Lower Rosewood had slept. But "quiet" here was never simple.
He woke with the relic already burning at his skin, feverish, as if warning him of trouble waiting beyond the inn's frail walls. Jun was a restless shadow, pacing past the window, wrapped tight in tension that felt almost contagious.
Dawn clawed at the mud lanes and broken rooftops, gold leaking into blue, all sharp edges and old wounds. The village itself was half alive: children darting between puddles, merchants shaking out empty baskets, old men breathing smoke too thick for polite prayers. This place didn't forget its curses, and neither did he.
He rose, bones creaking with hidden fights—inside, outside, it hardly mattered. His stomach whined; the relic pulsed, asking, *What will you risk for breakfast?*
"Eat first," Jun said, sliding a bowl of turnip stew across the table. She'd made it herself, a small mercy wrapped in silence.
He chewed slow, saving each bite, eyes flicking to the restless street. Sects sent spies sometimes—just to remind Rosewood it belonged to someone else. He didn't trust the quiet.
Jun stabbed the stew with her spoon. "Can you pull a weapon again?"
He swallowed, feeling the ache where last night's sword had sparked and gone—"If the relic wants. Not me."
She smirked, lips dry, eyes hungry. "If you can't, run fast."
He smiled, barely. Running had always been easier. But the mountain still writhed outside, and the world wanted miracles—even broken ones.
Thunder grumbled. Somewhere, a door slammed, and the innkeeper's curses chased it out.
"Last night—" Jun started, but he cut her off. "One sword doesn't buy forgiveness."
She rolled a shoulder. "It buys time."
He scrubbed at his sleeve. If time was all he had, he'd better spend it.
A ragged knock split the morning. Hesitation, then three men staggered in—sect marks inked on their temple, blades slung casual as lies. They scanned the room, every inch like a threat.
The leader's eyes landed on him, slow and cold. "You. Relic-boy. Sect wants a word."
He thought about lying. Thought about fighting. Instead, he stared them down, letting silence choke the air.
Jun stood—one motion, knife unsheathed. "Not interested."
The leader laughed, sour and thick. "Interest isn't yours to give."
He felt the relic heat—first gentle, then biting. He placed his palm flat above his heart, whispering a promise: *If you must, then let it be quick.*
The world twitched—edges shimmering, colors warping. His chest burned—miracle or curse, never clear.
The leader lunged forward, blade drawing a line in the air. He shifted sideways—faster than pain, hunger a lightning-rod in his bones.
The relic screamed.
In his hand, weight blossomed—a weapon again, but this time it wasn't steel. It was a staff: wood old as the mountain, runes carved so deep they seemed to breathe. He swung instinctively, catching the leader's sword and snapping it in two. Jun moved in the chaos, knife flashing, eyes wild.
The sect men stuttered. For half a heartbeat, the inn's walls pressed in, envy and fear simmering together.
"Devil's luck," one spat, backing away.
He let the staff drop. It vanished like steam—leaving only the ache behind, wrists trembling, vision flickering in and out. The price came hard: his knees buckled, breath thinned to a whisper, but he stayed upright.
Jun braced him, voice steady. "Not bad, curse-boy. You sure you're alive?"
He coughed, laughter burning. "Alive enough."
The leader picked through scraps of sword, eyes turning mean. "You'll pay."
He wiped sweat from his brow. "I always do."
In the hush that followed, the innkeeper whispered, "You've brought storms, outsider."
He wanted to argue. But the relic pulsed with pain, sharp as regret.
Outside, the village watched. Sects would come, or worse—bandits with new stories to tell, new reasons to hunt.
Jun dragged him out the back, shoes splattered mud, arm tight around his ribs. "We can't stay. Not when you bleed miracles."
He nodded, blinking away nausea. The mountain beckoned—wilder, truer, waiting for storms and stubbornness.
As they passed the last broken fence, a boy tugged his sleeve. "You'll save us, won't you? The relic can do anything."
He knelt, meeting eyes brimming with something older than hope. "Relics only pay fair. I'm not a savior."
The boy held his gaze. "We'll remember."
He turned away, shoulders burning. How many promises could a sectless make before they broke?
At the edge of Rosewood, thunder built, heavy and swollen. He could taste it—rain and risk, miracle and memory.
Jun said, "Next time the relic spits something out—try for a shield instead."
He grinned, young and desperate. "Or wings."
She snorted. "Or food."
The mountain opened its arms; storm clouds twisted like old gods.
He limped onward, each step through mud a rebellion: against exile, against fate.
The relic throbbed a promise—unpredictable, hungry, but his alone. He'd wield it, bear whatever price it asked, and keep moving—until tomorrow's storm, and the next, and every hope too stubborn to die.