Morning sunlight crept through the single, narrow window of the makeshift infirmary where Lucian had slept. He woke abruptly, startled by an unfamiliar sound outside in the corridor—a murmur of voices, punctuated by a sharper exchange. His heart fluttered, and the strange rune on his abdomen pulsed once, sending a familiar warmth through his skin. Are they arguing about me?
He reached a shaky hand to the bandages around his torso, ensuring the brand remained hidden. Days had passed since he'd collapsed in the street and been brought here, receiving a modicum of care from Healer Kadri. Each morning, he felt stronger, though the brand never let him forget the cult's shadow that trailed him.
A brisk knock on the door tore him from his thoughts. Gareth, the mayor's aide, stepped inside, wearing a strained smile. Two uniformed guards followed—one was a familiar wiry man from the gate, the other a broad-shouldered woman whose eyes never left Lucian's face. Their presence set Lucian's nerves on edge.
Gareth cleared his throat. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"
Lucian managed a small bow of his head. "Better," he whispered. "Thank you for letting me stay."
The aide's smile wavered. "We're pleased you're recovering, but… certain concerns have arisen."
The broad-shouldered guard spoke up, her voice firm. "There are rumors in town—questions about your origins. Some folks say you appeared out of nowhere, a stray from a destroyed village." She folded her arms. "We'd like to clarify a few things."
The brand throbbed, fueling an unpleasant spike of anxiety. Don't panic. Lucian forced himself to maintain composure. "I understand," he murmured. "I'll do my best to answer."
Gareth gestured toward a small chair by Lucian's bed. "Shall we sit? I'd like to keep this calm."
Lucian nodded. His limbs still felt weak, but he eased himself upright, making room for Gareth on the wooden stool. The guards stood near the door, watchful. He couldn't help noticing how their gazes drifted to his bandaged midsection, searching for signs of hidden wounds or… something else.
"We've had travelers passing through," Gareth began, choosing his words carefully. "Some mention cult attacks in the region, entire villages wiped out. You said your home was destroyed, but you haven't given many details."
Lucian's throat constricted. Memories of the black-robed figures flickered in his mind, stirring the brand's warmth. He clasped his hands together, trying to steady them. "I… I'm sorry. It's hard to talk about." His voice quivered. "They—these hooded people—burned everything. I just ran."
He left out the part about waking in the ritual's aftermath, the glowing rune etched into his flesh. No good could come from revealing that. The wiry guard's expression remained guarded, but not hostile. Gareth offered a gentle nod, encouraging Lucian to continue.
"They… wore robes," Lucian repeated softly. "Chanting in a language I didn't understand. Then the fires, the screams…" He trailed off, letting his trembling voice speak volumes.
The broad-shouldered guard exchanged a look with her companion, then turned back to Lucian. "And you escaped alone?" she asked. "No family members or neighbors with you?"
Tension coiled in Lucian's stomach. He shook his head. "I didn't see anyone else alive. Maybe… maybe some did flee in another direction." Even as he said the words, he doubted them. His last memory of that village was carnage.
Gareth rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry to press you, but the town must be certain of your story. People fear infiltration by cult agents."
A chill crawled down Lucian's spine. "I'm not one of them," he insisted, voice cracking. The brand flared, as though the accusation stung it personally. "I swear, I—" He cut himself off, realizing desperation might come across as guilt. Calming himself with a shaky breath, he added, "I just want to be safe."
Gareth studied him for a long moment. At last, he exhaled, nodding slightly. "We want that too. However, questions remain, and some townsfolk whisper. They said they saw a glowing rune on your abdomen while carrying you to the infirmary. They wonder if you're cursed or… if you brought trouble."
Lucian's heart pounded. That was exactly the suspicion he feared. Stay calm. "I understand," he whispered. "If you want me to leave, I can…" Even as he said it, the prospect filled him with dread. Where would he go?
A flicker of sympathy touched Gareth's eyes. "No, not at present. The mayor believes in helping refugees, but we must keep watch. For your own safety as well. The cult might still be out there."
The wiry guard cleared his throat. "From now on, we'll ask you to stay within the town's walls. Don't wander the outskirts alone, and don't keep secrets if you see something suspicious." He paused, meeting Lucian's gaze. "Understand?"
Lucian nodded. "I do." Relief mingled with tension. So they weren't throwing him out, but they also weren't blindly trusting him. That was more than he could have hoped for.
