The morning dragged Lissus awake with its usual groan. Chimneys coughed smoke, carts rattled across uneven stone, and merchants barked like half-starved dogs.
Icariel lay curled before the inn. His breath misted faintly in the rising chill. His eyelids twitched with the tail-end of a restless dream—of mountains, blood, and fire that tasted like sorrow.
Alna was walking toward him. She wore the same patched apron as yesterday, her shoulder-length gray hair tied back roughly with a faded green ribbon. Her hands already held the weight of the day.
"Hey, wake up."
Alna's voice was rough but not unkind. The old woman stood with arms crossed, short gray hair falling to her shoulders, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
Icariel blinked awake, immediately springing to his feet.
"Good morning! I'm ready!" he shouted, startling a bird from the nearby rooftop.
Alna sighed. "First day of work, and you're sleeping at the door like a stray. Bad impression."
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I'm sorry. I just thought... maybe you wouldn't turn me away if you saw how desperate I was."
"Desperate or stubborn?"
"Maybe both."
"The voice in his head let out a low chuckle. 'Acting like you didn't notice her — and charming old ladies with those innocent eyes? You're getting clever.'"
"Hey, survival first. Melt the heart, earn the coin."
No response.
"Come on, then," Alna said. "Sunday's our busiest day. You better be prepared."
"Yes, ma'am."
The inn's air was thick with the ghost of old ale and damp wood. Flies buzzed over a forgotten mug. The floor was crusted with sticky trails of spilled drink and broken glass. The tables were a graveyard of unfinished meals and crooked chairs.
"Start cleaning," she ordered. "And if something stinks and moves—don't touch it. Just yell."
Got it.
Then: GRRKK.
His stomach snarled like a feral beast.
Alna turned slowly. "Did you eat?"
"Yes," he lied.
GRRKK.
She sighed again. "Come. I'll make something. Can't have you dying on the job."
She served him eggs and sausage—greasy, heavy, and perfect. He devoured it like a starving wolf, then patted his chest with a grin.
"Thank you for the food."
"No worries. Now get to work. Wipe the tables. Sweep the floor.
"Yes, ma'am."
He worked with the rhythm of someone who had cleaned with purpose before. The dried ale vanished under his scrubbing. Broken plates clinked into a bucket. He moved like someone who had labored not for wages, but for survival.
Behind the counter, Alna watched.
"Where did you say you were from again?"
"Didn't," Icariel replied without looking up. "But... farther than the North Peaks."
She raised a brow. "You don't talk like the street kids. You're even worse. But you clean well."
"We didn't have inns in the mountains. But bloodstained floors still needed scrubbing."
She went quiet.
"You're a strange boy."
"Thank you."
That earned a dry laugh.
By the time the sunlight crawled fully over the shutters, the inn looked almost respectable. Alna poured two tin cups of something dark and steaming.
"Drink. Bitter, but it keeps your legs from giving out."
He took it. The smell was like burnt bark and old roots. He sipped—and gagged—but smiled through it.
They sat on the step, steam curling between them.
"I noticed something," he said.
"Hm?"
"There were signs of a fight here. Broken chairs. Bloodstains."
Alna gave him a glance. "Good eyes. Mercenaries. Drink leads to fists. Last night too."
"Mercenaries?"
"Yeah. They come from the forest and the mines. Slay monsters. Eat, drink, and break my chairs."
Icariel's eyes narrowed. "They hunt monsters?"
She looked into her cup. "You've seen the state of this city. Lissus used to be proud. But the dungeons opened and the monsters came crawling out. The army didn't have the numbers. So we hire mercs. They get paid. We stay safe."
"Do the monsters ever reach the city?"
"Sometimes. But not often. They stay to the forest."
Icariel stared at the street, the soot-streaked buildings, the rusted armor of passing guards. "Nowhere's safe, huh?"
She looked at him, eyes tired but firm. "Don't be afraid. Stay inside the walls, and you'll be fine. This has been going on for ten years. We're still standing."
He met her gaze and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
She stood. "Come. I'll prepare food. You help."
"Of course."
And for a moment, under the weight of a sunlit morning and a bitter drink, Icariel felt something unusual:
Calmness and Peace
By noon, the inn began to stir like a beast waking with a hangover. Sunlight filtered through warped windows, fractured by the dust that danced in the air. The tables filled—first with ragged regulars, then with louder newcomers who swaggered in with bruised faces and blade-nicked boots.
Icariel moved between them like a shadow with purpose—bucket in one hand, rag in the other—dodging spilled ale, errant boots, and crude jokes flung like rotten fruit.
"Oi, Alna!" a man hollered, slouched over a table like he'd been poured there. His tunic hung in tatters, one shoulder completely exposed. "You finally hired someone younger than the wood in these walls?"
The inn burst into laughter.
Another, grinning through missing teeth, leaned in. "Gods above, look at that face. Pretty boy's gonna make the mirrors jealous. You summon him, Alna? Is that what passed for a spell these days?"
Alna snorted. "He works harder than you ever did, and with less breath wasted."
A man with a silver line shaved across his scalp raised a mug. "With that face, you best chain him to the bar. One of the noble widows might snatch him for herself!"
