"Ha… ha… ha…"
Remy breathed heavily as he trudged across the desert. Most of his strength had already left him; three days of walking while carrying someone would break anyone.
"Make sure you keep a steady flow of mystic through him, or he will die," Raven muttered, flying overhead. He hadn't stopped speaking since the moment they fled.
Remy was so thirsty that his mouth felt like sand; his head was a drum, and he felt his skull might split open. His head throbbed with a ridiculous, pulsing pain, but he forced himself onwards. If he collapsed now, Chad would die.
Today, the sun was particularly high—blinding, merciless, burning his eyes every time he looked up.
"Wow. A normal person would've died by now. What great will he has," Raven commented, almost impressed.
Finally—something shifted in the distance.
A shadowy silhouette. After so many days of nothing but sand and suffering, a town emerged on the horizon.
He had made it.
His hometown.
Thud!
Remy fell to the ground, everything going black. And just before his eyes closed, he saw a shadowy figure standing over him.
"Hey, Grandma—he's waking up."
A soft voice rang out.
Remy slowly opened his eyes. The room was dark, lit only by a faint flicker of light far in the corner. The air smelled of mould and damp earth.
"Ahhh—shi… shi… shi…" He groaned, clutching his forehead after accidentally bumping it against the low bedframe above him.
His vision blurred and then steadied. He scanned the room. At the far end stood an elderly woman of short stature, wrapped in long, worn robes.
Beside her was a little girl, no older than twelve. She had brown hair and glossy eyes of the same hue. Her dress was neat but visibly patched, with a large red ribbon tied around her waist. The fabric showed signs of long wear—but also long care, lovingly maintained over the years.
The little girl peeked shyly from behind the old woman as the crone slowly approached Remy.
"Oh-ho, you've finally woken up. You've been asleep so long, I thought you were dead—kikikiki…"
Her laugh was shrill, piercing.
Remy stared blankly for a moment, thoughts still foggy.
"What? Are you mute?" the old woman snapped.
"No… no. I'm sorry for my rudeness," Remy said quickly. "Thank you. I'm… really grateful you saved us."
He pushed himself up slightly, eyes darting around in sudden panic.
"By any chance… did you see the person I came with?
"Oh, he's just fine. Look above you."
The old woman pointed upward with her crooked staff, her thin hands trembling.
Remy glanced up. Chad lay on the wooden loft bed above, wrapped in a thin blanket. His chest rose and fell steadily—alive, but barely. The mystic around his body pulsed unevenly, surging one moment and flickering out the next.
"It looks like Raven is lying on him… keeping him alive," Remy thought, spotting the faint shadow-crown nestled near Chad's neck. "Though it's his fault to begin with."
"Go on now, Caroline," the old woman said. "Give the man some food. I bet he's starving, having missed breakfast."
The little girl jolted into motion. She hurried to the wall where the chipped plates were stacked, then turned toward the black pot hanging above the fire pit.
Flames crackled beneath it, offering both warmth and the only light in the house.
Caroline picked up a large wooden spoon.
Gloop.
A thick, grey paste dropped heavily onto the plate. She scooped another ladleful. Then another. When the plate was full, she carried it forward—though she paused nervously halfway, stealing quick glances at Remy as if unsure whether she should approach.
Remy climbed down the small ladder after making sure Chad was stable. He turned just in time as Caroline reached him.
"Here you go, mister," she said softly, holding out the plate.
The food was completely grey—lifeless, colourless. The smell rising from it was sour, foul, and unmistakably spoiled.
Yet… this was what they were eating.
What they had.
Remy's throat tightened.
"Ah… thank you," he said, accepting the plate despite his hesitation.
But beggars can't be choosers, he reminded himself.
Remy forced the mush down his throat. Every swallow burned with the urge to gag, but he kept eating anyway—he had no choice.
"How is it?" the old woman asked, a wide, unsettling smile stretching across her face.
"It's guu—hm—" he gagged mid-sentence. "It's good," he managed, forcing a smile so stiff it hurt.
"You liar. It's been bad for a day now." She cackled and settled into the rocking chair beside him.
"What?!" Remy sputtered.
"Well, at least now I know what kind of man you are. A little liar—kikikikiki!" She rocked back and forth, the chair creaking in an uneven rhythm.
Remy placed the plate at his side, posture shifting. His eyes sharpened—stern, unreadable. He had learned a long time ago: there is no such thing as a free lunch.
August had taught him that in the worst way possible.
So he asked quietly:
"Why did you save us?"
The woman's rocking slowed. "Oh, no reason really. You just… reminded me of my son." Her voice dipped, oddly soft for a moment. "I thought I would save you."
Remy's gaze didn't move. He kept staring at her, calculating, wary.
The old woman chuckled.
"Ha! Quite the tough customer, aren't you?" She paused, inhaled, then added, "I am old, you see."
'Obviously,' Remy thought, deadpan.
"Oh, I've lived quite the life," the old woman said, eyes half-closed as her chair rocked slowly. "I've seen people come and go, mountains rise and fall… But everything must end eventually. I turn a hundred and five tomorrow."
"And?" Remy frowned. He didn't understand where this rambling was leading.
The woman's expression hardened—sharply, suddenly.
"I need you to take Caroline with you. That is the price of the shelter and food I've given you."
The softness she had shown earlier vanished completely.
Her voice now held a cold, unshakeable resolve.
Remy stiffened.
"I can—"
BANG!
The door exploded inward, crashing to the floor in a cloud of dust.
"I told you boys," a crude voice sneered from outside.
"There's an old hag living here with a little girl. We can have our fun ten times over tonight."
Remy felt his blood curdle—anger, disgust, and something darker rising inside him.
Five men strode into the home and stood at the entrance, blocking any escape. Their shadows stretched across the floor, long and crooked in the firelight.
"Come out, old hag," one of them hissed, stepping forward.
He had the face of a rat—thin, twitchy features, and twin whisker-like tufts curling outward from his cheeks.
A silver blade glimmered in his hand.
"Bring your cute little daughter out," he said, licking his lips.
"Before we burn this whole place down."