Chapter 3
The Rusty Flask stood as a testament to the village’s stubborn spirit, a building patched and leaning but still standing strong. The flask-shaped sign hanging out front was painted a faded red that looked like it was bleeding in the evening light. The doorframe tilted slightly to the left, and the hinges screamed in protest when Talla forced them open with her shoulder. There was a tricky step inside that always caught your boot if you weren’t careful, threatening to send you sprawling and take your dignity with it. Still, it was the only tavern in Wyrnhollow, and if you wanted hot food or the latest rumors, you came here without complaint.
Tired familiar faces looked up as she entered the room warm with bodies and firelight. Evening had fallen on the village, and The Rusty Flask buzzed with life, laughter, clinking mugs, and the rich smell of roasted meat filling the air. It drew in those seeking escape from the day’s toil with a good friend and a strong drink to wash it down. Low tables ringed the main room, with every one of them crowded with laborers and their families or friends, faces ruddy from the cold outside or the alcohol within. Some men hunched close, trading secrets over cuts of meat and dry bread chewed slow. Others argued at the bar, trying to shout over the wind that howled just beyond the stained brick walls that rattled the shutters. The air above the crowd hung thick with the slow drift of smoke from pipes and the hearth, and the roof beams groaned in sympathy with every gust that shook the place.
Talla elbowed her way to the bar, careful not to cause anyone to spill their drink, and planted both hands on its pitted surface worn smooth from years of elbows and mugs. Her eyes felt heavy from the day’s vigilance over Theron, and her hair stuck out wildly from its tight braid. But she squared her shoulders and glared at the barkeep until he noticed her over the noise. Harl was a square-shaped man with the manner of a disappointed grandfather who had seen too many fools in his time. He polished a chipped mug with a rag that looked older than some of his regulars, the cloth gray and frayed. When he saw Talla, he gave the smallest of nods, his expression unchanging.
“Matron,” he said, his voice gruff over the din.
“Broth,” she replied and then jerked her chin at the door leading to the kitchens. “And none of that flavorless hot water you tried passing off last week, Harl.”
He grunted low. “If ya want anythin’ better, tell these fools in here ter pay their tabs quicker so I can buy some better ingredients. Or send yer hunter out for more bones to boil.”
She allowed herself a grim smile, the corner of her mouth twitching. “He brings in what he can when the woods allow. You know he’s half the reason we haven’t all starved out here. But ironically enough, he’s who I need the broth for tonight.”
Harl set down the chipped mug with a clunk. “Is that so? Reckon he’s sick then.”
“I haven’t seen a fever this bad in years. It’s got him bad.”
“Hmmm, yeah, a’right. Give me a bit to get it together for you.”
At the far end of the bar, a group of old-timers were already deep into their cups, voices rising in good-natured dispute over some old grudge. Beyond them, the hearth glowed bright, its stone slick with grease from spilled meals. The iron pot above it belched steady vapor that could have been soup or hot dishwater depending on what the kitchen needed most. It was the hearth that pulled everyone close, folks sitting near to let their worries thaw just enough to listen and laugh as story hour began its nightly ritual.
Tonight the spot beside the hearth belonged to Garris, the village’s unofficial historian and very official drunk. He was round as a wheel of cheese, always sweating no matter the weather outside and owned a voice that could silence a pig auction with one boom. He waited until the room quieted a bit, then cleared his throat in a way that made several people instinctively reach for their own necks to check.
“Tonight,” Garris announced, his tone grand, “I will speak to you all of Ol’ Jac, the man too clever for his own boots and too foolish to say no to adventure.”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. Even those who had heard all the tales of Jac a hundred times or more settled in comfortably. Some said Jac’s stories were as old as the Dominion itself, passed down through generations, and no fireside felt complete without at least one retelling.
“Jac was a wanderer, a hero, a liar and a thief, though never all on the same day,” Garris intoned, his voice rolling like thunder. “He once gambled with a priest and won a year’s worth of forgiveness only to lose it the next night in a drinking contest with a group of Sylphar mercenaries. They say he fought in every war that ever was but never wore the same uniform twice, jumping sides as easily as changing shirts.”
