SMASH!
Chauncey's axe tore straight through the tavern table, splitting the thick wood and sending splinters and spilled ale in every direction. Chairs scraped back as startled patrons stumbled away from the blast of chaos.
Chauncey cursed loudly, yanking at the weapon with both hands, the veins in his neck bulging in frustration.
"UGH—come on, damn thing—!"
Zayn watched him struggle, tilting his head with an almost amused calm.
The fight—if it could even be called that—had ended the moment the axe missed.
And now Chauncey was exposed. Wide open.
Zayn stepped forward lightly, almost casually, his long black hair swaying behind him.
KICK!
His boot slammed into the man's hip.
BAM—!
The large man crashed to the floor with a grunt, the tavern floorboards rattling beneath his weight. Zayn raised his foot again—this time far less playfully, intent sharpening in his gaze. He wasn't here to kill, but he wasn't about to tolerate being hunted twice in one day.
Then—
"Chauncey Wraithfield! I swear to the gods—if you started another fight I WILL skin you alive!"
The voice shot towards the tavern's doors before the woman who owned it even came into view.
Zayn froze.
The tavern froze.
Even Chauncey froze, still face-down on the floor.
A tall woman stormed in, boots thudding heavily. Golden hair flowed over her shoulders in messy, irritated waves. Her eyes landed on the overturned tables, the crowd, her idiot brother pinned to the floor—
—and the stranger standing over him with a deadly stare.
She sighed the sigh of someone who had been dealing with this exact scene for years.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.
"I leave you alone for ten minutes…"
Several patrons nodded in agreement.
Zayn slowly lowered his foot, tension dissolving—more out of confusion than mercy.
Chauncey groaned, lifting his head. "… Charolette… it's not what it looks like—"
"It looks like you tried to murder another foreigner that's simply trying to visit these lands again,"
she snapped.
He shut up.
She turned to Zayn and bowed deeply.
"I'm so, so sorry about my brother, sir. Please don't kill him—or report us to the inquisiton—…"
Zayn's brows furrowed.
"I can… I can make you dinner! As an apology!"
"…what?"
Zayn blinked.
The entire tavern blinked with him.
But the woman was already dragging her massive brother up by the ear.
"You. Home. NOW."
Chauncey whimpered.
Zayn blinked again.
Dinner?
….
The awkwardness in the air was thick enough to chew.
Zayn sat at a small dining table inside the siblings' home, staring down at the plate in front of him with the expression of someone trying desperately to avoid being perceived.
Before him, was a plate of food that wasn't usually served at dinner.
Eggs. And grits.
Definitely not dinner food.
Definitely a panic meal.
He poked at the grits.
He did not eat the grits.
Not out of rudeness—he just… didn't know how to exist in this situation.
Charolette placed a cup of tea beside him with a warm, apologetic smile.
She had calmed down now—her earlier fury replaced by practiced hospitality. Beneath her annoyance there was care, control, and a surprising steadiness. She didn't appear to be just the responsible sibling—she was the backbone of the whole damn house.
Chauncey, now chastened, sat across from Zayn with his arms crossed and his pride bruised.
"Not a fan of grits and eggs, eh?" Chauncey grumbled.
Charolette rewarded him with a kicked under the table without looking.
Zayn finally spoke, voice soft but steady.
"It's fine. I'm… not used to eating with others."
Both siblings looked at him for a moment—Charolette with curiosity, Chauncey with suspicious interest.
Zayn continued, eyes still on his untouched food.
"Your brother had a reason to attack me. The reward for my head would tempt anyone."
Charolette's brows rose.
She didn't freak out. Didn't recoil. Just watched him more carefully now, guarded but not panicked. She hadn't pecked the boy for a thief. Her eyes flickered towards his sword— it's case and metal not of this lands. A strange engraving on the hilt. Stolen, perhaps?
"Heard rumors,"
Chauncey said, leaning forward.
"'Bout a katana-wielding kid who's killed over a hundred soldiers and hunters. Possessed, they say."
