As we arrived at the inn, the dim lighting of the foyer did little to mask the shock on the innkeeper's face when she saw us. Her eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth in horror as she took in my bloodstained clothes. Her gaze quickly darted from me to Chris, who stood beside Father, her usually bright eyes dulled with exhaustion.
"Oh my, what happened?" she gasped, stepping back as if the sight of us might somehow bring more chaos into her quiet establishment. The weight of what we had been through lingered heavily around us, making the inn's once-warm atmosphere feel distant and cold.
Father, his expression steely and unyielding, didn't spare her more than a brief glance. "We don't have time for explanations right now," he said, his voice firm. "Just give us the room key and let us pass."
The innkeeper blinked, flustered by his tone, but hurriedly complied, handing over the key with trembling hands. We wasted no time in heading upstairs. Father carried me with ease, his arms steady as he ascended the narrow staircase. My limbs felt heavy, almost useless, and every movement sent sharp pain through my body. But I stayed silent. There were bigger things to worry about.
Once we reached the room, Father laid me gently on the bed. The softness of the mattress was a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground where I've been on before for what felt like an eternity. I sank into it, my body aching in relief.
"You and Chris should rest," Father said, his voice softer now, though still carrying the weight of his authority. "I'm going to go out and buy bandages. When I get back, we'll head to the church for healing treatment."
I nodded, my eyes already growing heavy. Chris, on the other hand, had barely made it to her bed before she collapsed onto it, her small frame almost lost in the thick blankets. She fell asleep instantly, her breathing steady and calm. I watched her for a moment, and despite everything that had happened, I felt a sense of peace watching her sleep.
She really had done her best today. The memory of her standing up for me and Father flashed in my mind. The look of determination in her eyes, the way she had refused to back down, even when fear was written all over her face—Chris had shown a strength I wasn't sure I had in myself.
I wondered if I would've had the courage to do what she did if our roles had been reversed. Somehow, I doubted it. She thinks she's weak. She's always been hard on herself that way, always feeling like she doesn't measure up. But today proved her wrong—at least in my eyes. She's stronger than she realizes, and one day, I hope she'll see that too.
As I continued to watch her, I felt a wave of drowsiness wash over me. My eyelids grew heavier, and the pain that had been pulsing through my body seemed to dull, if only for a moment. I guess seeing Chris sleep so peacefully reminded me that, at least for now, we were safe. The warmth of the bed, the softness of the room—it was all so different from the horrors of earlier. I let out a deep breath, and before I knew it, sleep pulled me under.
***
When I awoke, the room was bathed in the soft, warm light of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. I blinked groggily, momentarily disoriented. My body still ached, though it was less intense now, and I could feel the stiffness in my muscles as I shifted under the covers. I glanced around the room and saw Father packing up our things, his movements swift and efficient. It seemed like he had been busy while I slept.
"Are we leaving today?" I asked, my voice still thick with sleep as I sat up slowly, wincing from the lingering pain.
Father looked over his shoulder, offering a small smile when he saw that I was awake. "Ah, Will. You're up," he said, his tone a bit lighter now.
"Yes, we're leaving today. If we don't get moving, we'll miss the opening ceremony at the academy." He continued folding clothes into the bag, his hands working with practiced ease. "Once I finish packing, I'll bandage you up, and then we'll stop by the church for some healing before we leave the city."
I nodded, feeling a pang of disappointment that our time here would be cut short, but also relieved that we were finally moving forward. I didn't want to stay in this city any longer than necessary. Too many memories, too many dark moments were tied to this place now.
After a few minutes, Father finished packing our things and came over to me. His hands were steady as he carefully bandaged my wounds, the soft fabric wrapping tightly around the worst of the cuts and bruises. Despite the pain, I felt a strange sense of comfort knowing that Father was here, taking care of everything as always.
