On the seventh day after the messenger crystal’s ghost-blue glow died in Black Raven Forest, a fine rain began to fall over Twilight Town. Abler crouched in the apothecary’s back yard, gripping a worn-down pestle, watching Andrea haul the last bundle of dried mandrake onto the handcart — her third delivery today; more flecks of mud dotted her skirt hem than yesterday.
“The east… may not answer,” Andrea said, voice low. The cart wheels had sunk into the mud. She tugged twice and couldn’t budge it; Abler hurried to help. As they forced the cart to the alley mouth, she added, “Maybe Kalos really bent to Krog.”
Abler said nothing, only pulled the oilcloth tighter over the crates. These seven days he’d used “gathering herbs” as his excuse to slip into Black Raven Forest; he’d worn a footpath to the spot where the messenger crystal had been triggered, and still hadn’t seen a single firebat dusted with ash from the volcanic belt. Last night, when Linata tallied the books, she ratcheted his debt again: “Eat without working — what do you take my shop for, a charity hall?”
He hadn’t argued, only stared at the number — “three thousand, five hundred gold” — and felt the days he’d thrown coin around as Demon King were just a dream.
Andrea pushed the cart and vanished into the rain. Abler turned back inside — and a rag Linata hurled smacked him in the face the moment he crossed the threshold.
“The heap of spent dregs in the yard could be seen from the moon. You blind?” She stood behind the counter pounding medicine, silver pestle ringing crisp against porcelain. “Or do those eyes only stare at Black Raven Forest?”
Abler yanked the rag down and crouched to clean up the dregs, sour. “None of your business.”
“It is my business.” Linata’s voice floated above him, a hint of a smile hard to catch. “You owe me enough to buy half a cart of demon crystals. Slack again and I’ll pawn you to the smithy — heard Old Smith needs a bellows boy.”
Abler dumped the dregs into a bamboo basket, then suddenly looked up at her. Rain drifted in through the open door and beaded along Linata’s hair. She wasn’t in her white coat today, but a gray blouse; two buttons undone at the collar, a pale line of clavicle showing. He stared a beat too long, then ducked his head in a fluster. “Got it, taskmaster.”
“Better than certain people,” Linata said, setting down the pestle and moving beside him to lift the basket. “Leaving real work undone just to moon at trees.” Her shoulder brushed his arm; both halted, then sprang apart as if shocked.
The rain thickened. Abler dumped the dregs into the compost pit, and turning back, caught Linata up on her toes reaching for herbs hung beneath the eaves, her skirt blown tight to her legs. On impulse he stepped in, raised a hand, and freed down a bundle of Nethermoss for her.
“Thanks.” Linata’s tone came out a shade off. Her fingers touched his as she took it, and she drew back as if scalded.
Abler’s ears went hot. He turned to go, but her voice called him back: “Hey. Your ‘sister’… she really worked for a caravan escort?”
He paused. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.” Linata bowed her head, binding the herbs. “Her grip on a blade isn’t a common guard’s.” She hesitated, then lifted her gaze, gray eyes gleaming like wet obsidian in the rain. “You two are hiding quite a lot from me.”
Abler’s heart skipped. He groped for an excuse — and the front door banged in with rough laughter. “The stink of medicine in this dump is worse than the sulfur in the volcanic belt.”
He snapped around. A man in scarlet leather stood at the counter, a serrated curved blade at his waist, a firebat spread-winged on his sleeve — the Emberflame Army’s insignia. The man turned, a scar running from brow to jaw, and looked at Abler with a half-smile. “Abu? Heard you’re a drudge here.”
Abler’s breath hitched. That scar, that scarlet leather, the habit of cocking a brow when he spoke — Kalos.
Kalos’s gaze did a slow circuit over Abler, settling on the coarse work clothes smudged with residue — then he burst into louder laughter. “His Majesty the Demon King, chopping wood and hauling water. Tell it around and even the rocks of the demon realm will crack from laughing.” His glance slid to Linata behind Abler; he whistled. “And this is?”
Linata frowned. Somewhere a silver dissection knife had appeared in her hand, her fingertip tapping the spine. “Who are you?”
“A merchant passing through,” Kalos said, all smiles, though his eyes kept measuring Linata. “Stand you and Abu together and you look a pair—”
“We’re not!” Abler cut in, face flaming. “She owns the shop. I’m… I’m working off a debt!”
Kalos lifted a brow, plainly unconvinced. He stepped in two paces and bent to Abler’s ear, voice for the two of them alone: “Majesty, drop it. Back in Frostvale you turned to ice chasing Andrea and still wouldn’t yield. Now you’re holed in this flea-bitten town and blush at a pretty girl?” He raised his voice on purpose. “If the lady is your wife, she ought to pour a cup for her ‘cousin-in-law.’”
“Whose wife?” Linata’s voice spiked, the knife clacking onto the counter. “You’re his cousin? Funny, he’s never mentioned you.”
“Oh? He hasn’t?” Kalos feigned surprise, then looked at Abler with a teasing gleam. “Seems our grand Demon King is living so well here he’s forgotten the folks back home.”
Abler fumed and flustered, tried to speak, but Kalos’s look warned him off. The firebat on Kalos’s cuff flashed under the lamp — Emberflame’s covert sign: “safe, trusted.”
Rain whispered on. The air in the front hall went strange. Linata stood behind the counter with arms folded, eyes iced, plainly taking Kalos for a lout come to stir trouble. Kalos lounged in the doorway with a rogue’s grin, slanting glances at Abler like watching a comedy unfold. Abler, caught between, felt his neck burning. How had Kalos found him? What did he mean by “watching”? And what was that about “chasing Andrea back then”?
“Uh…” Abler tried to crack the freeze. “Kalos, you—”
“Say ‘cousin,’” Kalos cut him, jerking his chin at Linata. “Cousin-in-law, fetch me a drink. Thirsty from the road.”
“Who’s your cousin-in-law?” Abler and Linata snapped together. They both froze. Color crept over Linata’s ears; she spun toward the kitchen, muttering, “No wine. Only decoction. Drink it or don’t.”
Watching her retreat, Kalos leaned in to Abler with a low chuckle. “Majesty, she’s a good one. More amusing than that girl Andrea.”
Abler glared at him, but relief loosened his chest. Kalos had come. The messenger crystal hadn’t failed. Emberflame still lived. His power — his own — had begun to return to hand.
Out in the rain, the fresh-buried dregs in the compost pit had started to ferment. So too, beneath the quiet face of Twilight Town, something was working in secret now, biding for the day it would break the soil and rise.