Beritrude gasped as the air above the sea shimmered, spinning into a tight, black vortex no more than thirty feet overhead.

She lurched toward the boat's edge, nearly tipping them. “Halmond!” she cried, pointing skyward.

Halmond turned quickly, rocking the boat further. His eyes locked on the impossible—an opening portal, pulsing black and gray. He half-rose instinctively, then dropped into a crouch, hands gripping the gunwales to steady himself.

The portal twisted once, then ejected a man into the sky—sideways, face down, with someone else's hand gripping his arm. The vortex snapped shut in the middle of the second man's body, severing him clean across the stomach. Blood sprayed briefly before both forms fell, tumbling like broken dolls.

Whatever had happened here, it was obviously not going to plan. 

Both bodies hit the water hard and flat.  

Without a word, Halmond and Beritrude sprang to action. She seized the oars, guiding the boat with practiced precision toward the splash. Halmond stripped off his vest and boots in quick motions, then vaulted over the side.

The sea swallowed him.

Moments later, he surfaced, one arm wrapped around a limp body—a boy, barely more than skin and bones. Beritrude leaned out, grabbing hold as Halmond passed the boy up into the boat. She hauled him in with surprising strength, cradling his head as she checked for breath.

Halmond dove again without pause.

Below, the water was red with drifting ribbons of blood. The second body—what remained of it—sank slowly. Torn in half, motionless, lifeless. Halmond hovered for a moment before turning away, leaving the corpse to the dark.

When he climbed back aboard, Beritrude had already laid the boy flat on the boards.

“It’s just a boy,” she said, brushing wet hair from the teen’s face. “What in the deep is a teenage boy doing falling out of the sky?”

Halmond settled back into the oars and began to row, turning the boat toward the distant shore. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “How is he? Breathing?”

Beritrude leaned close to the boy, her ear near his mouth. “Yes. Just barely. What about the other one?”

“Top half only,” Halmond said grimly. “Looked like the portal closed on him. Too much blood in the water already—I wasn’t about to risk sharks for a corpse.”

He glanced at the boy. Light-brown hair clung to his head, emphasizing a sharp jawline and thin frame. His clothes were patchwork—torn, badly repaired. No shoes. Maybe fifteen or sixteen turns old. Halmond felt a flicker of something unexpected: protectiveness. The feeling rose from somewhere deep, quiet, familiar. His old magic—not the kind that cast spells, but the kind that whispered truths. He’d learned long ago to trust it.

Beritrude propped the boy's head with a folded net and gently wiped the water from his face with a clean rag.  She her weight to shade his face from the sun. "He's nothing but skin and bones. Poor thing. What kind of person falls into the ocean from a portal?"

"That wasn't a Wizard's portal." Halmond said. "We've both seen enough Wizards' portals to know that. Warlocks shouldn't be able to get into Malminar, but I'd bet coin on that having been a Warlock portal.  Nitt's, described them often enough—and I saw a few back in service."

Beritrude nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the boy’s cheek. “Not him though.”

“No,” Halmond said. “You can tell.”

Beritrude’s eyes met his. “The other man?”

Halmond’s nod was slow and deliberate.

"Better check his arms and legs anyway," Halmond said quietly.

They both knew what to look for—the telltale signs a Warlock bore once sworn to a Demon. Even so, if this boy was one, he’d be the youngest they’d ever heard of.

Beritrude gently pushed up the boy's sleeves. His arms were bruised and scarred—but there were none of the telltale signs that marked the sworn. Just damage from a hard life.

  His left shoulder, however was no longer seated in its socket. Best to put it back now, while the boy was still unconscious.  "His shoulders' dislocated," she muttered. "I'm gonna reset it, but, I'll need your help."

Halmond shipped the oars and moved to the boy's side without hesitation.Beritrude shifted into place, planting one foot in the boy’s armpit, gripping his wrist with both hands.

“Hold him steady.”