Alna rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smirk. "He's mine till he breaks a plate—and before you all get ideas, my back's not what it used to be."
"Aye, the years catch up to us all!" someone jeered.
"Keep yapping and you'll catch my boot next," Alna growled, but her voice held warmth.
Icariel wiped the same spot on the table for too long, eyes fixed and inward. "Are all who drink this much… like this?"
He glanced toward the door—habit. "Stay calm," the voice said. "You always tense like a blade when someone walks in."
"I can't help it." His gaze lingered on two older men stepping in. One pointed at a stool and barked, "Boy! Beer!"
"Yes, sir," Icariel replied, already moving.
The hours passed like falling leaves. Laughter. Orders. Scrubbing. Plates. Teasing. A rhythm of chaos. He swept through it all with quiet discipline, eyes low, movements sharp.
Later, as the crowd thinned and shadows stretched long across the floor, Alna slumped into her usual chair and exhaled. Her joints creaked like the wood beneath her.
"You don't need to clean now," she said. "Leave it. You've done enough."
"No," Icariel said, wiping down the bar. "I want it ready for tomorrow."
Alna studied him. "You're not like the other street rats. You take pride in this. Why?"
He paused, then shrugged. "Better than letting my hands forget how to work."
When the floors gleamed and the chairs were stacked, he sat beside her.
"Don't mind them," Alna muttered. "They bark, but they're harmless."
"I don't mind being barked at," he replied. "Only matters if they bite."
That earned her a crooked smile. She placed five bronze coins on the table.
"You said three," he said.
"You earned five. You didn't break a single thing, and you cleaned more than I asked. Take it."
He nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "Thank you."
"Where will you sleep tonight?"
"I'll find somewhere."
"Don't tell me you're using that to pay for a room. You'll barely cover a roof."
"I'll manage."
Alna sighed, then said, "Stay here. You can sleep in the corner, behind the barrels. Till you have enough to rent a place."
Icariel's eyes flickered, stunned. "...Thank you, Alna. You're... the kindest person I've met in this city."
"Don't thank me. Just don't bring trouble into my inn."
"I won't."
She yawned, stood, and turned toward the stairs. "Good night, Icariel."
"Good night."
He waited until her steps faded, then whispered to the voice. "It's not bad, living like this."
"It's noisy, smells like beer... but they talk. They live. I like that. Monsters outside, laughter inside. It's strange."
"Don't forget," the voice said, suddenly cold. "You must stay hidden. If anyone sees what you are..."
"I know," Icariel nodded, stacking chairs into a wall of crooked comfort and laying across them. His breath slowed.
The next night.
The inn boiled with noise. Slurred songs. Roaring laughter. Plates clattering like distant thunder. Icariel weaved through it, sending orders, cleaning spills, and sidestepping limbs as drunk men sprawled like upended dolls.
Then the door opened—and the room shifted.
Four entered.
Not like the others.
Three men—scarred, armored, eyes like wolves. One woman—short, dark-haired, with thin glasses and blackened armor beneath a hooded rope. Dried blood clung to their greaves like rust.
"Alna," one greeted, his voice deep and rough. A long scar cut down the side of his neck. "Been too long."
"Back from another raid?" she asked, already preparing food.
"Yeah," the scarred man said, flanked by his companions. "Tired and hungry."
Icariel brought their plates, setting them down carefully.
"New helper?" the scarred one asked.
"Yeah. Good one."
"Good," the mercenary said, eyes glancing toward Icariel. "You're too old to be running this place solo."
He grabbed Icariel's wrist—not with malice, but force. "Help her. She's the only one who makes food worth dying for."
Icariel smiled calmly. "I will do my best."
The man released him. "Good answer."
The group ate, drank, and talked like people who killed often and regretted rarely.
Icariel leaned toward Alna. "Mercenaries?"
She nodded. "The dangerous kind."
He glanced at the girl in black. Her gaze hadn't moved from him once.
"She's making me uncomfortable," he thought.
Hours passed. Drunken laughter. Plates emptied. Mugs drained.
Then:
"You know," the brown-haired mercenary said loudly, raising his mug, "I have the ability to see inside bodies."
"Yeah, yeah," one groaned. "Your dumb Knol Eye."
"Not dumb! Got it from a weird robed mage. Life-changing."
One of his men laughed. "Here we go again."
"You named it after yourself," another mocked.
"Shut it. Boy!" he called to Icariel. "Let me look at you."
"I'm good, sir. Thank you."
"You refusing me?"
"N-No, of course not."
Knol's eyes flashed yellow.
And widened in shock.
"What the hell—?!" he shouted. "His entire body is—"
"Strike him. Now."
In a blink, Icariel moved.
No one saw it. One moment Knol was upright. The next—slumped on the table, unconscious.
"Knol?" one of the others shouted. "Hey!"
"What happened?" Alna asked.
The girl in black finally spoke, calm and sharp. "He's drunk. Tried to use mana. Probably short-circuited his own brain."
"Right... makes sense," one muttered. "Come on. Let's get him out of here."
They hoisted him up, cursed, and dropped coins on the table.
The girl lingered. One last look—deep, unreadable—and then she vanished into the night with the others.
"That was close… too close."