Chapter Seven The Bread of Borrowed Sin #2
“There is not,” Morna murmured. “Sometimes a remedy is poison in the wrong dose.”
Caelan exhaled slowly. “If we do this, we do it once,” he said. “Enough to strengthen, not enough to be noticed.”
Morna looked away, jaw tight. “Valerius notices patterns,” she said. “Do not make a pattern.”
Caelan felt the weight of that. He had once believed morality was the pattern that held men together. Here, the pattern that mattered was the one that kept bodies moving.
That night, he lay on the straw staring at the ceiling while Morna slept fitfully beside him under the stolen blanket. Elara curled nearby, fingers wrapped around a scrap of cloth. Ewan’s breathing came shallow, as if even sleep cost him effort.
Caelan could not stop the thoughts.
He could not stop hearing Valerius’s calm voice in his memory, describing bending as if it were inevitable.
When the camp quieted, Ivor slid into their corner like a shadow.
Caelan sat up at once, heart pounding.
Ivor’s grin flashed in the dark. “Decision made,” he whispered.
Caelan’s voice was low. “How.”
“Tomorrow,” Ivor said. “At midday. The scar-chinned guard drinks. He thinks no one sees. When the cook orders a restock, you carry the bucket to the back store. The door will be open while the guard talks with the cook’s wife.”
Caelan’s mouth tightened. “And you slip in behind me.”
Ivor nodded. “I take bread and meat. Not much. Enough for your group.”
Caelan stared at him, forcing steel into his voice. “If you take more than we agreed, I stop you.”
Ivor’s grin widened. “With what. Your principles.”
“With my hands,” Caelan said.
For a heartbeat, Ivor looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Then he shrugged. “Good,” he whispered. “That is the man we need.”
Ivor slipped away.
Morna stirred, eyes half open. “You said yes,” she murmured.
Caelan’s throat tightened. “Aye.”
Morna’s gaze searched his face. “And you do not like yourself.”
“I do not know what I feel,” Caelan admitted.
“You feel responsible,” Morna whispered. “That is your curse.”
He did not deny it.
Dawn came grey and damp. By midday, Caelan’s hands were steady, his face blank, but his stomach churned. He served bowls, watched guard positions, and waited for the moment when the cook would bark for the restock.
It came.
“Bucket,” the cook snapped. “Back store.”
Caelan lifted the restock bucket without hesitation and carried it toward the rear storehouse. The door stood cracked open. The scar-chinned guard leaned against the frame speaking with the cook’s wife. She laughed softly, eyes darting once toward his cloak.
Caelan approached with his head slightly bowed. “Restock,” he murmured, making himself part of the scenery.
The guard barely glanced at him. “Go on.”
Caelan stepped through the gap, bucket scraping his thigh. The store smelled of salt and dry grain, a scent that made his mouth water painfully. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with bread rounds hard as stone, bundles of dried meat, sacks of oats.
He set the bucket near the back wall, angling his body to block the doorway’s view of the deeper shelves.
A soft scuff sounded behind him.
Ivor slipped in.
Caelan kept his eyes on the bucket as if checking contents. His hands moved slowly, giving Ivor cover. He heard the faint rustle of cloth, the quick scrape of bread against wood.
Caelan risked the smallest glance.
Ivor had taken two bread rounds, a strip of meat, a small sack of oats. More than Caelan had imagined. Morna’s warning echoed in his head.
Not enough to be noticed. Do not make a pattern.
Caelan’s jaw tightened. He gave Ivor a sharp look.
Ivor’s grin flickered, then he shifted toward the door.
A shadow moved outside. The guard’s voice cut off.
Caelan’s pulse spiked.
Ivor froze.
The guard’s boots scraped on plank, as if he had shifted his stance and turned.
Caelan acted on instinct.
He lifted the bucket too quickly and let it tilt. Thin slurry spilled onto the floor, splattering his boots. The sound was loud in the tight space.
Caelan cursed, harsh and real. “Damn this.”
The guard’s head appeared in the doorway, scowl deepening. “What.”
Caelan bent, wiping at the spill with his sleeve like an irritated servant. “The bucket caught,” he snapped. “Boards are uneven.”
The guard stepped inside, annoyance sharpening his face. “Clumsy dog.”
Caelan kept wiping, shoulders hunched, blocking the shelves, blocking Ivor.
Behind him, Ivor slid past the guard’s side like smoke and slipped out, stolen food hidden beneath his tunic.
Caelan forced his breathing slow.
The guard kicked the bucket lightly. “Clean it,” he ordered, then stepped back out, already bored, already turning to the cook’s wife again.
Caelan wiped the spill slowly, making the moment last until he was sure Ivor was gone. His hands trembled, not from fear alone, but from the awareness of what he had done.
He had lied with his voice. He had hidden theft with his body. He had become part of it.
He lifted the bucket again and carried it back to the shed, face blank.
Brenn watched him with narrowed eyes. “You look ill,” Brenn murmured.
“I spilled,” Caelan said.
Brenn held his gaze. “Aye,” he said softly. “You spilled.”
That evening, Ivor slipped into their corner with a grin like a man bringing offerings to a god.