He didn't bow. He kept his eyes locked on Gorm's face as his fingers closed around the muddy coins.
"You're a generous soul, Master Gorm," Kael said, his voice flat, devoid of the charm he had given Mara. "The gods see everything. Even leaky roofs."
He stood up, wiping the mud from the coins onto his trousers. As he turned to leave, he glanced up at the second floor of Gorm's house.
The curtains twitched. Lysa, Gorm's young, unhappy wife, was there. She pressed a hand against the glass, her expression one of profound longing and pity. Kael held her gaze for a second—just long enough to let her know he saw her—before walking away.
Behind him, Gorm laughed. "That's right, boy! Fuck off back to your hovel!"
Kael kept walking. But the rage in his belly was hot and dense. It was a beacon. And deep in the ether, something hungry took note of the heat.