Halmond braced the boy’s torso.

Beritrude pulled.

The boat rocked. A wet pop cracked through the air, oddly in time with the lapping of the waves.

The boy groaned.

Beritrude eased the boy’s arm down along his side just as his eyelids fluttered and he coughed, sputtering seawater.

“Easy,” Halmond said gently. “You’re safe now.”

He sat back, hands raised slightly, showing he meant no harm. “We pulled you from the water. Your shoulder was dislocated. Had to fix it—sorry if that was a rude awakening.”

The boy—young, maybe sixteen—bolted upright. He scrambled backward until his spine hit the gunwale, eyes wide, chest heaving. Every muscle was taut with panic. He looked ready to jump.

“Hey now,” Beritrude said softly, not moving toward him.

His gaze snapped from her to Halmond, then to the empty sea. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Swimming wasn’t an option—not with that arm, and not with the shore so far off. He wanted nothing more than a tight, dark place to hide.

“How did I get here?” he rasped. His voice cracked from salt and shock.

Maybe they hadn’t seen the portal. Maybe they didn’t know. Or worse—they did. What if they were with Plug? What if they were part of it?

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice sharper now, suspicious.

The dark-haired man moved smoothly back toward the bow.  He moved with the practiced ease of someone long used to being on a boats.

"I'm Beritrude," said the woman from the stern, "and that's Halmond."

Both of them appeared relaxed, non-threatening, being careful to not move toward Rishmond. They were giving him his space—intentionally, Rishmond realized.

“We pulled you from the sea,” she continued. “You dropped from a portal. You were unconscious, and your shoulder was dislocated. We set it. I’m sorry—it must hurt.”

Rishmond suddenly became aware of the pain in his shoulder.  That could keep him from doing any long distance swimming if he had to. It was just a dull ache, but he knew from experience that it could be a hindrance for a few days if he didn't rest it. 

He looked at the woman again. She was leaning slightly away from him, subtly balancing the boat against his tension. Long, dark hair framed a kind face—plain but striking. Her eyes were large, dark, and calm. She looked strong. Strong enough to stop him if she had to.

Rishmond tensed. If it came to a fight, he’d have to be fast—and dirty.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Plug! The thought hit him. His eyes cast about fearfully, searching for the Warlock that had seemed intent on kidnapping or killing him.

Or both.

"Hey," Halmond said gently. "It's all right. The man who came through the portal with you is unfortunately dead. Or maybe fortunately? Was he someone important to you?"

Rishmond flinched. “No!” he blurted, then caught himself. “I mean… no. He was just a sailor. I barely knew him.”

Halmond gave a slow nod.

“He’s really dead?” Rishmond asked.

“No one survives being cut in half by a closing portal,” Halmond replied, his voice steady but unreadable. “Not much of him left to save.”

Rishmond looked away, staring at the waves. The boat creaked. Birds cried overhead. Salt stung his lips.

“I think…” he began, hesitating. “I think he was a Warlock.”

He looked up, watching for a reaction—but Halmond showed none. Not shock. Not fear.

Just quiet listening.

Rishmond turned his full attention to the man rowing the boat. 

He was strong—thick arms pulling with smooth practiced power, sending the little boat at good speed across the water.  The shore would be coming up quickly.  Maybe Rishmond could bide his time and run when they got close to shore.

The man’s hair was cropped close, tight curls glinting with sea spray in the sun. His skin was dark, and a thick mustache shaded his upper lip, giving him a hard edge. He was tall too—hard to gauge exactly while seated, but certainly taller than Rishmond.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What's your name young man?"

Rishmond's head snapped toward the woman—Beritrude. He’d forgotten about her for a moment. He half-expected her to be lunging at him, but she hadn’t moved. Still seated, still leaning away to keep the boat balanced, her expression calm and kind.

"You do have a name, yes?" she asked.

