The heavy oak doors of The Hearthsong Inn swung silently inward as he approached. Caleb stumbled across the threshold, his mind a whirlwind of alley shadows and the scent of blood. He glanced at the glowing runes etched into the doorframe, the patterns no longer exciting him.
The warmth of the common room felt hollow. The rich smell of roasting meat and stewed apples was cloying, belonging to a world already behind him.
The discord of a furious argument brought him up short, displacing the usual cheerful din of the patrons that had all fallen silent. Everyone present, from the grizzled adventurers in the corner booths to the merchants sipping wine at the bar, had fixed their attention on the center of the floor. Two groups of armed men had squared off, the space between them crackling with hostility.
"This is an outrage, Bastian!" A powerfully built man in practical steel-and-leather armor slammed his gauntleted fist on a table. The wood groaned under the impact. "My consortium leased this delving window. We have a contract sanctioned under the Imperial Mandate for Provincial Assets!"
The man he addressed was of a different breed entirely. He stood loose-limbed and at ease, weight shifted to one hip, already bored with the confrontation. His plate armor was a work of art, inlaid with silver filigree that crossed it like snaking vines. He barely glanced at the angry merchant, examining his manicured nails with affected indifference. "A Gilded contract means nothing. My House's writ gives me precedence in the Deadfall dungeon."
Caleb’s [Savant of the Mind] kicked in and began processing the scene, cataloging details methodically. The merchant was Gilded, a man of wealth earned through commerce and risk. The men behind him had braced, already reaching for their weapons, their gear functional and expressions grim. They were here on business and were likely a hired crew.
Bastian and his retinue were Illuminet. Their pristine equipment gleamed under the runic lights, their cloaks embroidered with the crest of a soaring hawk on a field of gold. They remained perfectly still, carrying themselves with the unshakable confidence of those born to privilege. They were here for sport. The merchant's livelihood was their playground.
The abstract rules of this world, the ones he'd pieced together from Thal's memories and his short time on Veraxus, were playing out before him in flesh and blood. Inherited power stood against earned wealth, the law of the land against the whim of the elite.
"My men have been preparing for weeks!" the merchant snarled, his face flushing impotently. "We have supplies, contracts for the yield, and schedules to keep! You can't do this—"
"I can," Bastian interrupted, his voice smooth and condescending. He finally raised his eyes, peering at the merchant with open contempt. "And I have. Your provincial asset, as you call it, falls under the scope of my family's ancestral claims. The Mandate allows for such exceptions. You should examine the fine print." He smiled, a thin, predatory curve of his lips. "Or have one of your scribes explain it to you."
As the insult hung in the air, the merchant reached for his sword hilt. His team shifted, leather creaking as warriors loosened weapons in their sheaths.
Caleb watched the standoff, the alarming scene cutting through his dazed state. The merchant's wealth likely exceeded what Caleb could accumulate across decades of labor. Yet against Bastian's birthright, he stood as defenseless as the forager had against Cillian's knife.
That harsh truth sank into him. Two forces governed this world: the strength of blood, and the strength of arm. Silver and gold were just currency. A spirit stone was simply access. The true aim was to forge himself into something unbreakable: someone no grinning murderer in darkened streets or sneering aristocrat in tavern halls could reduce to prey.
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An abrupt hiss broke his reflection. "Thal! What are you doing just standing there?"
Corinne had rushed up from behind the bar, her face a mask of annoyance. She grabbed his arm, intending to pull him toward the kitchen and away from the brewing storm.
She stopped dead when she looked at him closer.
Her hold loosened as she fell silent. Wide-eyed, she took in his pallor, his unfocused stare and the dark stains painting his tunic and preservation cloth. The annoyance was replaced by horror.
"What… what happened to you?" she asked urgently.
The next few minutes were a blur. The simmering conflict in the common room faded to a distant murmur. Corinne steered him through a side door, her grip firm on his arm, bypassing the kitchen's heat and clamor for the quiet of the back halls. The polished wood floors tilted beneath his feet. Soon, he was sitting on a hard-backed chair in Cassia's small office. The smell of paper, ink, and aged timber clashed with the metallic stench that still hung on him.
Cassia stood before him. She kept her face controlled and her eyes took in every detail. Corinne hovered beside her mother, her face pale and fingers twisting in her apron.
"That blood, dear." Cassia spoke softly. "It's not yours, is it?"
Caleb looked down at the stained preservation cloth lying limp and slack in his lap. He shook his head. The dull throb Aurelian's potion had left behind his eyes intensified, each pulse driving a spike of pain deeper into his skull.
"Who did this?" Corinne asked, her voice trembling.
The scene recalled as his fists clenched: a pleasant, empty face. A warm and melodic voice as a cheerful whistle floated down a blood-soaked alley. "A man named Cillian," he said. His answer came out a dry rasp, throat feeling scraped raw. "He was… whistling."
Cassia let out a low, weary sigh, seeming resigned. She reached down and took the bloodied cloth from him. With deft hands, she folded it neatly, her movements betraying a stark familiarity with violence. Without another word, she placed it in a shallow metal basin beside her desk.
The growing pain beat through Caleb's head, each wave threatening to crack his skull open. But the memory of standing immobile while death walked past dwarfed his body's agony.
He looked up, meeting Cassia's sympathetic look. His vision swam, but he spoke clearly. "I need an advance." The desperate need in his voice carried the most adult emotion he'd known since arriving in this world. "I… I can't ever be that powerless again. I have to get Awakened. I have to get strong enough to protect myself."
Cassia studied him for a long moment.
"Of course."
She turned to a heavy wooden chest in the corner of the office, the kind bound with iron straps. From a chain around her neck, she produced a delicate key and unlocked it. The lid opened with a faint groan. Caleb watched, his breath held as she reached inside. She counted out a stack of silver coins, their edges catching the light. She dropped them into a leather pouch, then placed it with a solid thud on the table in front of him.
Caleb sagged, the release so potent he nearly slid out of the chair. His muscles went slack, releasing the iron grip he hadn't realized he was holding. Bone-deep exhaustion followed immediately. The adrenaline and the fear along with the strange potion had all run their course, leaving him utterly spent. He grabbed the pouch. The first installment toward a life where no one could make him a victim.
"Get some rest, Thal," Cassia said, her voice gentle. "Gareth can manage without you for one night."
Caleb nodded, a motion that sent a fresh bolt of pain lancing through his brow. The room spun the moment he pushed himself up from the chair, and the floor seemed to drop away from his feet.
"Easy," Corinne said, her hand immediately on his shoulder, steadying him. "I've got you. Let's get you to your cot."
Words failed him. He just leaned into her support, letting her guide him from the office. The short walk took everything he had, each step a jarring impact that split through his temples. Corinne led him through the doorway, her steady arm the only thing keeping him upright. She helped him onto the cot, then eased the door shut behind her.
Caleb collapsed onto the thin mattress, everything reeling. Through the closed door, the sounds of the inn became a muffled hum. His headache had transformed from measured throbs into a constant assault. The base of his skull pulsed with pain and squeezed out all other thought.
He closed his eyes. A smiling killer's afterimage seared the inside of his eyelids.
His final conscious thought was a desperate plea formed in the agony.
Just let it stop! Let me sleep. Tomorrow… tomorrow, I take my first step toward power.