Lucian clutched the wooden cup in both hands, blinking as he took another sip of the tepid broth. It had been a day since he staggered into Norick's mayoral hall, half-starved and trembling. Now, seated on a low bench in the cramped side chamber, he felt the rawness of survival fading—replaced by deep-seated exhaustion. The brand on his abdomen pulsed with faint warmth, as though mirroring his relief and disquiet in equal measure.
A slender woman with streaks of gray in her hair—Healer Kadri, the townsfolk called her—observed him from across the room. Earlier, she had examined his bruises and shallow cuts, clicking her tongue at the sorry state of his body. Her expression blended sympathy with professional detachment.
"You're not quite as injured as I feared," she said now, packing away a jar of herbal ointment. "Mostly malnourishment, exhaustion… and a few nasty bruises." Her gaze lingered on the bandages around his midsection. "Rest, eat properly, and your body should recover."
Lucian offered a timid nod, lowering the cup. He hadn't dared reveal the secret of his glowing rune; the thought of exposing it to a stranger, even a kindly healer, sent icy dread through his veins. Instead, he kept the brand well-hidden beneath makeshift bandages. The faint throbbing had slowed but never ceased, reminding him that no matter how safe he felt at the moment, the cult's ritual still clung to him.
A rap on the doorframe drew both their attention. Gareth, the mayor's aide who had offered him lodging in the hall, stepped inside. He carried a folded blanket under one arm and had a concerned look etched into his features. "Healer Kadri, is he stable enough to move?" he asked.
She sighed lightly. "He'll manage, but mind his fatigue. Where are you taking him?"
Gareth shifted the blanket. "We cleared a small cot in the storeroom for him. The main guest rooms are full or paid for. This is all we can spare."
Kadri patted Lucian's arm reassuringly. "It's better than sleeping in an alley. Don't push yourself—understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Lucian whispered. He exhaled a trembling breath, glancing at his scuffed feet. Every muscle ached, but in a dull, faraway sense. The guard who had questioned him earlier had seemed suspicious, but no one had turned him out. This modicum of safety felt almost surreal.
Gareth gestured for Lucian to follow. "Come on, lad. Let's get you settled."
Lucian stood on shaky legs, grateful for the staff's patience. Just as he moved to step around the healer, a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The room spun, and his vision blurred at the edges. Reflexively, he reached for the wall, breath catching in his throat.
Kadri grabbed his shoulder before he crumpled. "Easy," she murmured, pressing a small bottle into his hand. "Smelling salts. In case you feel faint again."
Heat flared along the brand, a sharp throb that coursed through his abdomen. For an instant, Lucian felt certain it was reacting to his sudden weakness, or perhaps to the swirl of anxieties crowding his mind. He grimaced, forcing a nod and clinging to the bottle. Don't pass out here, he admonished himself. You can't draw more suspicion.
With Gareth's help, he slowly navigated the short corridor, passing small offices filled with stacked papers and ledgers. A few townspeople hovered around, most of them seeking mayoral approval for farmland disputes or minor trade licenses. Their gazes slid over Lucian—some curious, some wary. He lowered his head, unwilling to meet their eyes.
At the end of the hall, Gareth pushed open a door leading to a cramped storeroom. Shelves lined the walls, laden with sacks of grain, spare lanterns, and cleaning supplies. Tucked into one corner stood a narrow cot piled with old blankets.
"It's not much," Gareth apologized, depositing the folded blanket at the cot's foot, "but it's private enough. Safer than a common bunkhouse, especially in your condition." He motioned for Lucian to sit. "I'll bring some simple meals through the day."
Lucian sank onto the cot, breath hitching. His body felt impossibly heavy, as if the tension of the past few days pressed down all at once. "Thank you," he managed. "I—I appreciate it."
Gareth's stern expression softened. "Rest. We'll chat more when you're ready to talk about what happened." He offered a curt nod, then retreated, shutting the door with a gentle click.
Alone in the storeroom, Lucian stared at the meager cot. A wave of relief and anxiety clashed in his chest. Is it really safe? He had spent so long on the run—evading cultists, scavengers, the unknown—that the concept of a locked door and a cot felt alien. The brand's subdued pulse, at least, suggested no immediate danger. With a quiet sigh, he lay back, letting his eyes drift shut.
