The Day of Humility, celebrated across much of Bellacia on the first day of Toxblim, is a time for rest, revelry, and reflection. Its origins, a matter of heated debate among scholars and tavern-goers alike. The most popular account claims it began in the fractured days before unification, when the farmers of the southern riverlands laid down their tools in defiance of their lords. Overworked, underfed, and denied even the smallest respite, the laborers responded not with arms, rather they simply stopped. The fields grew wild, the markets fell silent, and the fires in noble hearths guttered and died. Confronted with their own dependence, the lords relented, granting a day of rest each week. And from that first act of quiet rebellion, a tradition was born.
Yet not all accept the tale. Some claim the Day of Humility was the invention of reformist kings, eager to win over the rising merchant class—who then shaped it into a festival of spending and seasonal cheer. Others whisper of deeper roots, of ancient rites once held beneath the turning of summer's first bloom. Whatever the truth, the holiday lingers, a patchwork of fading stories and local color, ever shifting with the land that holds it.
At its heart, the Day of Humility honors not the noble nor the warrior, but the laborer—of hands calloused by rope and stone, of backs bent to soil, of sweat, struggle, and survival. On this day, even lords are expected to lift a mug in honor of the humble worker. It is a brief and blessed pause in the machinations of Bellacia, a reminder that no crown stands without those who hold it aloft.
Oro mumbled something in his sleep and shifted, one arm sliding free of the blanket. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his skin was pale beneath the fever's flush. Rell wrung out the cloth in the basin beside the bed, then gently pressed it to his forehead.
The room was small but well-kept—modest stone walls, wooden beams dark with age, and a single shuttered window cracked open to let in the breeze. Outside, the muffled clatter of carts on cobblestone mingled with the low murmur of voices starting their day.
Faerlen. It had been years, but she still remembered the way. Tucked along the trade road, just past the woods, this little town had been a frequent stop in her childhood. She used to walk its streets beside her father, a pack of pelts weighing down her small frame. In those days, Glaslow and Faerlen traded freely—sister towns straddling the western edge of Bellacia.
She never thought she'd come back—let alone like this, tending a fevered noble in a cramped inn room, swapping out sweat-soaked rags and hoping he'd pull through. She found it ironic. Not in a bitter way—just… odd. Weeks ago, the idea of traveling with a noble would've made her skin crawl. Now she was keeping vigil one's bedside.
Stranger still, she didn't feel conflicted. If anything, she wished she could meet them both—Oro and Kai—all over again. Maybe then she wouldn't be so cold, so determined to keep her distance. They'd earned her trust a dozen times over, yet she'd met them with walls and suspicion.
Oro stirred, brow twitching as he turned toward her. "Wait… don't…" he croaked, his voice strained and barely audible.
Rell frowned, wringing the cloth again with a slow exhale. "It's okay," she attempted to soothe, though she doubted he could hear her beyond the veil of whatever nightmare he was experiencing. She dabbed his temple once more and watched his face tense before he finally stilled.
The fever had hit hard.
The path out of Greyhallow had been quick, but even in that short time, his condition worsened dramatically after their battle with the ooze. Eventually, Kai had to carry him the rest of the way.
They'd bargained hard with the innkeeper before she finally agreed to take them in—but only under one condition:
With the Day of Humility just three days away, they'd work until then.
Two days had already passed since then, Kai picked up the labor without complaint. Entrusting Rell to watch over Oro in the interim.
Rell sighed and looked back to Oro. His breathing had steadied for now.
She was originally set on departing on her own after leaving Greyhallow, but now? Her vengeance would have to wait just a little longer. A few more days couldn't hurt.
The door creaked open behind her.
"How is he?" Kai asked, stepping inside, sweat and grime clinging to him.
Rell nodded and stood, her knees stiff from sitting too long. "Fever ain't broken, but he's restin' now."
Kai knelt beside Oro. "You should get some air," he said without looking up. "I can take it from here for a while."
"I won't be long," Rell replied.
With a final glance at Oro's sleeping form, Rell slipped into the hallway and made her way outside into the late afternoon air. The streets of Faerlen were beginning to stir with festival preparations—bright linens fluttered from windows, and some early merchants were already setting up stalls for the celebration.
Instead of heading toward the town center, she turned east, toward the small hilltop temple that overlooked the town.
The Temple of Ephydra was a humble structure, built from pale stone and adorned with faded green banners. Rell stepped inside, her footsteps tapped lightly against the stone, letting the hush of the shrine settle over her. A few candles flickered on the altar, their light dancing against the stone, while a thin ribbon of incense curled through the still air.
She knelt at the altar, bowing her head in quiet reverence.
It had been a long time since she'd prayed. She didn't speak—not aloud—but in the quiet of her heart, a fragile plea took shape: for Oro's strength to return, for the fever to ease, and for guidance.
As she stood to leave, the scrape of boots on stone made her pause.
"Are you a true believer?" a voice asked.
Rell turned. A man stood near the temple's side wall, his hood pulled low over his brow.
She didn't answer right away. After a long moment, she gave a slow nod. "I am."
The man's head tilted slightly. "Then perhaps you've heard of the Verdant Hand?"
The name hit her like a jolt, but she kept her face still. "Heard some things," she said carefully.
