In the temple, the priest paced the length of his private chamber, his robes trailing behind him like a storm cloud. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light of a single oil lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The priest's face was a mask of fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might shatter.
"He dares," the priest muttered, his voice low and venomous. "He dares to come into my temple, to speak to me as if he is my equal. A tradesman. A foreigner. A man who knows nothing of our ways, nothing of our god."
He stopped pacing, his hands gripping the edge of the altar as if to steady himself. His eyes fell on the small idol of Golat, the god he had served his entire life. The god who had blessed him with a daughter, a priestess, only to curse her with illness.
"Why?" the priest whispered, his voice breaking. "Why have you done this to me? To her? Have I not served you faithfully? Have I not done everything you asked of me?"
The idol offered no answer, its stone face impassive and cold. The priest's hands trembled as he reached for it, his fingers brushing against its surface. For a moment, he considered smashing it, shattering it into a thousand pieces. But he could not. His faith, though shaken, was still the core of who he was.
"If you will not act," the priest said, his voice hardening, "then I will."
He turned sharply and strode to the door, throwing it open with such force that it slammed against the wall. The sound echoed through the temple, startling the few servants who still lingered in the halls. They scattered like leaves in the wind, their eyes wide with fear.
"Pisto!" the priest barked, his voice carrying through the empty corridors.
The eunuch appeared almost instantly, his head bowed low. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"Bring me the elders," the priest commanded. "All of them. Now."
Pisto hesitated, his eyes flickering up to meet the priest's for the briefest of moments. "Your Grace, it is late. Perhaps—"
"Now!" the priest roared, his voice shaking the walls.
Pisto flinched and nodded, scurrying away to do as he was told. The priest watched him go, his chest heaving with anger. He turned back to his chamber, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against it, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Hanno Galloway," he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "You will pay for what you have done."
...
The ink had dried crooked.
Hanno stared at the words on the page, watching how the letters bled at the edges where his pen had lingered too long. The candle had burned down to a nub, its wax pooling in the dish like melted bone. He had written through the night without realizing it, his fingers stained black, the tendons in his wrist tight as bowstrings.
My isolation has made me strange.
The sentence stared back at him, accusatory. He scratched a line through it. Too plain. Too weak. His pen hovered, then pressed again.
I was kept like a dog that bites its own tail. They called it convalescence. They said it would better me, but I know poison when I taste it.
Better.
A gust rattled the window. Hanno looked up, startled to see the sky bleeding dawn. Had he truly sat here all night? His body ached as if he'd been beaten. The bed loomed behind him, its sheets untouched since yesterday. He should sleep.
He did not move.
Somewhere beyond these walls, the city was stirring. Merchants would be rolling up their awnings, priests lighting the morning censers, the night's drunkards stumbling home through the gutters. Normal people, living normal lives.
Hanno's mouth twisted. He dipped his pen again.
I wonder if kindness is something you learn, like scripture, or if it's carved out of you like rot from a wound. I think mine was taken when I wasn't looking.
The words made his chest tighten. He set the quill down before he could write the rest - before he could admit that he wasn't sure he'd ever been kind at all.
But the words he had written tugged at his conscience.
My isolation has already distanced me from people and made me a nervous sort. I'm sure if I was a bit attached to people in my early years, I would be slightly more brave and vicious, perhaps even kinder and extroverted.*
But I was kept home like a cripple, and I was poisoned. I wish I never had time to rethink the past and realize how much abuse I'd endured subconsciously, which has culminated in a severity of my isolationist temperament.
But maybe, in doing so, I would see the world through every lens and learn to be honest, if not kind—more keen, if not profound.
The words felt like a confession, though he wasn't sure to whom. To himself? To God? To the faceless specter of his illness, which had carved him hollow and left him half a man?
He stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and blew out the candle. The manor was silent, the servants not yet stirring. For a moment, he considered going downstairs, perhaps walking the gardens to clear his head.
Then—movement.