Moments later, fatigue won out. Sleep overtook him, deep and mercifully dreamless. For hours, the storeroom was silent save for his slow, even breathing.
The dull clang of metal startled him awake. Disoriented, he blinked at the dim light filtering through a small, high-set window. Afternoon, perhaps. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how little he'd eaten. The brand throbbed faintly, a baseline hum that set him on edge.
He propped himself up, finding a small tray on a wooden crate beside the cot. Someone—likely Gareth—had left it while he slept. A bowl of porridge and a chunk of bread, both still warm. Gratitude swelled in Lucian's chest. He devoured them quickly, ignoring the mild burn of the porridge on his tongue.
The clanging noise repeated, echoing through the corridor. Curious, Lucian rose to his feet, bracing a hand on the wall until the last of his dizziness passed. He cracked open the storeroom door and peered out. The hallway was empty, but from the open window at the far end, he heard the faint ring of metal striking metal.
A smithy? He recalled passing one in the marketplace. The sound was sharper here, though, reverberating from somewhere close. Could the building next door house a blacksmith? The brand gave a tiny flutter, akin to intrigue, but Lucian shook his head. Focus. You're here to recover. He gently shut the door and slumped back on the cot.
His mind wandered to the brand's possible connection to forging or runic magic. He remembered overhearing travelers mention forging arrays in his old world's stories—no, that was from novels or games, right? The confusion of being a modern adult soul in a child's battered body still unsettled him. He tried to quell the swirl of contradictory memories. Right now, he needed to heal.
Time bled together in the storeroom's dim quiet. Twice, Gareth or Kadri checked on him, each time urging him to rest more. He obeyed, drifting in and out of restless sleep. When night fell outside, he found it impossible to settle. The slightest creak or scuff from the hallway set his heart racing, the brand pulsing with anxious heat. What if the cult's agents prowled Norick's streets, searching for him?
At some point, he managed to doze off again, only to be snatched from slumber by a sharp ache in his abdomen. At first, he feared it was the brand flaring, but the pain was more mundane, the pang of emptiness that no amount of meager meals could fully fix. Sweating, he wiped clammy palms on his shirt. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Just a bit longer… maybe they'll let me stay here until I'm stronger.
Morning light roused him for the second time. A dull headache lingered behind his eyes, but at least he felt more stable on his feet. Stretching gingerly, he left the storeroom and wandered the corridors. The hall bustled with voices—mayoral aides addressing trade matters or petty disputes.
He made his way to the building's small reception area, where a stern clerk juggled stacks of parchment. She glanced up. "Yes?"
Lucian swallowed. "I… wanted to thank Gareth for letting me rest. Should I… stay out of the way?"
The clerk's expression softened slightly. "Gareth's out, handling some relief requests in the marketplace. You can wait here or help if you're up for it."
Lucian's nerves fluttered. Helping might be safer than loitering suspiciously. "What do you need?" he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
A hint of relief flickered in her eyes. She plucked a small stack of leaflets from the desk. "These notices about the cult threat—post them around town. The guards have been tasked to do it, but they're short-staffed. If you're strong enough to walk, you can handle it."
His brand twitched at the mention of cult. Lucian forced a nod. "All right. I can do that."
She handed him a jar of paste and a brush along with the leaflets. "Just be careful. Some folks are jumpy. Tensions are high."
Gripping the items, Lucian tucked them under one arm and set off. Despite a swirl of unease, he felt a small sense of purpose. This was better than idling in the storeroom, and maybe he could scout potential escapes if danger arose.
Within an hour, Lucian had visited several corners of Norick, brushing paste on wooden walls or notice boards and slapping up the cult warning leaflets. They featured crude drawings of hooded figures and a plea for townspeople to report any suspicious travelers. The more he posted them, the more unsettled he grew. If they suspect me…
At a side alley near the blacksmith's forge, he paused to catch his breath. The clang of hammer on anvil rang out, accompanied by bursts of sparks that danced through the open forge door. Curiosity tugged at him. He had always found forging fascinating—though in his old life, it had been a mere hobby reading about blacksmithing, not a reality. Now, the brand gave a tiny pulse, almost as if it shared his intrigue. Why do you react? he silently asked the rune. No answer came, just that faint warmth.
