Chapter 5
Theron grimaced as he hauled the water pail up from the well. The weight of the wooden bucket burned through his forearms, even though it was only half full. Any more and he’d spill it. He set it down carefully, wiped his brow, and froze, realizing with a flicker of surprise that he was sweating. The sweat felt wrong in the cold, like the fever had come back to claim him. The burn of cold air on his skin only made his joints crack more fiercely in protest. He liked it like this though, having a perpetual state of irritation in his body that kept the mind sharp. Raising the bucket again, he gritted his teeth and turned for the bakery.
This hour was for soundless chores. A few early risers crowded near the square, tipping tight-nod greetings to one another, voices muffled by wool or the simple weight of the hour. The blacksmith’s apprentice, a scrawny child with a hat three sizes too big for him, dragged a load of wooden logs for burning toward the smithy. A dog barked once at Theron, then changed its mind and slunk away in something like shame.
The bucket bounced against his waist with each step. He kept his eyes fixed on the well-worn path and his thoughts on the pain that radiated from his arms and hands. Each step was a conversation with his exhausted body, each movement a reminder that he needed to get his strength back.
Last night’s promise rang in his head. The way he had looked Talla in the eye and told her he’d have the bakery ready before the sun came up. He hadn’t meant it as a promise, but that was what it had become. A simple act, he thought, to at least begin to repay her for her kindness. And that was what had him dragging a bucket half full of water in the freezing dawn before most of the village had awoken. Muscles screaming, joints locking, breath coming in short huffs, all for the sake of some water and a no-nonsense matron he owed, loved, and cherished as a dear friend.
The bakery stood out from the other buildings on the lane because of the way the early sun made its windows glow. It looked so warm inside compared to the dull, frostbitten shells on either side, he had to fight to maintain the hurry in his steps. His boots thunked against the plank porch, and he set the bucket down with more force than he intended. Water slopped over his hand and instantly froze his already numb fingers.
He paused, flexing his hand, working the dead feeling back into his joints, rolling his shoulders, pushing life back into his arms. The air here, thick with the promise of fresh bread, did something odd to his chest. He could almost taste the yeast on his tongue, the tang of rye or sourdough even before the first batch had finished its rise. It comforted him. He still preferred the scent of pine needles and wet fur, or the mineral tang of a mountain stream. But the bakery was a place of refuge in this reclusive village, which needed these kinds of comforts.
There was a bench outside, worn by years of use and weather, but sturdy as ever. After getting the ovens in the bakery running and cooking some loaves, he lowered himself onto it with a sigh that nearly turned to a groan. He pressed his elbows into his thighs and leaned forward, chin in his hands, and watched his breath rise in front of him, each puff a proof of existence, before he closed his eyes.
He sat for a time, lost in the white noise of exhaustion and memory, until a shadow fell across his face. A gentle hand ruffled the hair at his temple, teasing a few obstinate long strands away from his eyes. The touch was quick, almost perfunctory, but there was warmth to it. He lifted his head to see Talla, her hands planted on her hips, mouth set in a line that could mean anything from anger to affection.
She wore her usual work skirt and a thick wool cardigan mended a dozen times. Her white-streaked hair was pulled back in a bun. And when her eyes met his, they were soft.
“You look pathetic,” she said, but the words lacked bite.
Theron chuckled. “Aye, I know it.”
Talla sat next to him, the bench groaning under the redistribution of weight. She tugged a cloth from her pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, then pinched his cheek lightly, as if testing the firmness of an apple. “Did you eat this morning?”
He shook his head.
She made a tsk sound and dug in the pocket of her cardigan. She pulled out a small, hard roll and pushed it into his hand. “Chew slow,” she advised. “Or you’ll choke and leave me with the mess.”
He bit into it and munched on it slowly. He could feel Talla watching him, waiting for the point when his guard would drop and he’d confess to whatever new hell he was dragging around in his head. Instead, he swallowed and flicked the crumbs from his fingers.
“I got the bakery ready,” he said after a long pause.
“Of course you did. Because you said you would.” She reached for him again, this time just resting her hand on his forearm. “I’m worried about you, you know,” she said, voice low, nearly lost in the ambient morning.
“Are you now?” Theron replied, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“I told you I could get it up and running this morning. You didn’t have to do this.”
He stared down the lane where the sun was touching the frozen fields outside the village. “Promise is a promise,” he said. “But also, I need to get my strength back so I can get back out into my forest.”
She gave a soft, knowing chuckle. “You’re impossible,” she said. “But I suppose that’s why we keep you around.”
The words settled in his chest, not heavy but steady and warm. His mind drifted to the morning after the fever broke. Weak, yes, but lighter, as if something inside him had burned away, something that had lived with him for far too long. The warmth that followed felt unfamiliar. He had felt nothing like it in years.
He looked at Talla again, and he managed another smile. It was small, just a hint of a crease at the corner of his mouth, but she saw it. She squeezed his arm, rose, and brushed her hands together.
