Eason's tent was quieter than usual. No laughter and swearing from Rio. No sarcastic remarks from Samantha.
Madlock's gone to watch Rio, keeping the young man from trouble. Samantha went to scout.
Outside, soldiers still talked about the unfinished fight with bitter voices and excited hands. Some tried to copy Rio's sword swings using sticks. Others argued about whether Klaus' black crescents were stronger than the serpent's fire. The two captains had already shouted at them twice to stop acting like children before someone lost an eye.
Inside the tent, however, the air was still.
A lantern hung from the center pole, its yellow light brushing over stacked maps, sealed letters, folded cloaks, and a table crowded with small objects that looked too expensive to be left unattended. The smell of wine mixed with old paper and the faint trace of incense. It was too neat for a battlefield tent, too comfortable for a man who claimed to be merely passing through.
But it should be. It must.
Klaus sat lazily on a chair, both arms resting on the carved armrests as if his bones had given up.
His hood remained up. The shadow beneath it covered his face, show nothing but darkness.
He felt tired.
Not broken. Not badly wounded.
Just drained.
Rio's speed, his stupid grin, his exploding swings, and that curse that moved like it had its own grudge against the world had taken more from Klaus than he wanted to admit.
Fifty gold.
That cost drained him the most.
Klaus closed his eyes beneath the hood.
Still annoying.
Across from him, Eason hummed softly while taking two glasses of wine from the table. The old man moved without rush, every gesture smooth and harmless. That was the worst thing about him. He looked most dangerous when he seemed completely harmless.
He handed one glass to Klaus.
Klaus accepted it without sitting properly.
Eason lowered himself into the chair opposite him, crossed one leg over the other, and smiled.
"So," Eason said, voice pleasant and polished, "what do you think?"
Klaus stared at him from beneath the hood.
"I thought it was a spar," he said. "Not an assessment."
Eason's smile deepened. "Most useful assessments are disguised as something else."
"That's just a fancy way to say you tricked us."
"Perhaps," Eason replied lightly. "But I prefer to call it efficient observation."
Klaus brought the wine to his lips.
Or at least, it looked like he did.
His face never showed. The moment the glass reached the shadow beneath his hood, it simply vanished into the dark, swallowed cleanly as if the shadow had grown a mouth and decided the wine belonged to it.
The glass returned empty.
Eason watched the entire thing with mild interest. "That remains unpleasant to witness."
Klaus set the empty glass on his knee. "You get used to it, old man."
"I sincerely doubt that."
Klaus leaned back again, letting his head rest against the chair. His body wanted sleep. His mind refused.
"He'll survive," Klaus said.
Eason tilted his head. "Rio?"
"Yeah." Klaus tapped one finger on the armrest. "Thanks to his curse."
The lantern flame moved faintly.
Eason's expression stayed warm, but his eyes sharpened.
"A curse can be a double-edged sword, young man."
Klaus looked at him.
Eason swirled the wine in his glass, watching the red liquid turn in slow circles.
"A curse is a powerful tool," he continued. "At times, it may grant strength beyond what talent, training, or even bloodline can offer. But nothing of that nature gives without taking."
Klaus' hand moved before he noticed it.
His fingers touched his chest.
Beneath the shadow, the curse egg rested in him. Quiet now. Sleeping, perhaps. Or pretending to. Yet, it constantly draining his health point like a gluttonous child.
During the fight, it had pulsed with Rio's curse. It had answered. It had reacted like a thing recognizing another thing of its kind.
"So Rio suffers damage when he uses his curse," Klaus said.
Eason nodded slowly. "Among other things."
Klaus' fingers remained over his chest.
"Other things?"
"A curse may affect judgment," Eason said. "Perspective. Temperament. Desire. Fear. Rage. Even affection, in certain rare and ugly cases."
Klaus thought of Rio's grin.
Not the ordinary grin of someone enjoying a duel.
The deeper one.
The hungry one.
The one that looked too close to the serpent's open jaws.
"No wonder," Klaus said quietly.
He then stood up.
The chair creaked softly behind him.
He placed the empty glass on the table with care, then picked up his sword.
"I'll head out."
Eason's brows rose. "So suddenly?"
"Yeah." He didn't look back and continued walking.
Klaus stepped outside.
The late afternoon sun struck him at once.
It was lower now, but still bright enough to sting. He raised one hand beneath his shadowed cloak, shielding his eyes as the wind pushed dry heat against his face. For a moment, the camp stretched before him in pieces: soldiers carrying crates, Orlane speaking with the captains, Shane walking back, Charles followed him with few steps.
Everyone's busy, almost no one notice him go.
Klaus walked away from the camp without choosing a clear path.
At first, he moved slowly, as if wandering. Then, when the voices behind him thinned and the tents became smaller, he let his senses open.
Echolocation spread from him in a quiet pulse.
The shape of the land returned to him in fragments.
Rocks.
Dry shrubs.
Tent poles behind him.
A lizard beneath a flat stone.
No footsteps nearby.
No breathing close enough to matter.
Klaus stopped.
Then the shadow beneath him deepened.
Phantom Jump.
The world folded.
He vanished.
He appeared farther west, boots landing on cracked earth. Then he jumped again. And again.
The desert gave way to rougher ground. Rough ground gave way to trees. The air changed as the forest swallowed the heat, cooling it beneath leaves and old branches. The sun broke through the canopy in thin gold lines, touching moss, roots, and stones with tired light.
Klaus continued west until he reached the cave.
It waited beneath a slope of dark rock, half-hidden by hanging vines and thorn bushes. The entrance looked smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he had grown too much since the last time he stood before it.
His heart pounded.
Not from the fight.
Not from exhaustion.
Nervousness.
Longing.
Shame.
All of them tangled together until his chest felt too tight.