Harl snorted from behind the bar, bringing out a heavy pot of broth from the back kitchen. “Never paid a tab twice neither. Like some of you fools in here sitting on yer debts.”
The crowd snickered good-naturedly, even the guilty ones joining in. Even Talla couldn’t help but smirk a little, the tension in her shoulders easing for a moment.
“Sylphar mercenaries, eh?” Hamlir asked from his spot near the bar, his voice rough from smoke. “What in the blazes was he doing with those murderers, anyways?”
Everyone knew the answer, of course, but it was common to engage with the stories of Old Jac to keep the teller going.
“We weren’t always at war with those Sylphar,” Garris said, waving a hand. “Thousands of years ago, we was too busy fighting for land amongst ourselves back then. At least that’s what the stories say.” More laughs rolled through the room.
Garris plowed on, embellishing with wild gestures that nearly knocked over a mug. “When Jac tired of battle, he took to the roads, wandering far and wide throughout Vaelorian. Swapped sword for lute, blood for song. And where Jac went, so did trouble, but the best kind, mind you, the kind that makes for good telling later. Once he charmed an entire garrison out of their weapons with nothing but a smile and a pocketful of bad jokes that left them laughing too hard to fight. Another time he traded a sack of turnips for a night with a Sylphar general’s lover. No one knew how he did it, not even Jac himself when asked.”
Talla watched the crowd as much as the storyteller, her eyes scanning faces. It was a ritual, this gathering around the hearth. A way for people to wrap their hard lives in laughter, to remember that not every tale ended with loss or a sword in the guts. She saw farmers leaning in, their faces open for the first time all day after fields and chores. Mothers rocking sleeping infants, their eyes bright above the shadowed circles from sleepless nights. Even the young men, usually so quick to sneer at old stories, were under the spell, leaning forward with grins.
Garris lowered his voice, drawing the room tighter around him. “But Jac’s greatest trick was his last one. During the darkest night of the first battle with those damned Sylphar, when the skies themselves bled red and the world trembled under marching feet, they say Jac rode straight into the enemy camp bold as brass. Demanded to talk to whoever was in charge, with no fear in him. That crazy fool marched right up to their commander’s tent, poured that damned Sylphar a drink from his own flask and convinced them all that the war was already lost before it truly began.”
A ripple of feigned disbelief swept the bar, but it was the sort everyone enjoyed playing along with.
“He walked out with the enemy’s battle plans, their treasury full of gold and, most importantly, their morale shattered like glass. The next day they surrendered without a fight, and no more blood spilled. The Temple was ours!”
Someone hollered from the back, “Did he keep the loot or what?”
Garris grinned wide, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “He gave the coin to some orphans who needed it and the plans to the generals who knew what to do with them. As for himself. They say Jac disappeared that night, never to be seen again. Walked straight into the Temple of the Stillight and never came out the other side. Some say he never even existed, just a legend to lift spirits. Some claim he lives on in disguise, telling stories about himself in taverns just like this one.” He puffed out his chest and looked around proud as if he might be Jac himself.
There was a brief silence hanging in the air, then laughter broke out louder and warmer than before, filling the room. The story had landed perfectly, chasing away the gloom and chill for the night. Talla nodded to herself, pleased at how easily people could forget their troubles for a moment if you gave them a good enough laugh to hold on to.
“Here y’are.” Harl slid a jar toward her across the bar. The broth steamed, rich with barley floating and dotted with herbs that smelled savory. A far better meal than last week’s thin swill that had tasted like boiled dirt. Murmuring her thanks, Talla picked it up, the warmth seeping through the jar into her fingers. She reached for her belt purse to pay.
“On the house,” Harl said, his tone gruff but eyes softer than usual, like he meant it. “For the hunter. Tell him to get better quick. We need his catches.”
She nodded her thanks again and then carried the broth past the crowd, careful not to bump anyone, the warmth of the jar a small comfort in her hands. She paused beside the hearth for a moment and turned to watch the people so dear to her, their faces lit by firelight. Garris had already started on a new tale, but this one was about a Sylphar queen and a chicken that outsmarted her. She had heard it before, and it was one of her favorites, as it was full of clever twists. But her mind wandered elsewhere, on the man who haunted their village with his stoic presence and on the stories he held close, never sharing.
