When the morning light spilled across the clocktower of Twilight Town, Abler stood before the ledger of the town office, his fingertip tracing the glaring red deficit beneath the column for “Knight Corps Pay.”
Hawk shrank in the corner. The wound at his waist had just been re-bandaged by Linata; the sharp scent of medicine seeping through the cloth mixed with the reek of ale on his body, filling the stifling room.
“From this day forward, the ‘Defense Tax’ is abolished.” Abler’s pen scored the page, leaving a clear line of ink. “Merchants will yield three per mille of their revenues. Farmers will pay a tenth of their autumn harvest. Widows and orphans are exempt.” He lifted his gaze to Hawk, the red eyes stripped of warmth. “Your ‘Town Guard’ will draw its monthly pay from the apothecary’s profits recorded here. Skim so much as a coin, and Andrea will know how to deal with you.”
Hawk nodded frantically. The wound at his lower back still ached—Andrea had “checked the injury” that morning with her dagger tracing a cold half-circle against his skin, saying: This blade knows the blood of traitors. Only now did he truly understand that this seemingly mild “apothecary’s hand” before him was in fact the real master of Twilight Town.
Andrea pushed the door open, a newly drawn defense chart in her hand. She spread it across the table, fingertip tapping the western pass of the town. “Per Your Majesty’s order, three hidden sentries have been set along the Black Raven Forest edge. Firebat Cavalry rotate their patrols there. When the Valo Duchy’s couriers approach, we will have half an hour’s forewarning.” She paused, then added, “Hawk’s seven men have all been checked. Their families are bound by gambling debts or tavern tabs—easy to control.”
Abler gave a single “Mm” and signed the ledger—yet not with “Abler,” but with a foreign human name: “Aib.” “And Kalos?”
“He has already departed with ten Firebat Cavalry,” Andrea said in a hushed voice. “By the coordinates you gave, to seek Shadowweave’s station in the eastern marshes. She claims that if the ‘Shadow Core’ can be recovered, the scattered mental thread web can be restored.”
Abler closed the ledger. As he rose, his black robe swept the table’s edge and stirred the air. “Keep the town steady. I’ll be back by dusk.” He gave no destination, and Andrea did not ask—she had seen Linata that morning, standing at the apothecary doorway with half-empty baskets of mushrooms drying in the sun.
On the handcart in Bluestone Alley lay two empty bamboo baskets. Linata was packing them with oiled paper bundles. “Provisions and salves. What if you twist an ankle in the hills?” When she looked up and saw Abler, her eyes lit. “Good timing. Help me shoulder this pack.”
The pack was heavy, filled with a kettle and a sickle. As Abler took it, his fingers brushed hers. Both withdrew at once, as if shocked. “What sort of mushroom needs gathering that far out?”
“Moon-caps. They only grow beneath the cliffs deep in Black Raven Forest.” Linata pulled the cart toward the lane’s end, her white hair streaming in the breeze. “A few days ago I used half a basket to treat the smith’s boy’s burn. I need to restock.” Suddenly she turned back, holding up a dried leaf. “And this—do you recognize it?”
Abler’s pupils tightened at the jagged edges of the leaf. It was the demonrealm’s “Soulwake Herb,” antidote to Illusion Fog Stone. He schooled his features. “Looks like a clover variant.”
“Not bad.” Linata tucked the leaf into her pocket. “Brew it in water and it soothes the mind. I put some in the tea I gave you last time.”
Heat touched the tips of Abler’s ears. So she had known of the Illusion Fog, and had chosen to ease the lingering taint with this quiet remedy.
By the time the cart halted at the forest’s entrance, the sun had just climbed the treetops. Linata slipped into the woods with her basket, light on her feet like a doe, her white hair vanishing and reappearing in the dappled light. Abler followed, watching her bend to harvest herbs, her fingers snapping stems with a motion precise yet tender—the same as when she ground powders at her table.
“Beyond that stream ahead, another half-mile, and we’ll reach the cliff.” Linata pointed to a silver ribbon of water through the trees. “In summer the rains swell it. Watch your step.”
The stream was wider than he expected, current swift, the stones slick. Linata tried the first rock and swayed. Abler steadied her by the waist, his palm brushing the warmth beneath her coarse cloth, like grasping a handful of soft cloud.
“Hold fast,” his voice was low. He guided her across three stones, releasing only when her feet found grass on the far bank. Linata’s ears flushed red; she turned quickly into the deeper wood, steps quick as flight.
The path narrowed, vines clutching at clothes. Linata swung her sickle to clear the thorns, then said suddenly: “You don’t seem like a trader.”
Abler paused. “Then what do I seem like?”
“Like…” She chewed the sickle’s handle, thinking. “Like a knight from a tale—silent, but deadly with a blade.” She looked back at him, gray eyes glimmering beneath the canopy. “What were you, before?”
Abler’s gaze strayed to the cliff in the distance, the rocks dark as demonrealm obsidian. “I commanded many.” His voice was vague. “Then something happened, and I wandered.”
“Commanded many? Like the Mayor?” she pressed, curious. “Or like the captain of the Knight Corps?”
“More than them.” Abler smiled faintly and said no more. He noticed a small blue flower caught in her hair from the stream crossing. Reaching to remove it, his fingers barely brushed the petal when she gave a small cry.
“What is it?”
“Twisted my ankle.” Linata winced, rubbing at it. “Snagged on a root.”
Abler crouched, took her ankle gently in hand, and turned it. Her skin was cool, the joint already swelling red. “Can you walk?”
“Let me try.” She leaned on his arm, took a step, and grimaced. “Looks like I need to rest.”
They sat on a boulder beside the stream, water rushing like murmured secrets. Linata handed him the kettle, then peeled a barley cake and ate in small bites. “I used to come here often with my father,” she said softly. “He was an apothecary too. Better than me. He could name hundreds of herbs.”
“And now?” Abler asked.
“Dead.” Her tone held no rise or fall. She crumbled the cake’s fragments between her fingers. “Three years ago, the Valo Duchy’s knights came to levy grain. He refused. They…” She stopped, cast the crumbs into the water. “After that I took over the apothecary.”
Abler said nothing, only drew out a clean cloth and offered it. She wiped her hands, then smiled faintly. “Why drag the mood down. Forget it.” She nodded toward the cliff. “We’re close. Beyond that pine stand.”
The sky shifted in an instant. A cold wind rose, clouds black as ink spilling across the heavens. Rain crashed down in heavy drops, drumming on leaves.
“Quick! There’s a cave ahead!” Linata pulled him toward the pines, her white hair plastered to her face like gauze. When they ducked into the cave both were drenched through.
It was shallow but dry. In one corner lay old brushwood—signs of hunters. Abler gathered it and sparked a small tuft of Black Flame at his fingertip, carefully restrained to candle-size, enough to kindle the branches.
When Linata looked up to speak, she caught him staring at her hair, eyes clouded with some unreadable feeling.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Abler turned away, feeding a stick to the fire. “The rain will last awhile. Warm yourself first.”
She nodded, edging closer to the flame. Firelight flickered across her face, her lashes casting shadows that danced. She remembered something, rummaged in her pack, and drew out an oiled paper bundle. “Good thing the mushrooms stayed dry.”
Inside lay several moon-caps, white as snow, their caps glowing with faint silver light. Abler looked from them to the cave wall’s faint totems, and a thought stirred—that perhaps this rain was no accident.
Outside the storm raged, thunder like an army galloping through the forest. The fire crackled, shadows of the two drawn close upon the stone wall.
Neither spoke. Yet something unspoken swelled in the air, like the silver sheen of the moon-caps, quietly seeping into the heart.