"If you're done just hearin' stories—and ready to change history—we'll be waitin'. Northeast farm. One day's time." He turned to go, but paused in the doorway. "The world ain't gonna heal itself."
And then he left without another word.
Her prayer had been answered—just like that, she was given a path to follow.
If the Verdant Hand truly were her people, then the trail she'd been chasing for so long was no longer cold. She was no longer chasing scraps, whispers, and rumor; she finally had a place and time to follow—something real to hold onto.
And a choice.
Rell stood there in the quiet hush of the temple a moment longer, the scent of incense clinging faintly to her cloak. Her fists slowly unclenched.
She wasn't sure what waited for her at that farm. But could she afford to let this chance slip away?
The town of Faerlen had come alive in the cool of the afternoon.
Bright pennants and ribbons of orange and deep blue stretched between rooftops, fluttering in the early summer breeze. Music spilled across the town from every corner—fiddles and flutes weaving through drums and clapping hands—mingling with the rich scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and honeycakes fresh from the square's ovens. Townsfolk danced through the streets, some spinning gracefully in pairs, others stomping wildly in circles, tankards raised high. Children darted beneath stalls, laughter trailing behind as they chased one another, brandishing ribbons tied to sticks like makeshift swords.
Rell drifted through the crowd at an easy pace, arms crossed, hood pulled halfway over her face to guard against the sun. The revelry buzzed around her—loud, warm, and unbothered. At a long table near the well, men challenged one another to outdrink contests, jeering and howling as competitors dropped like flies. A woman with a painted face juggled knives in time with a tambourine's steady beat. Nearby, a shirtless tanner's apprentice, clearly deep in his cups, was boasting he'd wrestle anyone brave enough to take him on.
She allowed herself a rare smile, brief but genuine.
There was something about it all—the celebration of simple folk, unbowed by lords or coin, just… being. That was what the Day of Humility had always meant, wasn't it? A reminder that they—the common folk—were not beholden to their place in society. That they still mattered and existed.
Yet as she moved beyond the heart of the crowd, the smile slowly faded.
Rell couldn't shake the heaviness settling in her chest. As much as she wanted to stay, as much as she had begun to trust the strange, winding path that led her to Kai and Oro… her people might finally be within reach. The Verdant Hand was no longer just a rumor. They were here, or close enough. And if there was even a chance they were who she believed them to be, she couldn't afford to ignore it.
By the time she reached the inn, the sky was turning gold, while laughter and music echoed softly down the narrow cobbled streets behind her.
As she reached for the door, her steps faltering.
What should she say?
The hinges creaked quietly as she pushed inside, the festival's din muffled beyond the wooden frame.
Upstairs, the air was cooler. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, cast by the setting sun peeking through the room's single window. Oro lay on the bed, his brow damp but peaceful, the fevered tension in his face finally eased. Kai sat nearby on a wooden chair, one arm resting on the sill, gaze fixed on the horizon.
At her approach, he turned and gave a soft nod, acknowledging her presence.
Rell lingered in the doorway, fingers twitched nervously at her sides. After a pause, she cleared her throat. "I, uh… just wanted to say thanks. For what you did back in Greyhallow."
"You shouldn't thank me," he said simply. "Oro and Grant did all of the heavy lifting."
"I gotta go," she said after a moment, though the words didn't come easily. "There's somethin' I need to look into. Just thought I should tell you."
He studied her silently, then he nodded again, turning his gaze back to the window. "It's alright. I'll stay with Oro until he's back on his feet. You don't need to worry."
She exhaled, feeling the tightness in her chest give way a little. "Is it really that simple?" she asked. "Don't you got somewhere you need to be, too?"
Kai didn't answer right away. "I do," he said eventually, the quiet gravity in his tone unmistakable.
Rell looked at him for a long moment before nodding, her gaze shifting to Oro—his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
She could walk away. She told herself that again. But why did it feel harder than she expected?
She stepped quietly to the small table near the wall and retrieved her bow and the knife she kept tucked beneath it. She slung her pack over her shoulder. It felt heavier than it should.
She turned to go, but paused at the door, her hand hovering near the frame.
"What are you?" The question leaving her lips before she could stop it—quiet, barely more than a whisper.
Kai stayed still, his back to her.
"I don't know," he said softly.
Her fingers curled tighter around the knife's worn grip. She'd expected him to deny it, even lie. But he didn't. And somehow, that was worse. The answer itself wasn't unexpected, but hearing it aloud still chilled her. Not just the words, but the calm in his voice. Like he'd already come to terms with it.
"I see," she said.
She had nothing else to say, not really. Her hand was on the door—but she stopped again. Just once more.
"I hope you find what you're looking for," she said.
This time, he did turn. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—mutual respect, maybe, or the quiet understanding of people who'd come too far together to pretend they were strangers.
"And I hope you find what you're after," Kai said. "But… vengeance doesn't have to mean bloodshed."
Rell's lips pressed into a thin line. She shook her head slowly. "Maybe not," she said. "But I got a feelin' it's gonna end up that way, anyway."
Kai looked away, releasing a slow breath through his nose, a flicker of disappointment shadowing his features.
And just like that, it was done. It was time for them to part ways.
Rell left the room, her boots soft against the worn wooden floor, leaving her companions behind.