His throat was dry. When he opened his mouth, only a croak escaped. He coughed once, tasted salt, and tried again. “Rishmond, ma’am.”

Out of habit, he lowered his eyes and made himself smaller, shrinking into the boat’s floorboards—but kept both of them in his peripheral vision.

"You're safe now, Rishmond," the woman's voice was calm and soothing, friendly. "Whatever happened to cause you to be here is over and we only want to help. We won't hurt you and we won't keep you from wherever you want to go once we get to shore. If you like, we can take you to our home and provide you with some food, some clean fresh clothes, and assistance in getting wherever it is you want to go."

“You’re safe now, Rishmond,” Beritrude said gently. Her voice was low, warm. “Whatever brought you here—it’s over. We don’t mean you harm, and we won’t keep you from leaving, if that’s what you want. Once we reach shore, you can go wherever you please.”

She gave a small, hopeful smile. “But if you like, we can take you to our home. Get you some food. Clean clothes. Help you figure out where to go next.”

Rishmond didn’t answer, but he didn’t recoil either.

Halmond spoke up from the oars. “It’ll be a little while yet before we land. If you feel like talking, maybe you could tell us how you ended up falling out of the sky?”

His tone was easy, even amused—not mockingly so, just curious. It made Rishmond blink.

“Or say nothing,” Halmond added with a shrug. “Up to you. But we are, I’ll admit, very curious.”

Rishmond looked at him. Halmond smiled—not a grin or a smirk, but a real smile. Open. Friendly.

Then he looked at Beritrude, who was watching Halmond with a look he couldn’t quite read. There was something between them. Something warm. Familiar.

Rishmond didn’t understand it, not really. People didn’t smile like that where he came from. Not about things like portals or Warlocks or dying. But maybe that was the difference.

It hadn’t happened to them.

It had happened to him.

“There was a Warlock,” Rishmond said softly.

He hesitated. The memories were still scrambled—blurred by fear and shock. It had all happened so fast.

One minute voices were arguing outside the ship, the next we was being dragged through that awful swirling hole.

The pits of hell being opened in the deck. 

Tentacles dragging men to their deaths.

Worse than death. He knew the stories.

People who went in one of those holes were taken by Demons.

Eaten by them.

Tortured by them.

Plug’s grip on his arm. The sudden pull. The sickening drop.

His eyes darted across the water again, scanning for danger that wasn’t there.

“You’re safe,” Halmond said, his voice like solid ground. “No Warlocks out here. And the one who tried to come through with you—well, he didn’t make it. He won’t be troubling anyone again.”

There was no judgment in his tone. Just certainty.

Beritrude didn’t speak, but her quiet presence was reassuring. She was busy now, folding nets, stowing gear, letting Rishmond have space and silence.

It took him a few minutes, but eventually, Rishmond spoke again.

He told them—carefully—about the ship, the Dutchess' Teat, the strange behavior of the man called Plug. He mentioned the port, the Church officials, the feeling of being watched and herded. He left out that he'd began glowing. He didn’t mention the marks on his back.

And he didn’t say Toby’s name.

Not yet.

“A Warlock in the harbor at Retinor?” Halmond raised an eyebrow but sounded more intrigued than alarmed. “That hasn’t happened in… what, decades? "That's gotta have the Wizards in a tizzy."

He kept the boat steady, strong strokes pulling them closer to shore.

“How long were you docked before the authorities showed up?”

“I don’t know,” Rishmond said, voice tight. “We were kept below. Told to stay quiet. Couldn’t have been long—maybe a few hours. I could hear the cargo being moved.”

His thoughts drifted. The memory came unbidden: Toby crouched in the shadows, drawing figures on the floorboards with the nub of a burned-out candle.

Rishmond’s breath hitched.

Toby!

Panic surged.

“I have to get back!” he burst out, voice cracking. “The Church—when they realize I’m gone—they’ll blame him! My friend. He didn’t do anything, but they’ll punish him anyway!”