The wind caught her as she left the Flask. It whipped her skirt up and around her and rattled the jar in her hands, the broth sloshing inside with each gust. She hugged her shoulders and held the broth to her chest as she approached Theron’s little home by the old temple, the warmth seeping through her layers like a small mercy against the biting cold, the jar hot against her skin.
Theron lay on his cot, propped up with his arms folded across his chest, his breathing a little steadier now, less ragged. She had tended to him all day, and in the afternoon he had finally slept for a few hours, gaining a little more color in his cheeks, the pallor less deathly, his skin less ashen. Whatever Amma had mixed in those little flasks seemed to do something right, the bitter liquid pulling him back inch by inch from the edge, giving him a fighting chance. He did not move as she came in, but Talla could feel the tremble of his eyelids as she stooped to toss another log on the fire, the flames roaring up with fresh life, casting a warmer glow across the room. Then she set the jar on the table with a soft thud, the steam curling up like fingers.
“For you,” she said, as she ladled the broth into a bowl, the steam rising in curls that carried the scent of herbs and meat, making her own stomach growl despite herself.
He stayed silent, too drained to do more than lift his gaze, his eyes following her movements with a faint spark of awareness. Talla felt him watching her as she approached with the bowl of broth, the spoon in her hand ready, the liquid steaming. His mouth opened, and a whisper slipped out, faint but there, carrying a weight that made her pause.
“What was that?” Talla said, surprised to hear him speak, still being dreadfully sick with fever. But she leaned in closer to catch the words, her heart lifting a little.
“Thank you,” Theron gasped, his voice rough as gravel, but carrying a note of sincerity that touched her, warming her more than the fire.
“Hmph. Stubborn man,” Talla scolded, though there was no heat in it, just the familiar banter that eased the tension. “You’re too stubborn to die, but too proud to ask for help and just hope that this fever passes on its own. You could have been gone by now if you had not fought so hard, or if I had not been here.”
He just stared at her with eyes that were empty of hope, but there was a flicker of something else, gratitude perhaps, or relief that he was not alone in this.
“Open,” Talla commanded, her voice gentle but firm, the spoon hovering near his lips.
He did. There was no dignity in sickness, and she had long ago stripped away the ceremony of it, treating it as the practical matter it was, with no shame in needing help. She brought the spoon to his lips and watched him swallow. His throat worked in exaggerated gulps, the effort visible in the cords of his neck, straining with each movement. He coughed once, a wet rattle that made her wince, but took the second spoonful without protest, the broth going down smoother, his body accepting it with less fight.
“Good man,” Talla said, more to herself than to him. This was a small victory in the long battle, the spoon dipping back into the bowl for more.
She fed him slowly, careful not to let him choke or spill, the steam rising from the bowl in lazy curls that warmed her face as she leaned in, the scent filling the room. He was still in the desperate clutches of fever, but the edge had dulled, his shivers less violent, his body relaxing a fraction with each swallow, the nourishment settling in. She wiped his mouth with the edge of her sleeve, the fabric coming away damp with broth and sweat, then sat back and listened. The small building was silent except for the snap of the fire, the occasional pop of wood sending sparks up the chimney like stars. Outside, the wind howled, rattling shutters like loose teeth in a skull. No market crowds, no arguing laborers, just the two of them and the dull pulse of sickness that filled the room like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the corners, but weakening.
Theron seemed to hallucinate as she fed him. Any lucidity he had shown earlier had retreated, leaving him murmuring in fragments that made no sense to her, his voice weak. He groaned, sometimes in that language she did not recognize, which she found highly interesting. It was a clue to the man he kept hidden behind his silence, perhaps from distant lands or forgotten times. Other times, he would sit bolt upright in terror at things only he could see, his hands clutching at the air as if grasping for ghosts or memories long gone. She dabbed his forehead with the rag, coaxed broth into him when he calmed enough to swallow, and murmured words of comfort that meant nothing but kept the world from slipping into nightmare completely. “Easy now,” she said softly, her voice an anchor in the storm. “You’re safe here, with me. Rest easy.”