Once he was done, he lifted me into his arms again, carrying me effortlessly as we made our way downstairs. I winced slightly as we moved, my body still protesting every step, but I kept quiet, not wanting to slow us down.
When we reached the main hall of the inn, the innkeeper was waiting nervously by the door, her eyes wide with fear as she watched us approach. Father's presence seemed to loom larger than life, and I could see the way she shrank back, clearly terrified after witnessing the bloodied state I was in earlier.
Before we exited the inn, Father turned to her, his voice cold and commanding. "If anything happens to Chris again while under your care," he said slowly, his tone filled with a quiet menace, "you will answer for it. Do you understand?"
The innkeeper's face drained of color, and she immediately fell to her knees, her voice shaking as she stammered, "I-I understand, sir. I swear nothing will happen to her. Please, forgive me!"
Father didn't reply. He simply turned and carried me out of the inn.
The church was located just a few meters before the market, so we reached it in no time. Unlike the towering grandeur of cathedrals, the church was a modest, unassuming building. The stone structure had weathered the years, its once bright walls now faded with time, but it still stood firm, offering solace to those who sought it. Unlike cathedrals, which were governed by bishops and adorned with elaborate religious symbols, churches like this one were simpler, run solely by priests.
There were no grand halls or the talent-measuring tools like those found in cathedrals, tools that could assess one's innate magical abilities. Only cathedrals were permitted to have such powerful relics. Instead, these smaller churches offered basic services: counseling, prayers to the gods, and—most importantly for us—healing potions. These potions were brewed by rare magicians in the capital, those who possessed the rare ability to use healing magic. However, nothing in this world came free, and these potions were no exception.
As we stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense mixed with the dampness of old stone. The quiet atmosphere was comforting in a way, a stark contrast to the chaos of the city outside. A servant of the gods—a young man in simple robes—approached us, his footsteps barely audible on the stone floor.
"Good day," he greeted, bowing slightly. "What brings you to the church today?"
Father stepped forward, his voice steady and direct. "We're in need of a healing potion."
The servant nodded and gestured for us to follow him deeper into the building. We were led through a narrow corridor that eventually opened into a small chamber. Inside, a priest sat at a simple wooden table, his head bent over a pile of parchments, scribbling something in the low light.
When we entered, the priest looked up from his work. He was an older man with deep lines etched into his face, no doubt from years of service and the burdens that came with it. His sharp eyes scanned us briefly before settling on me, taking in my bandaged state and the exhaustion that hung over all of us.
"You've come for a healing potion, I see," the priest remarked, his voice soft but commanding. The servant who had led us here stepped forward and confirmed it for him, explaining our request.
The priest nodded and stood, walking over to a small cabinet tucked in the corner of the room. He opened it with a creak and retrieved a small, glass vial filled with a shimmering, blue liquid. The healing potion glowed faintly, casting a soft light across the room. It was a sight that both intrigued and unnerved me.
"The cost is ten gold coins," the priest said, holding the vial out carefully, as if it were more precious than any treasure.
Ten gold coins. I knew that was a hefty sum, more than many could afford without hesitation. It felt wrong to charge so much for something that could save lives, but I also knew that these potions were rare and took great effort to create. Still, it didn't change the fact that it was a lot of money.
Without a word, Father reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch. The coins clinked as he counted them, placing the exact amount into the priest's hand. The priest weighed the coins in his palm before tucking them away, then handed me the vial.
"Drink it slowly," the priest instructed, watching me closely. "It will heal you, but the process can feel... strange."
I uncorked the vial and brought it to my lips. The liquid inside smelled bitter, and as soon as it touched my tongue, I had to fight the urge to spit it out. It was worse than I'd expected—like drinking liquid metal mixed with something foul. I forced myself to swallow, though every instinct screamed to stop. It wasn't just the taste that was unbearable; it was knowing that this one little bottle had cost ten whole gold coins. That thought alone made me push through the disgust.