Charolette glared.
"Chauncey. Don't start with your nonsense—"
"It's not nonsense," Chauncey said quietly.
And the shift in his tone was enough to silence her.
Zayn's eyes lowered. His fingers tightened around his fork until the metal creaked.
Chauncey's voice dropped even further.
"Charolette… remember the story Dad told us? The one about the man who nearly destroyed Plugand with magic alone?"
She blinked, uncertain.
"…Yes?"
"He wasn't just any mage. He was the most powerful warrior in recorded history. They sealed him away for five hundred years."
"And?"
she asked, confused but uneasy now.
"Those five hundred years ended recently. Seals have a time limit, Charolette."
She stared at him.
Then she stared at Zayn.
Zayn didn't lift his head.
Didn't deny it.
Chauncey pointed at him slowly.
"Based off rumors, I heard the church had no choice but transfer the seal. Into a newborn."
Charolette's mouth parted.
"You're saying he's a vessel?"
Zayn exhaled.
"…I am."
Silence.
Heavy.
Tense.
Charolette leaned back slightly, searching his face for the slightest hint of manipulation or malice.
But all she found was exhaustion. Burden. Quiet fear.
Her shoulders loosened just a touch.
"…Well," she finally murmured, "that's a lot to carry."
Chauncey stared at his sister like she'd grown a second head.
"That's your reaction!?"
She huffed.
"I'm not saying it's good, Chauncey. I'm saying… he looks more terrified than terrifying."
That hit Zayn harder than he expected. Chauncey was about to say something, but the words died in his mouth. He did try to kill him first.
The room warmed with the fire's glow, but his chest felt cold.
Charolette's voice softened.
"Do you ever wonder what would happen if… he took control?"
The question pierced him.
Zayn's shoulders stiffened; his breath hitched.
He didn't want to answer.
He'd asked himself that question far too many times in the dark of night.
He swallowed.
"…I don't know."
Chauncey scoffed.
"Exactly. You don't know. The church doesn't know. Nobody knows. And people hate what they can't predict."
Zayn's eyes flicked up, meeting his.
"So you think I'm some kind of ticking bomb."
Chauncey shrugged.
"Aren't you?"
The silence grew heavy.
Until Charolette stood abruptly, hands on her hips.
"Either way, the church won't stop. It won't take long for them to reach here. The inquisiton has eyes everywhere. Its not a matter of If they get here…they will. All Because of the ruckus my brother made."
Her eyes flickered to her brother, eyes narrowing.
"I mean— it's not like we're gonna be here forever. We were supposed to leave here and find our old man in a few days anyway."
Before anyone could speak further—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A fist slammed against the front door.
Charolette's eyes widened.
Chauncey stiffened.
Zayn felt it immediately.
Authority.
Armor.
Training.
Not a neighbor.
Not a drunk.
Not a friend.
Soldiers.
Chauncey's expression darkened.
"Damn it… they really did follow you."
Charolette grabbed her coat.
"If they search the house and find him—Plugand law says they burn everything to the ground."
Chauncey looked at Zayn.
Then at his sister.
"Looks like our plans to leave Plugand has to be sooner than we thought," he muttered.
Zayn stared at them both, stunned at how easily they accepted this.
"Are you two serious?" he whispered.
Charolette smirked faintly, grabbing her satchel.
"I don't think we have time to discuss something like this."
She began. Chauncey grabbed his axe.
"Plus, we're not leavin' you to die." She finished.
Zayn's lips twitched—barely, but undeniably—into the ghost of a smile. It didn't seem as if he had a better option at the moment.
Charolette pushed open the back door, glancing over her shoulder.
"I hope you know how crazy this is. Going off with a stranger we just met no less—!"
Chauncey's voice teetered above that of a whisper.
"Well…at least our lives just got a lot less boring."
She said, though fear seemed to appear eminent on her features. The price for harboring a heretic had only been thought of in dreams.
This?
This was real.
And there was no turning back now.