At one point, just after midnight, he grasped her wrist with surprising strength, his fingers hot as coals, gripping like a drowning man clutching at a rope, his nails digging in.
“I failed them,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the words, eyes wide and unseeing, staring into some distant horror that only he could witness.
“Hush now,” Talla whispered, though she was curious what he meant, who “they” were that haunted him so deeply, the grief raw in his tone like a fresh wound. The pain in his voice echoed her own losses, stirring sympathy and a desire to know more.
He sagged back, bone-tired, his grip loosening as exhaustion pulled him under again, and Talla stared at the floorboards, her thumb tracing circles in the palm of her other hand, a habit from long nights like this when worry kept sleep at bay. Her own bones ached from the long day, and her head felt full of ice water from the worry and the cold that seeped through the walls despite the fire. She was utterly exhausted, though she did not leave him. Instead, she tidied the room as best she could, picking up the spilled items from the trunk, righting the table with a grunt of effort, sweeping the floor with a broom from the corner to clear the dust and debris that had gathered. Washing the used rags in the bucket, rinsing the bowl with fresh water from the barrel, and setting a kettle to boil for the night, the steam rising to fill the room with a bit more warmth and humidity, easing the dry air. Talla made herself comfortable in the chair, arms folded across her chest, and watched him breathe, the rise and fall of his chest a fragile rhythm that she counted like a prayer, willing it to continue, to strengthen.
For a time, she allowed herself to imagine other versions of this night. One where she had a husband to greet her in a warm bed, his arms pulling her close, his voice murmuring goodnight, the comfort of shared life and love. One where Theron had someone else to tend to him, a family or a lover she had never heard him mention, someone to share the burden of care and worry. Or one where the world was as it should be and she could go home and sleep without worrying for every soul in this damned place, without the weight of the village on her shoulders like a yoke that grew heavier each year. But the world was not like that. It was hard and cold and full of loss, demanding strength she sometimes wondered if she had left to give. She watched him, waited, and kept the broth warm, spooning it into him when he stirred, the routine a comfort in itself, a way to fight back against the darkness that threatened to consume.
The storm raged outside Theron’s little home, the wind howling like a pack of wolves circling the walls, branches scraping against the roof with sharp nails. The fire crackled in the fireplace, throwing its quivering light onto the wall, shadows dancing like restless spirits in the gusts that found their way through cracks. Theron sweated and shook on the cot, eyes rolling behind his lids as the fever burned its predictable path through his body, twisting him in its grip, his skin glistening with sweat that soaked the blankets.
He was no longer in his room. No walls, no cot, no smell of smoke and sweat. The world had shifted, pulling him into something deeper, a place where reality bent and broke under the weight of memory.
This was not his home. It was not the forest. But he had been here before, in the recesses of memory that fever dragged to the surface, raw and unrelenting, forcing him to relive what he had buried to survive.
The air itself seemed heavy, vibrating with something just underneath the surface, like a storm about to break, the pressure building in his chest until it hurt to draw breath. Through the mist of his mind, figures loomed in the distance, blurring and shifting as if the world itself were not yet quite decided what it wanted to become. Shadows danced on the edges of his vision, forms twisted and reformed, and he felt the pull of recognition deep in his gut, a tug that made his heart ache with longing and loss, a yearning for what was gone.
He pivoted, eyes round and wide, heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings in desperation. Yes. He remembered. He remembered this place. Not from yesterday or the year before. No, deeper still than that, buried deep in memory or dream, from a time when the world was younger and his burdens lighter, before the weight of failure had crushed him under its heel.