As I finished the potion, a strange sensation spread through my body. It felt like time itself was accelerating inside me—my skin tingled, my muscles twitched, and I felt a faint heat rush through my veins. Then, like magic which it was, of course, my wounds began to close. The pain that had plagued me all day slowly dulled and then disappeared entirely. I flexed my fingers and carefully moved my arms, surprised to find that I felt no pain. Not even a dull ache.
"I… I'm healed," I whispered, almost disbelieving. I stood up and took a few steps, testing my legs. They felt strong, as if I hadn't been hurt at all. The healing potion had worked faster than I imagined.
Healing potions were truly amazing.
"Thank you," Father said to the priest, bowing his head slightly in respect. The priest returned the gesture, and with that, we left the church, stepping back into the bustling streets of the city. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the cobblestone paths.
"We should head back to the inn," Father said, adjusting his grip on my shoulder as we walked. "We'll wake Chris and leave the city before nightfall."
I nodded, still marveling at the fact that I felt perfectly fine now, as if the events of earlier hadn't even happened.
As we walked, I heard a familiar voice call out from behind us.
"Big brother!"
I turned to see a young girl running towards us—Rena, the girl from this morning. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and behind her, her mother walked more slowly, catching up.
"Good afternoon!" Rena's mother greeted us warmly when she reached us. "Did you manage to find Mister Carson's residence?"
Father smiled politely and nodded. "Yes, we did. Carson and I had quite a nostalgic conversation about the old days. I'm glad we ran into each other, thanks to you."
Rena's mother beamed. "I'm happy to have helped. It's always nice to reconnect with old friends."
Rena tugged on my sleeve, her innocent face glowing with excitement. "Did you see Papa?" she asked.
"Papa?" I repeated, my mind briefly racing to figure out who she was talking about. Then, in a rush, I remembered the conversation from this morning. Her father was Conrad.
I froze.
For a moment, I couldn't move, my body suddenly feeling heavy. My mouth went dry, and I glanced at Father, hoping for guidance. The look on his face told me that he realized it too—Rena's father wasn't coming home. Not ever.
"What's wrong?" Rena's mother asked, her voice tinged with worry. "Did something happen to my husband?"
Father's face shifted, masking his moment of realization. He quickly regained his composure and spoke with practiced ease. "Oh, no, nothing like that. Your husband was sent on a mission. He won't be back for a while."
"What? But why didn't he tell us?" Rena's mother's brow furrowed, her concern deepening.
"It must have been an emergency mission," Father explained smoothly. "Something urgent that required his immediate attention. He probably didn't have time to let you know."
If I hadn't known better, I might have believed him too. Father was an excellent liar when he needed to be.
"I see…" Rena's mother murmured, her shoulders slumping. "I suppose that makes sense."
"Papa won't be coming home tonight?" Rena asked, her eyes welling with tears.
Her mother knelt down and gently wiped her daughter's cheek. "No, sweetheart, Papa's on a mission. But he'll be back soon. Let's wait for him, okay?"
Rena sniffled, her lower lip trembling. "But I wanted to see Papa today."
And with that, she began to cry.
After Father and I exchanged a few more words with Rena's mother, we both started to feel the weight of the moment pressing down on us. It became increasingly difficult to watch the little girl cry, her soft sobs tugging at our hearts. We exchanged a glance, and with a shared, unspoken agreement, we realized we couldn't bear to linger much longer.
"I think it's time we head back," Father said softly, trying not to disturb the fragile moment between Rena and her mother. His voice was gentle, but there was a trace of heaviness in it.
"Yeah," I nodded, my eyes still flickering toward the young girl. Rena's mother had crouched down to console her, wiping the tears from her daughter's flushed cheeks. Her voice was soothing, though tinged with sadness.
"Goodbye, and take care," Father said, raising his hand slightly as a gesture of farewell.