“Come inside,” she said. “We’ve a busy day ahead.”
Theron rose, the movement easier now, and he grabbed the bucket, following her into the bakery. The warm light swallowed him whole. The pain was still there, in his mind and memory, but it was a different kind of pain now. It was a pain with a purpose.
By midmorning, a pale, brittle blue sky stretched above the village. The bakery windows steamed with heat and rising dough while, outside, the square eased into motion. The village woke at its unhurried pace, brooms swishing, boots squelching through the melting mud, and quiet voices drifting through the cold.
Theron wandered into the square like a ghost in the middle of the day. He was not sure he was supposed to be here, but he had no other place to go except home, and he certainly didn’t want to be back there anytime soon. He had helped Talla at the bakery all morning. It was good and honest work, but she only had limited tasks for him, and now he had nothing to do but wander around, attempting to build up some endurance.
The tavern’s sign creaked on its hook as a breeze cut across the square, bringing with it the resinous and earthy smell of wood from the carpenter’s shop. Above the tavern, a plume of smoke curled into the sky, the sweet and sour aroma of morning ale now tugging at Theron’s nose. Across the way, the blacksmith’s hammer began its daily rhythm, the sound of metal on metal a sharp contrast to the day’s quiet.
Theron drifted past the tavern, boots thumping on the frozen ground, and caught sight of two children in ratty coats chasing a speckled hen. The hen, either clever or resigned, ducked behind the legs of a passing cart, and the children crashed into each other and tumbled into the slush as they shrieked with laughter.
He paused for a moment to watch them. The world had been darker, not that long ago, but here was sunlight and laughter and a hen playing chase. It was almost enough to make him laugh.
“Morning, Theron!”
He turned, hearing the voice. The barmaid from the Flask, a girl only sixteen, with her hair escaping from its braid like straw from a bursting sack. She darted over to him and pressed a plate of meat and potatoes into his hand, still warm from the oven.
“For you,” she said. Cheeks pink from the cold and, possibly, from the simple pleasure of the act. “Talla said you needed food whenever we saw you.” She eyed him for a moment. “You look better than she made you sound.”
“Gods, that woman certainly takes care of everything in this place,” Theron said. “Thank you,” he added, and meant it, as he skewered a piece of meat with the provided knife.
The salted meat tugged at his jaws, and the steam inside spread across his tongue. The flavor was rich and full, with a faint sweetness. He chewed it slowly. It was delicious.
The barmaid grinned as she saw his delight, then sprinted back to her work, leaving Theron with the plate and the warmth of her easy kindness.
Another cart clattered by, wheels crunching over the patches of ice, the driver hunched against the wind. On the cart, sacks of flour, a few bolts of cheap cloth, and a crate full of turnips. Theron nodded at the driver, who nodded back, a silent bargain of acknowledgment and mutual respect.
The square filled with people moving along well-worn paths. Old women with baskets of laundry, men in patched jackets cracking jokes at the well, a pair of boys wrestling in the mud over a chunk of firewood. Life in all its doggedness had returned to the village. And Theron, for once, felt no urge to slip back into the shadows.
He leaned against the stone wall beside the tavern, plate in one hand, and let the sun work its slow miracle on his face. Above him, the tavern keeper, Harl, thumped open a window and dumped a bucket of dirty water onto the street, nearly splashing a passing dog who leapt sideways, yelping in surprise. Harl caught sight of Theron, gave him a two-finger salute, and disappeared back inside.
A minute or two passed. The food vanished, his stomach feeling warm. He could feel himself relaxing, shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching. He closed his eyes for a moment, and simply listened.
The clang of the blacksmith, the shrill cry of the children, the scrape of a cart’s wheel, the soft clatter of a pair of old men arguing over the price of eggs. The whistle of the wind spoke not of storms but of fair weather, at least for today.
He realized only then how starved he was for companionship. He opened his eyes, released a breath, and allowed himself to take it all in. These were memories he didn’t want to forget.
There were places in Wyrnhollow where the forest had given up trying to reclaim the earth. The northern edge of the village was one of them. Here the fields died into a ragged fence line, then faded into a patch of thistle and scrub before the first trees took over. There was a particular elm on a rise, right before the tree line, twisted by years of storm and snow, its trunk bent at an angle as if shouldering the weight of the sky itself.
It was to this spot that Theron found himself late afternoon two days later, the world around him painted gold and blue by the dying sun. He relaxed against the roots, knees bent, arms folded behind his head, and let the chill work into his bones.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think. The world had other ideas. Even here, on the edge of everything, he could hear it: the echo of a dog barking in the square, the drone of wind over dry grass, the distant shriek of some kind of bird searching for supper. He’d spent the last day or two wandering around Wyrnhollow, taking as much in as he could. Now he was in one of his favorite spots overlooking the village, letting his body relax and his mind wander wherever it may.
Too soon, he heard Talla’s footsteps. “Jac’s hairy balls,” he swore under his breath. “How do you always know where to find me?”