His bow was in his hand, grip worn smooth and string oiled and taut from countless uses, the wood familiar as an extension of his arm. He felt the familiar thrum along his fingertips, heard the hard rhythm of it in every draw, like a heartbeat synced to his own, steady and true in the chaos that surrounded him. He crouched in a trench just wide enough to fit a man, the air so thick with smoke and blood that it burned the inside of his nose, coating his throat with ash and the taste of iron, making him gag with every breath. Beside him, a young man crouched with a spear too long for his small arms, his eyes wide and blank and staring at Theron with the empty expectation of one who had not yet seen his own entrails spilled, not yet known the true cost of war, the way it stripped everything away to the bone.
“Ready?” came a whisper from the shadows, urgent and familiar, cutting through the haze like a knife through flesh.
Theron’s mouth moved, but he made no sound, the words stuck in his throat, choked by fear and the smoke. The world around them moved in small and precise increments. An arrow splintering a skull with a wet thunk that echoed through the trench like a death knell. The wet collapse of a lung as a blade found its mark, the gasp that followed like a final sigh of release. The hiss of a torch as it ignited hair, the scream that followed cut short by steel, the smell of burning flesh lingering like a curse.
Falling back into the drills beaten into him deep enough to survive anything, even this horror, Theron rose and loosed. The arrow went clean and true, punching through a Sylphar’s blue-and-gold breastplate as if it were nothing more than paper, the enemy crumpling like a discarded rag in the mud. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of satisfaction, the illusion of a world made right, where victories meant something lasting, where the blood spilled bought peace instead of more blood, more death.
But then the dream changed, as dreams do, and the world rocked under him like a ship in a gale, the ground tilting and shifting beneath his feet. The trench filled with icy, sludgy water, rising fast, and he was drowning in it, arms heavy and useless and lungs screaming for breath, burning with need as the water filled them, choking him. He thrashed for the surface, but the more he struggled, the more the mud wrapped around him and drew him down, down, down into the abyss, the light fading above like a closing eye, darkness claiming him.
A warm hand settled on his cheek, hard but not unkind, pulling him from the depths with a gentleness that felt foreign in the violence of his memories, a touch that anchored him.
He blinked, and he was a boy, lying on a soft pallet with the firelight dancing across the face of a woman who was singing to him in a dead, but familiar tongue, the melody wrapping around him like a blanket, soothing the fear that gripped him. Her hands smelled of spices and loaves of bread, warm and comforting, the scent of home and safety, of love that knew no bounds. She called him her little fox, her voice soft as summer rain, full of love that filled him to bursting, making the world seem right. He cried then, in the dream, because it was better than crying in the waking world. He felt as if his heart would break from the sweetness of it all, the innocence lost to the years.
Then darkness crept in, slowly at first, like ink bleeding through paper. It started at the edges of his sight, a creeping black that swallowed the firelight and the faces around him. Theron felt his strength ebbing, the pain in his chest a dull roar that pulled him under. The world narrowed to nothing, a void that pressed in from all sides until even the sound of his own ragged breathing faded.
A voice slithered through the black, harsh and close, like breath against his ear. You have failed. The words sank into him, cold and certain, rooting deep in his gut. Dread bloomed there, heavy and familiar, the kind that had followed him for years. You have failed. You have failed. You have failed. It repeated relentlessly, each echo stripping away another layer of hope until he felt hollow, exposed, the weight of every loss crashing down anew.
But then a spark flickered in the void, small and defiant. The shadows recoiled from it, retreating like smoke from a sudden gust. Light grew soft and warm, pushing back the dark until a face emerged. Young, gentle, framed by dark hair that caught the glow like threads of gold. Her eyes held his, steady and kind, and her voice came to him like a lifeline. “I’m here,” she said, soft as a promise.
Theron reached for her, desperation surging through him. His hand stretched out, fingers trembling, grasping at the light that felt so real. She took it, her touch warm and solid, anchoring him against the pull of the abyss. For a moment, the dread eased, the failures quieted, and he clung to that warmth like a drowning man to driftwood. But then she slipped away.
“No, no! Come back!” he cried, his voice cracking with despair, raw and broken. “Please don’t leave me. Not again.”
“Theron,” the voice said, low and comforting, pulling him back from the edge with a strength he clung to. “It’s all right. You are safe here, with me.”