He pushed himself to his knees, trying to scan the coastline. The boat rocked beneath him.

“Where are the ships? Where’s the harbor? Where are we?”

The beach ahead was quiet—fishing huts, small piers, not the bustling cargo docks he expected.

Beritrude sat quickly at the stern, steadying the boat as Rishmond’s sudden movement rocked it. “We’re just a couple of miles from the main docks,” she said calmly. “Easy now—no need to toss us all overboard.”

Her tone was firm, not unkind.

“We’ll be ashore soon. If you want to go back to your ship, we’ll take you there. It’s not far from where we land. No one’s keeping you.”

She paused, letting that settle.

“From what you said, the Wizard Council is already involved. They’ll be handling things now—cleaning up, questioning, healing. Your friend is likely warm, fed, and resting already.”

She caught his gaze.

“And the Church won’t be dragging anyone off just yet. We deal with them often enough. They won’t move without the Council’s say-so.”

Rishmond wanted to believe her. But he knew the Church. Knew how little they cared for street urchins, especially ones marked as trouble. Especially ones like him.

He thought of Toby again—alone, maybe scared, maybe punished already.

Anger pushed through the fear.

And then something stranger—a sudden calm, sharp and steady, like cool iron in his blood. A certainty that if anyone had hurt Toby…

They would pay.

The water around the boat began to stir.

At first, it was subtle—a ripple, a swirl. Then, suddenly, the sea boiled. A froth spread outward from the hull in a wide circle.

Rishmond didn’t move. His thoughts were far away. He barely noticed.

But then, with a sound like rain turned inside out, the surface erupted.

Hundreds of flying fish burst from the sea, arcing through the air in every direction—silver bodies glinting in the sunlight, fins like wings catching wind. They flung themselves skyward, some gliding long and low, others falling short. A dozen or more landed directly in the boat, slapping against wood and boots and legs.

Halmond stopped rowing, stunned. “What in all the hells…?”

Beritrude, unfazed, called over her shoulder, “Language, my love!” as if she said it every day.

Then she got to work—deftly scooping wriggling fish with both hands, tossing the small ones back overboard and the larger ones into the live-well at the stern.

Halmond gave a nervous glance at the water and resumed rowing—just a little faster this time.

“Language? Really?” Halmond laughed, the sound booming across the water. “That’s what you’ve got for me? Magic portals, skyfish, and you’re worried about my tongue?”

His laughter was loud, unguarded—and it startled Rishmond. It cut straight through the fog of his thoughts.

The quiet fury he’d been nursing—the cold, vengeful certainty—slipped away, replaced by something lighter. Confusion. Surprise. Maybe even the edge of a smile.

Beritrude was laughing now too, her hands still moving as she sorted flopping fish from boat planks. Both of them were clearly used to strange things at sea, but not this strange. The absurdity had cracked the tension wide open.

Above them, a few clouds chased each other across the sun, sending fleeting shadows over the rocking boat. The fish were already tapering off—one final glider sailed overhead and plopped into the sea with a wet plop.

Peace settled again, for the moment.

"Well now!  It seems our young friend here is great luck for us!  What a haul!", Beritrude continued to throw fish back into the water, no longer putting any in the over-full live-well. "This day will be one for story telling later."

“I didn’t do anything!” Rishmond blurted. “I don’t know fish—don’t know anything about fishing—and I definitely can’t make them jump out of the water like that!”

The words tumbled out, too fast. His heart pounded. He was sure they were going to accuse him. Call him a Warlock. Call the Church. Bind him and burn him—like they did back in Mott.

He’d seen it happen.

But instead of suspicion, they laughed.

“Of course not, son,” Halmond said with a chuckle. “Sometimes a school of flying fish gets spooked. Happens now and again. We just got lucky to be right in their path.”

“Lucky indeed,” Beritrude added, smiling as she brushed a small fish off the bench beside her. “Fishing hadn’t been much good today. But now? Dinner and a tidy profit.”

