"UGGH…"
He moaned aloud.
"Head hurts," he muttered. His voice cracked. A heavy pounding rang through his skull—his body ringing like a chime struck too many times.
His breath hitched; reality wavered somewhere above him.
Voices reached his ears first.
Muted whispers.
Dry coughs.
Water dripping into a bucket.
Cloth rubbing across stone floors. Every sound felt muffled, as though heard from underwater.
He opened his eyes. A ceiling stared back. White before, now marred with cracks. Mold grew freely across it—the remnants of time losing patience.
Turning his head caused the room to spin sickeningly.
But he managed to find the sheets beneath his touch—smooth fabric grounding his spinning thoughts.
The room was full of beds—rows and rows. Narrow. Crowded together. Partitioned off by flimsy curtains meant to provide privacy. The sheets themselves were aged and yellowed—bruises in shades where healing failed. Some lay crumpled and withdrawn into themselves, others lay completely still—more than mere sleeping. Some cots stood bare.
Every curtain bore the same symbol: an unyielding cross with an ever watchful eye in its center. Softened only by curling lines that might represent eyelashes or vines.
He was not alone.
This offered little comfort.
One hand raised, shaking. He winced as a sharp sting shot through his stabbed forearm, before touching his forehead—rugged cloth.
Another bandage.
Too tight in spots, loose in others. It burned under the pressure of his fingers. He could feel the dried remnants of blood seeping into his skin.
It was placed hastily—with no regard beyond stopping the bleeding.
Footsteps sounded nearby.
A figure approached.
A faint odor of vinegar followed. She wore robes that hung loosely from her frame. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing hands stained with dirt and work yet unfinished. Hair bound tightly at the nape of her neck. Strands escaped here and there.
She glanced briefly from him to the bandages around his head. Brief hesitation lingered in her gaze before returning to the slate in her hands.
And turning it slightly away—as though to remind him it wasn't his.
"You're awake," she stated simply.
Movement began.
He attempted rising, only for the room to explode in agony.
Pain flashed white-hot through his system.
"Don't," she ordered, already moving past him. "If you pass out again, we won't bother wasting another sheet."
Cloth brushed the basin of water already cloudy.
"You're lucky because someone who brought you here had enough coins to convince thee sisters. Your stay is temporary"
Temporarily until…
"Try to stay conscious for long enough to walk yourself out of here."
The water swirled around her brushstroke.
"What… what happened?" he rasped painfully.
She paused.
Sighed.
Looked again—at him. At the stains marking the bandage now wrapped about his head. Longer than last time—less pitying. More analyzing.
"You collapsed in the street. Severe blood loss. No mana exhaustion."
Her eyes narrowed sharply. A frown appeared. Then vanished.
"No magic signature detected."
She made a small noise in her throat and added something onto the slate.
"Not unusual. Haven't met many souls void of the Light."
Again, she moved on. Focus already shifting elsewhere. A small bell clinking gently from her pack as she walked.
"Bandages will need changing soon. No magic. Pray to the Light if it pleases you. But the Light is occupied."
His vision blurred as the room faded into haze.
Somewhere above him, a bell tolled. Heavy.
Deeper.
Hollow.
No response.
Time passed like drops falling into a basin—the water becoming increasingly murky without notice.
Finally, the bell ceased.
She returned, holding something.
Pointed to the aisle.
"You may leave now."
Paper folded loosely in her grip.
A roll of bread.
Heavy.
Plain.
Hardening at its edges.
"Return if you must bleed." And turned away again—to assist those remaining.
He stumbled toward the doorway. Bare feet touching cold stone floors. Outside, morning greeted him harshly. Headache intensified. World spun less viciously than before.
Door clicking shut.
Bell resounding once more.
He stood unmoving, holding his food.
Wondering which street led back home.
City streets spread out ahead of him. Gray. Thin. Indifferent.
Narrow buildings lined both sides. All roads blending into identical grayness.
He walked.
The tasteless bread crumbled apart in his mouth.
When it ended, he found himself wandering. Still searching for home.
Till he reached the river. Sat beside its edge.
Waited.
River flowed steadily. Leaves and debris floated past on their journey toward the sea.
~
Footsteps approached the bridge.
Not rushing.
Nor dragging.
Deliberate.
Each footstep determined well in advance.
He did not look up.
Shadow formed beside him.
"You're blocking the railing," stated the voice coolly.
Lifting his head, he met blue eyes. Woman standing just shy of facing him directly—as though ready to retreat into anonymity. Wide-brimmed hat tipped low over her face. Plumage fading from pristine white into delicate purple hues at the feather tips. Blonde locks free but disciplined in appearance. Her blue gaze examined him evenly. Impassive.
Blue and gold adorned her attire. Expensive. Practical.
A sword hung at her hip. Hand resting near its grip—not threatening, merely habitual.
"You can stand," she observed plainly.
"I am aware of that," he countered evenly.
She inclined her head slightly.
"And whether you should remains to be seen."
Eyes flickered to the bandage upon his head. His bare feet.
How much weight leaned forward—unstable and uncertain of its balance.
"Injured," she stated clinically. Not questioning.
Observant.
"I've faced worse."
"Not reassuring," she retorted succinctly.
Closer.
More deliberate footsteps drawing nearer.
Closer.
Up close, gold trim of her garments bore signs of use. Of aging.
"Do you belong to anyone?"
"What…?"
Guilds. Households. Wards within Churches.
Notice boards rumored quietly—
Those without affiliation tread carefully.
No one collects strays should anything happen.
Silence answered.
"No."
Another nod.
Definitive.
Confirming calculation of numbers previously considered.
"This makes matters difficult."
She paused, offering him the chance to respond.
"For you," she clarified firmly. "But it simplifies matters for me."
Unease tightened him.
"Why?"
From within her coat emerged a piece of paper. Folded neatly.
Sealed with an unobtrusive crest.
Not elaborate.
Official.
Clear.
"I require a courier," she explained plainly. "One unnoticed.
Unaffiliated."
Offering him the message.
"Not to my hand," she noted. "Just available."
"You'll deliver this letter to the West Gate Barracks. Directly. Without deviation. Avoid using the northern checkpoint—if possible. Inspection occurs there daily."
"How…"
He took the document.
Acceptance. Surrender.
"Why me?"
"The same reason you're currently sitting on the bridge rather than dead within these walls. You're invisible."
Coin tossed lightly into his lap.
"Your payment exceeds this sum."
Interest peaked momentarily.
"More money. Better food. A place to rest during the night.
Should you survive."
Metal coin chilled in his palm.
River continued moving.
City behind him, gray and unwavering. Distant bells echoed vaguely within his mind—as though listening to an old tune reluctant to end.
She stood before him. Blue eyes watching him impassively.
Woman dressed in expensive clothes.
With a sword strapped securely at her side.
Golden light reflecting in the rivers.
Cool breeze ruffling blonde hair.
Serene gaze observing calmly.
Reaching into his pocket.
Taking the mission.
"Very well."
Already walking away.
"To the bridge later today."
"I expect punctuality from invisible couriers."
Glancing back—only briefly.
"Don't die on your journey. It complicates paperwork."
Boots clunked deliberately away.
Hat plume swaying rhythmically.
Courier remained seated upon the bridge.
Still clutching letter tightly.
First directive received.
And accepted.