A flicker at the edge of vision.
Hanno didn't startle. He'd grown accustomed to being watched—by priests in their gilded robes, by merchants with their weighing eyes, even by the silent servants who drifted through Galloway Manor like shadows. But this was different. This gaze carried the weight of hunger.
Slowly, he turned his head.
A face pressed against the glass.
Old. Gaunt. Skin like cured leather stretched over bone. The man's breath fogged the pane in ragged bursts, his fingers—blackened with dirt, nails split to the quick—clawing at the wooden frame.
Hanno set down his pen.
The face froze. One yellowed eye widened.
For three heartbeats they stared at each other through the smeared glass—the merchant's son in his clean linen shirt, the wretch with his mouth half-open to reveal teeth like broken headstones.
Hanno stood.
The old man flinched but didn't flee. His lips moved, forming words in the guttural Vetian tongue that Hanno had never bothered to learn. The syllables came out cracked and wet, like stones tumbling from a rotten sack.
Hanno unlatched the window.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the stench of unwashed flesh and sour wine. The old man recoiled, nearly losing his footing on the rain-slick ledge. His eyes darted from Hanno's face to the half-eaten loaf of bread on the desk, to the silver inkwell glinting in the candlelight.
Hanno stepped back. Gestured inward.
The old man's mouth worked soundlessly. A tremor ran through his knotted hands. When he finally clambered through the window, he moved like a man expecting a blow—shoulders hunched, head ducked between them.
His boots hit the floor with a thud that spoke of swollen joints. The stink of him filled the room—old sweat and piss and something earthy, like mushrooms rotting under damp leaves.
Hanno reached for the bread.
The old man's breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he didn't take it. Instead, he spoke again, the words tumbling out in that rough, unfamiliar tongue. His gaze kept flicking to the door, to the shadows in the corners, as if expecting armed men to come bursting in.
Hanno placed the bread in his hands.
The old man stared at it. A sound escaped him—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. He tore into the loaf with his blackened teeth, crumbs catching in the greasy tangle of his beard.
When he'd swallowed the last mouthful, Hanno offered wine.
The old man drank greedily, red droplets tracing paths through the dirt on his chin. His eyes never left Hanno's face. When the cup was empty, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke again, slower this time, as if that might make his meaning clear.
Hanno shook his head.
A strange expression crossed the old man's face—something between frustration and amusement. He gestured vaguely at the room, at the books, at Hanno's fine clothes, then tapped his own chest with a grimy finger.
"Galloway," he rasped, butchering the name. Then he pointed at the window, toward the city, and made a sweeping motion with his hands.
Hanno waited.
The old man's lips peeled back in what might have been a smile. He mimed drawing a knife across his throat.
A pause. Then he pointed at Hanno.
The meaning was clear enough.
Hanno exhaled through his nose. He reached for his journal, flipped to a fresh page, and wrote in careful script:
*Who are you?*
The old man squinted at the letters, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he snatched the pen from Hanno's hand—his touch surprisingly deft despite the dirt—and drew something beneath the words. Not letters. A symbol.
A crude eye with a slash through it.
Hanno studied the drawing. The old man tapped it insistently, then pointed again toward the city, toward the temple district. His expression turned grim.
Outside, the wind moaned through the eaves. Somewhere in the manor, a floorboard creaked.
The old man's head snapped up. Without warning, he seized Hanno's wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. His mouth moved urgently, silently now, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
Then—footsteps in the hall.
The old man released him and scrambled for the window. He moved with sudden, startling agility, his tattered cloak flapping like a wounded bird as he vanished into the night.
Hanno stood motionless, staring at the empty window frame. The cold air raised gooseflesh on his arms. On the desk, the journal lay open to the page where the old man had drawn his crude symbol.
The mark of the Watchers, perhaps. Or a warning.
Or both.
Hanno closed the book with a soft thump. The candle guttered, drowning the room in shadows.
Outside, the city held its breath.