Halmond grinned wide. “A boatload of fish and a boy falling from the sky? That’s a day we’ll be talking about for turns!”

Beritrude turned her eyes back to Rishmond, soft and steady. “And no,” she said gently, “we don’t think you caused it. And we don’t think you’re a Warlock.”

Rishmond stared at her, stunned. How did she know what he was afraid of?

“Now,” she added, “would you like to help us clear the rest of these fish from the bottom of the boat?”

Rishmond glanced at the handful of fish still flopping around at his feet. Without thinking, he crouched and began tossing them overboard—awkwardly at first. The fish were slippery, their slick bodies squirming free more than once and thumping right back down on the boat floor.

Beritrude moved beside him, deft and practiced. Together, they cleared the boat in minutes. At some point, their arms brushed. She grinned, then suddenly turned and hurled the last fish—straight at Halmond.

The fish struck him square in the chest with a wet smack. He blinked, surprised, water glistening on his mustache.

Then he laughed—a big, open laugh—and dipped the oars with a powerful splash, drenching them both in cold sea spray.

Rishmond froze, unsure how to respond. Then Beritrude’s laugh rang out beside him. She leaned into him, hiding her face behind his shoulder.

Her hand gripped his arm—his left arm.

Pain flared.

He yelped and yanked away, stepping on a slick patch of fish slime. His foot slipped, and he crashed to the floor of the boat, eyes squeezing shut as his shoulder lit up with fresh pain.

“Oh hell—Rishmond!” Beritrude dropped beside him instantly. “I’m so sorry. I forgot about your shoulder. Are you all right?”

He lay on his back, cradling his arm against his chest, wincing. The pain flared, sharp and hot—but it faded quickly. Just a shock. Nothing serious.

“I’m fine,” he managed. “It’s okay. Really. You didn’t mean it.”

Halmond had stepped over in a heartbeat, crouched nearby. “Language, Beri,” he said lightly, but there was real concern beneath the teasing.

Rishmond blinked up at them. Two adults. Faces full of worry. For him.

It didn’t make sense. Why would they care?

And yet… they did. He could see it in their eyes.

He shifted slightly, testing his shoulder. It moved. A little sore, but intact. “See? I’m okay.”

They gave him space, not pressing, not hovering too long. Just enough.

It was… strange. Not bad. Just strange.

He found himself hoping Beritrude wasn’t upset. Not because he feared her, but because… he didn’t want her to feel bad.

That was new.

"Ok then.  Sorry about that.  We should be more mindful," Halmond said as he sat back on his seat and picked up the oars again. 

"Are you sure you're ok?" Beritrude stayed near him, but gave him some room to move about. Her face was kind and the concern in her eyes seemed sincere. 

As the shoreline neared, Halmond shipped the oars and stood. The boat coasted the last few feet before its hull scraped gently against wet sand.

Without hesitation, Halmond stepped into the shallows and grabbed the bow, hauling the boat up onto the beach. Beritrude followed, her boots splashing softly as she joined him.

“Hop out and give us a hand, Rishmond—if you’re up to it,” Halmond said over his shoulder.

Rishmond didn’t think. He just moved.

The sand was warm underfoot. The water tugged gently at his legs as he stepped out. For a second, he felt unsteady—like the sea hadn’t quite let him go.

Then he grabbed the side of the boat and helped them pull.

Working in with these strangers—it felt… normal.

They hauled the boat fully onto the shore, then began unloading it—nets, gear, and a heavy, sloshing live-well full of flopping fish.

“I need to find my friend,” Rishmond said quietly as Halmond and Beritrude worked around him.

“Of course,” Halmond replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s get this boat unloaded first. We’ll leave Berti with the fish, and you and I can head to the docks—see what the Wizards have sorted out.”

He rolled a hand-cart over from a weathered shed near the dunes. Together, they hefted the sloshing live-well onto it. Water spilled out in short arcs, darkening the sand.

