Kael pushed open the theater doors with his arms huddled tightly around his body, trying to chase the cold from his bones.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bran said, tossing him a script. "Or maybe just one of Lys's rehearsal notes."
Kael didn't laugh and muttered, "Something like that," then went to take his spot.
The blazing stage lights above contrasted with the frost still clinging to his skin. Around him, the rest of the troupe members took their places as if nothing had happened. There were no whispering posters, no vanishing Brayda. As if it had all been in his head.
But Kael's hands wouldn't stop shaking. It wasn't in his head.
"Focus!" Lys snapped from the aisle. "Kael, you're two lines behind. Again."
He stumbled over the next few lines, his voice unsteady as the words slipped past dry lips. Miren watched him the whole time, her expression unreadable but far from impressed. Bran tossed out one of his usual jokes to break the tension, but they did not land.
When rehearsal finally ended, Kael went up to Lys and said, "I need to get some air", then started to walk out of the building.
"Hey, you okay?" Bran called after him.
"I'm fine," Kael lied, already halfway down the steps. The scarf around his neck felt suffocating, like it was strangling each breath he took each of his breaths. As he walked outside, Kael noticed the streets outside were louder than usual. Every step of a boot and clink of a wheel sounded sharp enough to cut.
The Iron Hands posters seemed to follow him. On every wall and every corner he turned, bold red ink bled like it had a pulse.
"There weren't that many yesterday," he muttered.
No one answered. The city was filled with sound, not the kind Kael wanted to hear.
By the time he returned to 'The Rusted Feather', his trembling hadn't stopped.
When Kael walked through the door to the inn, Marla looked up from her book behind the counter and asked. "Rough day?"
"You could say that."
"There is lukewarm tea on the stove," she said. "Or something stronger, if you need it."
"Thanks."
When he got upstairs, Kael's coat slipped from his fingers and crumpled onto the floor. He stepped to the washbasin in the corner of the room and braced his hands against the rim, knuckles white. His breath fogged up the glass of the room's mirror. The mirror's crack split his reflection's face unevenly, and for a long moment, he didn't blink. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. His shoulders rose, held, and dropped. Still trembling. Something was still off.
He opened the tap and let the water run cold. Dipped his hands in. Then gripped the basin again and stared.
His reflection stared back. Familiar, yet not. The mirror shimmered slightly at the edges, like the glowing of coals. One eye seemed to be darker, sunken just a bit too deep.
What's happening to me?
The thought crept in, cold and tight behind his ribs.
I'm just tired. I've been tired before. That's all this is.
But it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. The dreams weren't fading—they clung to him like smoke. And the whispers…they didn't feel like dreams anymore. And the posters—
He squeezed his eyes shut.
You're going crazy. You're not. It's just stress.
Kael turned away, his jaw clenched tight. His breath came faster, but he didn't make a sound. He didn't look again.
"Get a grip," he whispered to himself.
Still, he didn't dare to stare at his reflection for too long. His movement was stiff and mechanical, like rusted clockwork, as he stepped back from the basin. The silence in the room stretched, taut and brittle. Walking back to his bed, he peeled back the covers and slipped into the sheets, cold against his skin..
His eyes traced the cracks in the ceiling as if they were constellations, threads of fate etched above him, trying to explain how he'd ended up here. He lay still, letting the silence permeate the room. Thoughts pushed up like weeds.
I barely talked to anyone. I feel bad for Father Simeon. I said some really rude things. I've got to apologize soon. Maybe I'll write a letter.
At Saint Seraphina, Kael tried not to speak to anyone unless he truly had to. It was easier to stay silent rather than confront the hollowness in his heart. Easier to glare than explain. He'd mistaken kind words as unsolicited pity and kept even the kindest people at a distance.
Not because he hated them.
It was because he didn't trust himself.
He remembered Father Thomas' awkward attempts at small talk. Sister Agnes, who left extra bread when she thought he wouldn't notice. The way he had scoffed. The way he'd made sure they never got too close.
His chest ached with the memory.
I can't keep pushing everyone away. I've done that enough. It didn't keep me safe. It just made me lonely.
Now, it was happening again. These new people, this new life. It was odd. He wasn't sure what to make of it.
But Bran seemed nice. And Lys too. Miren was quiet, but she seemed cool. Maybe I should invite them out. Try to bond. Make new friends.
They weren't friends. Not yet.
But maybe they could be, if he stopped running from their kindness.
He turned to his side, his blanket tugged up to his chin. He didn't know how to change. Not really.
But he was going to try.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under. He dreamed of stage lights and applause, until it all dissolved into darkness.
Morning came too soon. The city wasn't quieter in sound—the street performers still sang, and vendors still haggled—but something had shifted. The smiles were tighter. The glances lasted a beat too long.
When Kael looked around, he saw it:
The Iron Hands posters weren't just tucked in alleyways anymore.
They were everywhere.
Fresh blood-red ink. Bold lettering:
TRUTH HAS A BODY. LIES HAVE BLOOD.