Rena's mother looked up, her expression grateful but weighed down by concern. "Thank you again… both of you." She offered a sad smile before turning her full attention back to Rena.
As we walked away, their voices grew faint behind us. Rena was still sniffling, her soft cries tugging at my chest. The sight of her tears lingered in my mind, filling me with an uneasy feeling that I couldn't shake. Father and I continued in silence for a while, our footsteps steady but subdued. The weight of the truth we carried pressed heavily on my thoughts, making it harder to focus on anything else.
When they were finally out of sight, I couldn't hold back my question any longer.
"Father… do you regret what you did?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. My words hung in the air like a thick cloud, filled with unspoken weight.
Father didn't answer immediately. His steps slowed slightly, and he looked ahead, eyes narrowed as if searching for something in the distance. The silence between us stretched, almost like he was debating whether or not to tell me the truth.
Finally, he stopped walking altogether, letting out a deep breath. "No," he answered, his voice steady, but there was a quiet sadness in it. "I don't regret it. Not for a moment."
I turned to look at him, searching his face for something more. He kept his gaze forward, almost as if he couldn't meet my eyes.
"I did it to protect you and Chris," he continued, his tone resolute. "No matter how many times it happened, I would do the same thing. Every. Single. Time."
His words hit me hard, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. There was no hesitation in his voice—no trace of doubt. Father's loyalty to us, his family, was unwavering. Even if it meant carrying the burden of someone else's pain, he would endure it.
I clenched my fists at my sides, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I don't hate you, Father," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I won't ever hate you, no matter what you do. I know you only did what you had to… to protect the people you love."
Father turned to face me at last, his expression softening, though there was still a shadow of guilt lingering in his eyes. He gave a slow nod, seeming to take comfort in my words. We stood there for a brief moment, just the two of us, sharing the weight of the secret we now both carried.
After that, we resumed walking in silence. The cobbled streets felt colder now, as if the cheerful energy of the city earlier in the day had drained away with the evening sun. I glanced up at Father, watching his profile as he kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Something about his posture told me he was still deep in thought.
There was something else I needed to know.
"Father," I began cautiously, "why did you deliver the message Conrad entrusted to Carson?"
He didn't hesitate this time, his answer coming smoothly, though still filled with a quiet sorrow. "Because Carson can't deliver it anymore," he said, his voice firm. "And maybe, in some small way, I can make up for Conrad. It's the least I can do for him."
His words lingered in the air, casting a somber tone over us. I understood what he meant, but I couldn't help but feel conflicted. Conrad's fate had been sealed, and nothing could change that. But maybe, just maybe, Father's actions would bring some small peace to those left behind.
We walked in silence for the remainder of the journey, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The streets were growing quieter as the day drew to a close, with fewer people bustling about. The city of Craud, which had been so alive and vibrant earlier, now seemed muted, as if it too was winding down for the night.
When we reached the inn, the familiar sight of the stone building brought a sense of relief. The soft glow of the lanterns outside cast long shadows on the ground, and the warm light spilling from the windows made it feel like a safe haven after such a heavy day.
"We're here," Father said quietly as we approached the entrance. Without another word, we stepped inside, the comforting warmth of the inn's interior wrapping around us. The noise of the other patrons was a welcome distraction from the weight of our thoughts.
We made our way up the stairs to where Chris was still resting. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing. Father leaned down to wake her gently, his touch careful as he roused her from sleep.
"Chris, it's time to go," he said softly. She stirred, blinking a few times before sitting up.
Once Chris was fully awake, Father went to check on Pride, our horse, and prepare the carriage. The stable was a short walk from the inn, and it didn't take long before everything was ready. Chris and I climbed into the carriage while Father took his place at the front.
After making sure everything was in order, Father gave the reins a gentle tug, and with that, we began to leave the city of Craud behind. As the carriage rolled forward, I looked back at the fading lights of the city. We were leaving with both happy and sad memories, carrying with us the weight of what had transpired.