Rishmond followed as Halmond dragged the cart up a worn wooden ramp and onto the stone-paved streets.

The village unfolded before him—houses perched on stone columns, raised just above the street. Their wooden frames were clean, painted in soft colors. Gardens bloomed along fences. Windchimes sang softly in doorways.

It was… peaceful. Alive in a way Mott had never been.

And beyond, the city loomed—larger than he’d realized. The homes gave way to denser streets and broader avenues, and far in the distance, mountains rose like stone gods against the pale sky.

It was beautiful. And strange.

“Hey, Halmond!” a raspy voice called out. An old man with sun-dark skin and a white, wispy ponytail waved from across the street. “Good catch today? Hear about the mess down at the docks? Crazy business with Wizards involved!"

"Yes! Great! Fishi practically jumping right into the boat!", Halmond called back with a grin. "Been out on the water all morning, Kret, so, haven't heard anything." 

The man—Kret, from the way Halmond greeted him—fell into step beside them, his shuffle keeping pace. He peered at Rishmond with open curiosity.

“And who’s this then? Pickin’ up strays again, are you?”

“After a fashion,” Halmond said. “He fell out of a portal in the sky. Dropped thirty feet into the sea, right beside us.”

Kret stopped mid-stride, blinking. “That true?” he said, eyebrows rising. “Well then. You’re taking him to the Wizards, I hope."

"Of course," replied Halmond, "I'm sure they'll have everything sorted posthaste. No need to worry Kret."

“Phoenix Company, yes,” Halmond said, as though it were obvious. “They’ll know what to make of it.”

Kret gave a low whistle. “Gods be good. That’ll stir the cauldron.”

He nodded to Rishmond. “Well, lad—if you’re headed there, you’re in good hands. These two’ll see you right.”

Then he was gone, back up the path, muttering something about “skyfall boys and breakfast fish.”

Rishmond stumbled a bit in surprise at what Halmond said.

Talking like that in The Arrangement would get one picked up by the Church and quited away for a long time, if not for the rest of your life—which would likely be shorter rather than longer! But the man named Kret seemed to be content with what Halmond had said.

They turned down a quiet side street and stopped at a small house nestled between two others. It sat raised on stone pillars like the rest, with wooden steps leading up to a modest porch. Flowering vines curled around the posts. The air smelled of salt, fish, and something faintly sweet.

Beritrude climbed the steps and opened the door. Halmond, dragging the heavy sloshing container, paused on the second step.

“Pull that plug there, will you?” he said to Rishmond, nodding at the drain cork on the side.

Rishmond obeyed, and water gushed out, spilling across the sand. Together, they hauled the box up the last few steps and left it draining at the edge of the porch.

He turned toward the open doorway.

Inside, it was quiet. Clean. A single room opened before him—modest but warm. A glass globe hung from the ceiling, glowing softly without a flame. No smoke, no soot. Just light.

It didn’t feel like a place where people yelled.

Beritrude returned with a wooden cup and held it out. “Here. You must be thirsty. I should’ve offered you something back on the boat.”

Rishmond took it, suspicious at first—but one sip changed that. Cold. Minty. Sweet with a citrus tang. His eyes widened.

“That’s… wow. That’s really good.”

She smiled. “Glad you like it. You’re welcome here, Rishmond.”

He looked past her into the house again.

Home. That’s what it felt like. But that couldn’t be right.

He glanced back at Halmond who had stepped up onto the porch and to the side leaving the stairs down unobstructed.  Halmond smiled a friendly smile.  Neither of the adults moved to pressure Rishmond inside. Maybe this is ok then. What could they want with me? He decided he would go in, he'd escaped from worse and he was sure that if he wanted to, he could escape from here too.

Beritrude lead Rishmond into the house, through the small front room and down a darkened hall to a small room with three doors.  Beritrude continued to the door on the left and opened it, stepping inside.  Rishmond followed, sipping on the drink he was carrying.