The broad-shouldered guard relaxed her posture. "One more thing. The brand you carry—your bruises—should we be worried about any… unusual injuries?" Her stare bore into him, as if seeking hidden truths. "Healer Kadri mentioned you've got your torso wrapped heavily. Are you sure it's just bruises?"
The brand pulsed hotter, and Lucian's breath caught. If he told them of the glowing rune, suspicion would skyrocket. He forced a weak smile. "It's mostly bruised ribs," he murmured, fighting to keep fear from his eyes. "Kadri said I'd heal with rest. She can confirm." He prayed they wouldn't pry further.
After a tense moment, Gareth nodded. "Kadri hasn't raised any dire alarms." He rose from the chair and gestured for the guards to follow. "All right, lad. We'll give you space for now. But be prepared—if folks start questioning you in the street, keep your temper. The mayor will decide how long you may remain. Don't be alarmed if a guard checks in from time to time."
Lucian bowed his head in acknowledgment, voice hoarse. "Thank you for letting me stay."
They filed out, leaving the room's air thick with the echoes of their suspicion. Lucian exhaled, shoulders slumping. His entire body felt taut, as if bracing for a blow that never came. The brand's warmth receded slowly, as though disappointed it hadn't erupted into crisis.
He tried to go about the day quietly. Freed from strict confinement in the infirmary, he ventured into the corridor, greeting Gareth's scribes with polite nods. A few offered guarded smiles; others eyed him with the same cautious curiosity that pervaded the town. No matter how polite he acted, rumors had taken root.
By midday, he found himself wandering the ground floor of the mayor's hall, uncertain what to do. Hunger gnawed at him, but he felt wary about asking for more food. Instead, he drifted outside into the courtyard, letting the autumn sun warm his skin.
A pair of women paused in their conversation as he passed, whispering behind cupped hands. Lucian caught the words "cult" and "cursed." His stomach twisted. They think I'm cursed, or connected to that vile group. He clutched his bandaged ribs, the brand pulsing at the edges of his awareness.
"Over there, see?" one woman murmured a bit too loudly. "That's the boy from the north. Strange aura about him."
Lucian's cheeks burned. He lowered his gaze, hurrying along. He couldn't blame them for their fear. The farmland had seen enough horrors.
Later, as he crossed the marketplace for some air, he noticed a few new faces—travelers from a distant caravan. They wore worn cloaks and carried exotic trinkets. Their boisterous chatter contrasted with the subdued vibe he'd grown used to among Norick's more cautious folk. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: Could these travelers bring news of other survivors? But his timidness held him back from asking.
Near the forge, that same rhythmic clang of metal on anvil drew his attention. He lingered for a moment, peering at the blacksmith's open workspace. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-stained apron, hammered a glowing piece of iron on his anvil, sparks dancing around him. Onlookers occasionally gathered, but no one stood close, likely wary of stray embers.
Lucian's brand stirred with mild curiosity again, that same faint resonance he couldn't explain. Why does forging catch your interest? he wondered silently. He considered approaching, but a flash of suspicion—a cultist's trick?—echoed from an earlier conversation in his mind, making him hesitate. Instead, he pressed on.
By late afternoon, he felt the weight of stares and whispers wearing him down. He retreated to the storeroom-turned-living-space in the mayor's hall, only to find Healer Kadri waiting for him. She wore a kind smile tinged with concern.
"How are your ribs?" she asked, gesturing for him to sit on the cot. "Let me see if the bruising's improved."
His pulse lurched. He didn't dare remove the bandages fully. "They're… better," he mumbled. "I can breathe without too much pain." That part was true, at least.
Kadri gently probed the bandaged area above his waist, nodding at the reduced swelling. When her fingers edged dangerously close to the brand's location, tension coiled in him like a spring. "No sign of infection," she noted, stepping back. "Any unusual symptoms?"
Lucian shook his head, forcing a neutral expression. "Just… nightmares sometimes." Vague honesty felt safer than making excuses. "I recall the screams, the fire."
Sympathy crossed her features. "Trauma can manifest in dreams. In time, if you wish, we can prepare a mild remedy to soothe your sleep. But for now, keep the bandages unless you find them uncomfortable."
He exhaled in relief. "Thank you." She suspected nothing, it seemed—just an ordinary caretaker, offering help.
With a gentle pat on his shoulder, she departed. Lucian slumped onto the cot, every muscle going slack. Too close. The brand flickered with a subdued warmth, as if acknowledging the narrow escape.