Kael shivered and pulled his scarf tighter, pushing down the grumble in his stomach. As he walked to the Troupe from The Rusted Feather, he heard the distant yelling of street vendors and food carts.
I'm so hungry, but I barely have any money left. When I stormed out of the church, I didn't take the money Father Simeon was going to give me. I've got to talk to Lys to ask her how much I'm getting paid.
Off to work it was. The backstage still smelled like sweat and sawdust, tinged with Bran's ever-present citrus oil. The cast was already warm with laughter by the time Kael arrived, falling into banter and bits of rehearsal. Bran greeted him with a flourish of his scarf.
"Saint Kael, right on time to miss the warm-up stretch," Bran said, pretending to wipe a tear. "Your devotion to sloth is inspiring."
Kael smirked. "You only stretch to show off."
Bran clasped his chest. "Guilty as charged."
Rehearsals resumed. The stage was loud, bright, and relentless. It pulled at him, things Kael didn't quite understand. It demanded parts of himself he thought he had buried. From the seats, Lys' voice rang clear as she barked directions at the troupe.
"Alright, folks, same thing as yesterday."
"Oh, and Kael, rush your lines again, and I'll stuff that script in your mouth," she said with an eerily wide grin.
"Aye aye, captain," Kael replied, lifting his arm in salute.
Everyone laughed. Today was going to be a good morning.
Lys remained a storm of creative chaos, barking orders. Swearing with colorful flair. Her praise, so rare it felt sacred. "Better," she said, after a scene.
Just that. It was more than enough.
At the end of rehearsal, Kael was just about to head down the steps when Miren joined him in quiet, comfortable silence. She held something out.
"Want some peanuts? I got them from the cart across the street."
"Yeah, sure. I've been starving. I haven't eaten in a while."
"Huh. Why? Are you short on coins?"
"Now that you mention it... yeah. I should probably go talk to Lys about my salary soon," he said, standing up and grabbing some peanuts from her.
She looked at him for a second, then spoke softly.
"You don't talk much at all."
Kael paused, chestnuts warm in his hand. "There's not much to talk about."
"That's a lie," Miren said, then stood. "But I'll wait."
"Haha. Okay. Bye. You reminded me that I need to talk to Lys before I forget."
"Wait. Bran, Lys, and I were thinking of going to a bar later. Do you want to join us? We thought it'd be fun. Get to know you better."
This was what Kael had been hoping for. A chance. An invitation.
" I'll be there."
Miren nodded.
"Okay, meet us at The Clam by The Silver Row by 9. We are going to get fucking wasted."
Kael let out a short laugh. "Alright."
She tossed a salted peanut at him before turning to leave, a slight grin tugging at her mouth.
Left alone, Kael took a breath and headed toward the side hall, where Lys was still sorting through papers and barking at one of the stagehands.
"Hey," he said, approaching carefully. "Serious question about the job."
Lys raised a brow. "If you're quitting, I'll only let you leave if I slap you first."
"Oh" he said, more hesitant than he liked. "I was wondering… is this a real job?"
Lys tilted her head. "You mean like, do we pay you? Or do you think we expect you to work out of the kindness of your heart?"
Kael exhaled a weak laugh. "I mean… I kind of need money. Not just food-money. Like… rent money."
Lys looked at him, longer than he would've liked. Then she tucked the clipboard under her arm.
"How much do you need?"
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "Enough to live on. I wasn't planning on staying in this city long, but…"
"But now you're here."
"Yeah."
She eyed him, calculating. "Well, this isn't exactly a guild-backed institution. We're a little off the books, if you hadn't noticed. I can give you about 525 crescents a week," she said.
"I pay in coins. Paydays every sixth. If you stay useful, it'll stay steady, It's not a fortune."
"That's… more than I expected."
"You're lucky that Miren vouched for you," she added. "She said you've got potential. I'll trust her on that."
"Thanks," Kael said. "It means the world to me. I mean it."
"Don't thank me yet. You're still on probation. And if you skip a shift, I will replace you with a slightly smarter brick."
Kael stepped out into the evening air, the weight in his chest a little lighter.
525 crescents a week. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough for a room, warm food, and maybe even a second pair of socks. More than he'd had in months.
The wind bit at his cheeks, but he barely noticed. For once, the cold didn't feel like punishment, it just was. The streets bustled with city life, oil lamps flickering, steam curling from carts, and distant laughter echoing between the brick walls.
He pulled his scarf tighter and let himself smile.
Maybe this was working out. Maybe it wasn't all falling apart.
He passed a pair of Iron Hands posters pasted crooked over an old playbill, their bold ink shouting things he didn't want to read. But he didn't stop to stare this time.
Miren's voice echoed in his head.
"Okay, meet us at 'The Clam' by The Silver Row by 9 pm or am?. We're gonna get fucking wasted."
He laughed softly. The idea still felt strange. Being invited, being wanted somewhere.
Kael slipped through an alley he'd found yesterday. The city glowed ahead, noise and laughter pouring from the open doors of a nearby tavern.
He didn't know what tonight would bring. But for once, he was walking toward something, not just walking away from it.
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