She made her way across the brittle grass, skirt swishing, boots thumping just enough to announce her presence but not enough to demand attention. She stopped a single pace away, hands laced tightly in front of her, hair swept back and pinned behind her ear.
“You’ve been distant,” she said. Not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.
Theron sat up and rubbed an old scar on his chin. “I thought I’d give you some peace,” he said. “After everything.”
She snorted. “Peace? Don’t insult me. If I wanted peace, I’d have died years ago.” Her eyes scanned him, taking in the improvements. He looked healthier now, with color back in his cheeks, a bit of flesh to his face, eyes alert. Still, there was something hollow about the way he sat. His shoulders were tense, and his body twisted away from her, like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Talla let the silence fill the space between them. She drew in a slow breath, exhaled, then sat beside him on the root, folding her hands over her knees. The air was icy, but she didn’t shiver. Instead, she spoke low and steady. “You’re leaving, aren’t you.” Not a question.
Theron did not answer at first. He stared at the ground, at the way the roots crawled through the mud like veins. “I have to,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Why?”
He thought about telling her the truth. That he didn’t deserve peace. That he had responsibilities. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, he just shrugged. “I’m a wanderer by nature. It’s time.”
She twisted on the root to face him, hands clenched so tight the knuckles gleamed white, her eyes rolling. “Okay, you fool. But why now?”
He ran a hand through his long hair. “In all honesty, it should have been sooner, Talla. But I’m… afraid.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “And I made promises to myself. Long ago. Promises I can’t undo.”
Her face hardened, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. She nearly asked what he could possibly be afraid of. Instead, she said, “What kind of promise sends you out in the cold with nothing but your name and your regrets?”
He almost laughed, but it came out as a smile and a sigh. “The kind that matters.”
Talla shook her head, sorrow pulling at the lines near her eyes. She gripped his forearm, her hand warm even through his sleeve. “If you go, you might not come back. You know that?”
“I know.”
“And you’ll leave us to whatever hell comes next?”
“I have to,” he said. “If I stay, I’ll just—” He stopped himself, words failing.
She finished for him. “You’ll fade back into the shell you were.”
He nodded, jaw clenched so tight it made his temples ache.
“And so much more.”
They sat in silence as the sun slipped further behind the trees, shadows stretching like bruises across the grass.
Talla let go of his arm. Drawing her coat tighter, she leaned in, close enough that he could smell the bread and herbs on her breath. “When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
She inhaled sharply, eyes blinking fast, as if warding off tears. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Talla stood, swaying for a moment as she found her balance. Her hands went to her hips, the gesture as old as her bones, then fell uselessly to her sides. “You’re a fool, Theron. A damned, stubborn fool.”
He almost smiled. “I learned from the best.”
For a moment, she looked as if she might slap him, or hug him, or both. Instead, she just stared, eyes bright and wet. “If you die,” she said, voice rough, “I’ll kill you myself. I’ll try to see you off tomorrow.”
Talla turned and started down the path toward the village, her figure small against the last light of the day. She didn’t look back.
Theron watched her go, the ache in his chest spreading out, filling him. He sat there until the sun was gone and the world turned to darkness, and then, only then, did he allow himself to feel the full weight of goodbye.
Noon hit the village square with the force of a hammer. The sun was high and white, casting hard shadows behind every cart that created soupy slush in the ruts of the road. Children ran at the edges of the green, boots splashing in puddles left by the morning melt.
In the center of the square, Talla managed the bread cart, barking orders to the two boys who stacked loaves and ran deliveries to the tavern and the weaver’s shop. She’d worn her best skirt today, the blue one with the white embroidery at the hem, thinking, perhaps, that it might lift the mood. It did not.
The morning had slipped away quietly, interrupted only by the occasional barking dog and a runaway hen that launched itself through the tavern’s open doorway, sparking a chorus of curses and laughter. For a while, it almost felt like a proper day, a normal day. But Talla’s eyes kept drifting to the road leading north, and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Up before dawn, she had checked his home and found it empty. She’d hoped to catch him before he left, whether to convince him to stay or at least to say a proper goodbye. Damned man probably lied and slipped away in the night, she had thought gloomily.
She was halfway through counting coppers into the customer’s hand when her vision blurred with tears. She blinked hard, cursing under her breath, and tried to focus on the coins. But something about the customer’s expression made her pause. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes had shifted, fixed on something just past her shoulder.
Normally, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. This time, however, she paused. A deep stillness had settled over the square, swallowing every sound in its path. The chatter stopped. The laughter vanished. Even the dogs had gone quiet, their tails tucked and heads lowered.
Talla turned toward the road, and her breath caught in her throat.
They came in a marching line, three across, every one of them dressed in the Dominion’s colors of blue and silver, with tabards over a polished breastplate, helmets embossed with the crimson eagle, black boots striking the road with perfect, pitiless rhythm. Each carried a spear slung over one shoulder and, at their hip, an ornate sword, swinging with each step.
Her breath caught, panic gripping hard.
The recruiters had come.