He opened his mouth to speak her name, her beautiful name that tasted like honey on his tongue, sweet and pure, a name that held the world. But the fever burned the words from his tongue before he could give them voice, leaving only ash and regret, the emptiness swallowing him once more, pulling him under.
The dream fell away. The mud and blood were replaced with the pale light of dawn, washing over him like a wave of calm. He now lay on the ground, exhausted, staring at the sky and watching the sunrise, the world hazy and unfocused with pain and memory, colors bleeding together in a blur of orange and pink. The air was clean, the sky a vast and impossibly blue, and for a moment he believed he could stay in this place, here, as long as he liked, free from the chains of duty and loss, the peace wrapping around him like a cloak, soothing the wounds that never healed.
But this dream also ended, the light dimming, the colors fading to gray, pulling him back to the harsh reality.
A warm hand slipped from his and with it, the light. The darkness filled in, consuming sky and field and all, leaving him adrift in nothingness, floating without anchor or direction.
He felt scared. He knew what he would feel when he woke up. The pain. That unbearable pain that clawed at his soul, relentless and unyielding. But seeing her face again, the memory fresh and vivid as a fresh wound, he knew he now could meet that pain head-on. Perhaps he needed this trial to face the past. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to confront what had been buried for so long, to let it surface and find peace.
Eventually, the fever broke. Talla saw it in the sudden slackening of his jaw, in the color returning to his lips like water flowing back into a dry riverbed, in the way his fists unclenched from the blanket like wilted flowers opening to the sun, releasing their grip on the pain.
“Thank the gods,” Talla whispered, letting out a long breath she had not realized she was holding, her body sagging with relief that washed over her like a wave, easing the knot in her chest.
She dabbed at his brow one more time, the rag cool against her fingers now that the heat had lessened, then allowed herself to relax, her shoulders dropping as the tension eased, the room feeling lighter, the air easier to breathe for the first time in hours. The last few hours had been a maelstrom of nerves and dark half-realizations, the fear of losing him gnawing at her like a persistent ache. More than once her breath had caught in her chest as his eyes met hers and his lips spoke in that language she did not understand but felt in her bones, ancient and sorrowful, stirring questions she had long pushed aside. Questions about his past flitted through her head like hornets, stinging and persistent, demanding answers she would seek. She had always known there was some mystery there, hidden behind his quiet strength and distant gaze, but this night had torn the veneer of politeness away, exposing the raw edges that she could no longer ignore. There would be no more silence between them. They were going to talk, whether he wanted to or not, once he was strong enough to sit up and face her, to share the burdens he carried alone.
She listened to his breathing, slower now, more like a man and less like a dying animal, steady and even, a rhythm that soothed her own frayed nerves like a lullaby after a long night. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, chin in her hand, the sound of the wind rolling into a single, low drone that lulled her into rest, her body finally giving in to the exhaustion that had built all day and most of the night.
A couple of hours after dawn, Theron awoke. He saw her still on the chair, slumped over with her hands where they had been, ready to catch him if he fell, her face softened in sleep, lines of worry eased for the moment, her breathing slow and steady.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough but clear, scraping his throat like sand, but carrying gratitude that filled the room, warm as the fire.
Talla opened her eyes and blinked sleep from them and grunted, sitting up with a start, her neck stiff from the awkward position, a hand rubbing at it.
“Next time,” she said, rising slowly, “ask for help before you get half-dead. You scared me to death, you know that? I thought I was going to lose you.”
He smiled, just a fraction, but it was more than she had asked for, lighting his face for a moment, chasing away the shadows that had lingered. His face seemed lined with unspeakable grief or pain, deeper than the fever could account for, etched like scars from battles she could only guess at, stories untold that she would draw out. She reached over and pressed her knuckle to his cheek, feeling the warmth recede, the skin cooler now, a sign of recovery that made her heart lighten. Then she rose and went to make the tea, the kettle whistling softly as she poured the water, the steam rising in the early light that filtered through the window, the scent of herbs filling the room. Morning was coming, bringing all the thoughts she did not want to face, the questions that burned in her mind like embers, demanding answers. But for now, the sickroom was quiet and warm, and that would have to do.