Shattered silence rushed back in.
Mina collapsed onto the nearest stool, burying her face in her hands, sobbing. Rhea didn't move. She stood by the hearth, her hand drifting slowly, unconsciously, to the spot on her ass where he had grabbed her, rubbing the phantom heat away, her face burning with shame and a confusing lingering tingle.
Nnael stared at the door. He felt the vibration of the slam in his teeth.
He didn't comfort them. He couldn't. If he touched them now, with this cold rage vibrating under his skin, he might scare them more than Garrow did.
"I'm gonna take a walk," Nnael said.
"Nnael, no!" Mina cried, looking up, her face streaked with tears. "You're not fit enough!"
"I need air, mother" he lied. "The steam... it's too much."
He grabbed a walking stick, a rough branch Rhea had left by the door, and limped out before they could stop him.
The village of Vekhaon was a mud-pit.
The rain suddenly dropped. Here, it wasn't cleansing. It was a grey drizzle that coated everything in a layer of slick, depressing slime. The cottages huddled together like shivering animals.
Nnael walked. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. His muscles burned. His lungs wheezed. But his mind was sharp, a diamond cutting glass.
He wasn't walking aimlessly. He was hunting. Not for meat, but for gossips.
He blended in, hunching his shoulders, exaggerating his limp. He let his mouth hang slightly open, adopting the dull, vacant stare of a blight-touched invalid. People ignored him. He was just scenery. A piece of broken furniture left out in the rain.
He stopped by the village well. Two women were filling buckets, their voices low.
"...saw him coming out of Old Mufler's place," one whispered. "Bag was heavy. Clinking."
"Gold?"
"Didn't sound like gold. Sounded like glass."
Nnael lingered, pretending to struggle with his boot lace. He breathed through his pores, tasting the mana-residue in the air.
He moved on and found a spot near the tavern, The Broken Wheel. He sat in the mud, leaning against a rain-barrel, looking for all the world like a beggar waiting for scraps.
Garrow's routine.
He watched the collector come out of the tavern an hour later. Garrow was drunker now, swaying slightly. He wasn't heading toward the road that led to the Baron's keep. He was heading toward the edge of the village, toward the old, abandoned silkworm barn.
Nnael waited. He counted to sixty. Then he followed.
He moved silently. His body was weak, but his technique, the Ghost-Step from his past life, was etched into his soul. He couldn't perform the skill, he didn't have the stats, but he knew how to place his feet. How to roll his weight so the mud didn't squelch.
He tracked Garrow to the barn.
The door was rotted, hanging off one hinge. Garrow kicked it open and stumbled inside.
Nnael crept to a crack in the wood siding, pressing his eye against the rough timber.
Inside, Garrow was kneeling. He had placed a heavy leather sack on the ground. He opened it.
Light spilled out.
It wasn't the warm yellow of gold coins. It was a pulsing, sickly violet light.
Mana-Crystals.
Rough-cut.
Unrefined.
"Beautiful," Garrow slurred, running his hands through the crystals. "Dirty little rocks. Baron thinks the mine is dry. Stupid noble prick."
Nnael's breath caught in his throat.
Skimming.
The Duchy of Valerius was starving for mana. The Baron claimed the local veins were dead, justifying the high taxes. But here was Garrow, the Duchy's own hand, hoarding raw crystals.
Garrow pulled a flask from his belt and took a swig, then he did something that made Nnael's skin crawl.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, lacy piece of fabric. A ribbon.
It was red.
Nnael recognized it. It was Rhea's hair tie that used to tie her ponytail. She must have dropped it in the yard days ago.
Garrow held the ribbon to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes rolling back in his head. He groaned, a low, animal sound of lust. He rubbed the ribbon against his crotch, muttering things that were too vile to repeat.
"Soon," Garrow whispered to the empty barn. "Break the mother first. Then the heifer. Get them desperate."
Disgusting, what's with him. Nnael pulled back from the wall.
The rain was falling harder now, plastering his hair to his skull. He shivered, but not from the cold.
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, still weak. He couldn't wrap them around Garrow's throat and squeeze until the light went out. No, not yet, not now.
But he had something better than strength.
He had a lever.
Garrow wasn't just a lecher, he was a traitor to the Duchy. Hoarding Mana-Crystals was a capital offense. If the Chruch knew...
No. If the Chruch knew, they'd burn the whole village down just to be safe.
But if Nnael knew...
He turned back toward the cottage. The walk back was grueling. His legs were screaming, his stamina literary screaming to dead. But a grim smile twisted his lips.
He pictured Garrow's face, the way the man had touched Mina. The way he had squeezed Rhea.
You like secrets, Garrow? Nnael thought, the rain tasting like iron on his tongue. I'm going to choke you with this one.
Just as the sun fully set, he reached the cottage, pushing the door open.
Mina and Rhea looked up. They were sitting by the fire, silence hanging between them like a shroud.
"I'm back," Nnael said.
He limped to his bed and collapsed.
"Did you... are you okay?" Rhea asked, her voice tight.
"I'm tired," Nnael murmured, turning his face to the wall.
He closed his eyes, but didn't sleep. He lay there in the dark, listening to the wind, breathing through his skin.
One breath.
Two breaths.
The board was set. He was a pawn, yes, and Garrow was… maybe a knight.
But Nnael knew something Garrow didn't.
Pawns can promote.
And knights?
Knights can bleed.
...
...