A sudden wave of dizziness rolled through him. He staggered, leaning against the alley wall. His body felt heavier by the minute, each step more draining than the last. The brand flared, not in alarm, but in weariness, as if echoing his fatigue. "Just a minute," he murmured, blinking to clear his vision.
A passerby noticed his unsteady posture. "Hey, lad, you all right?"
Lucian forced a tight smile. "I'm… fine," he managed, pushing off the wall. With unsteady steps, he pinned another leaflet to a weathered post, ignoring the onlooker's concerned gaze. Need to finish this and return. Or perhaps find food again, he realized, stomach twisting.
He pressed on, crossing into the outskirts of the marketplace. Voices rose and fell around stalls selling vegetables, cloth, and simple tools. The pungent scent of roasted meat drifting from a vendor's cart made his hunger gnaw like a beast. He had no coin. Maybe Gareth left more food at the storeroom. He pinned the final notice to a post near a fruit stand, wincing as his vision blurred.
That was the last push he could manage. Head swimming, he stumbled away from the crowd. Each step grew heavier, until the world tilted. He barely registered the concerned cries of bystanders.
He collapsed onto the packed dirt, knees buckling. A sharp sting radiated through his elbows and palms when they hit the ground. Darkness fringed his vision. The brand surged with warmth, almost hot enough to scald. He gasped, heart pounding, as the vendor's cart loomed overhead, the vendor shouting for help.
"Kid's fainted!" someone exclaimed.
"Get him water!"
Lucian's thoughts swirled. He glimpsed blurred faces, a woman kneeling at his side, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. Hands gently rolled him onto his back. The brand's heat became a dull roar, then receded, leaving him afloat in a haze. Stay awake, he told himself, but his eyes drifted shut despite the frantic voices urging him to hold on.
When he surfaced again, a bright light seared his eyelids. He flinched, groaning. Soft bedding cushioned his body—softer than the storeroom cot. He forced his eyes open, blinking away tears. The room was small, with a single window letting in midday sun. A pot of herbal concoction simmered on a nearby stove, filling the air with a heady scent.
Healer Kadri hovered, pressing gentle fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse. A tense frown marked her face. "You're awake. Good." She exhaled. "You gave people a scare, collapsing in the street like that."
Lucian tried to speak, but his throat felt raw. She offered him a cup, and he sipped warm water laced with herbs. The brand's presence flickered, muted behind the swirl of exhaustion. He sank into the pillows—someone had moved him from the storeroom into this smaller infirmary area within the mayor's hall, or perhaps an adjacent building.
Kadri set aside the cup. "Your body's been through more than hunger, hasn't it? Stress, fear… and something else." Her gaze lingered on his bandaged torso, as though sensing an anomaly. "You're safe for now, but you must rest properly. No more errands until you're stronger."
Anxiety spiked. She can't suspect the rune, can she? He swallowed, feigning a pained expression. "I'm just… I was scared," he managed. "Everything happened so fast. The traveling, the… the attack."
Her gaze softened. "I won't pry. But you're not alone. This town has a habit of taking in lost souls, at least for a while." She brushed a stray hair from her face. "Sleep more. Let your body mend."
He nodded weakly, relief and lingering tension blending in his chest. The brand thumped once, but not painfully. Perhaps it too sensed the lull. As Kadri pulled a thin blanket over him, he allowed his eyes to close, acknowledging the exhaustion that clung like a heavy shawl.
Lucian drifted in that hazy realm between waking and sleep, lulled by the rhythmic crackle of the simmering pot. Soft footsteps came and went in the corridor beyond. He heard Gareth's hushed voice speaking to someone about ration lists or new refugees. From a half-dreaming state, Lucian reminded himself: This is the first moment of real safety I've had since escaping that nightmare. Even if only temporary, it was enough to let him breathe.
Yes, the cult threat loomed. The brand remained an unspoken anchor to that horror. But for now, he had a bed, caring hands to tend his wounds, and no immediate chase dogging his footsteps. As his body relaxed, he resolved to use this respite wisely, to gather strength. The day would come when he had to confront his secrets—and the cult that tried to claim him. But not today.
Fatigue melted away into true sleep. Outside, the bustle of Norick carried on, oblivious to the boy who had collapsed from fear and hardship, and who now clung to the fragile peace of a healer's care.