The room was small, but not cramped, a narrow bed lay along the opposite wall under a small shuttered window high on the wall.  A small tapestry hung above the bed, hard to make out what was on it in the darkness of the room.

Beritrude opened the wardrobe and ran her fingers along a neat row of hanging clothes. It didn’t take her long to pull out a few pieces—simple, well-kept, a little faded from sun and time. She laid them on the bed: a soft shirt, sturdy trousers, a belt. Even a pair of shoes.

“These belonged to my son,” she said gently. “He passed some years back. I wasn’t sure why I’d held on to his things. But now…”

She smiled at Rishmond, not sadly, just… with peace.

“I think they were meant for you. You’re a bit thinner than he was, but they should fit.”

Rishmond froze.

“I can’t take your son’s clothes,” he said, voice hardening. “These are fine—” He tugged at his tattered vest, the seams fraying, stained with salt. “They’re mine.”

Beritrude didn’t argue. She simply stepped back, hands raised, voice soft. “If you want them back, I’ll pack them for you. But you don’t have to wear rags, Rishmond. You deserve better. I promise it’s all freely given.”

That made it worse somehow. The kindness.

She walked to a cupboard, pulled out folded towels. “Come on then. Let’s at least get you washed up. The washroom's down the hall.”

He followed, still clutching the cup of cold, sweet drink.

“Come,” Beritrude said with a gentle gesture. “Let’s at least get you washed up. You can decide about the clothes after. Take off your coat and shirt, step into the washroom, and you can pass me your pants when you’re ready.”

Rishmond froze.

Then—“No!”

The word came out sharp, too loud, like a whip crack. He backed up until his shoulders hit the wall, arms wrapped around himself like armor.

“I mean—” he fumbled, voice quieter, shaking. “I’d rather not. I can wash with my clothes on. I don’t mind. I just… I’ll stay dressed.”

Beritrude paused.

She didn’t move toward him.

She didn’t speak right away.

Then she nodded—slowly, gently—and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“All right,” she said. “That’s fine, Rishmond. However you’re comfortable.”

He stared at her, half expecting anger, or disappointment. But she just offered him a quiet smile and stepped back.

In her eyes, he didn’t see suspicion. Or pity. Just… understanding.

And that made it even harder.

Inside the washroom, Rishmond stood still for a long moment.

The room was impossibly clean—polished stone, warm light, a soft-glowing mirror that reflected the whole space without distortion. A pipe jutted from the wall over a stone basin, and when he reached for the lever, water sprang to life.

No pump. No bucket. Just water—clear, warm, flowing as if by magic.

He stared.

Steam began to rise as the spray hit the tiled floor of a small, curtained corner space.

Slowly, mechanically, Rishmond began to peel off his clothes—salt-crusted shirt, stiff trousers, threadbare underthings. He checked the door once. Then again.

Only when he was certain he was alone did he remove his undershirt.

He turned his back to the mirror, craning his neck.

There they were.

Two marks stretched across his upper back—one wing feathered, elegant, curved like a hawk’s in flight. The other was raw, leathery, batlike. Jagged where the ink—or magic, or whatever it was—had burned into his skin.

One holy. One unholy.

A balance. A curse.

He stared at them, his stomach twisting. He didn’t know what they meant, not fully. But he knew what others would say they meant.

He’d seen it before. In the alleys behind churches. In the quiet, permanent disappearances.

Demon-touched. Marked. Tainted.

If they saw—when they saw—it would all be over.

But still, he lingered a moment longer, letting the heat of the water melt the salt from his skin.

Clinging to life was a hard habit to break.

When the shower finally stopped, Rishmond stood still for a long time, water dripping from his hair, steam curling around him like mist.

He dried himself with the soft cloths she’d left—nervous, methodical—and stared at the pile of clean clothes waiting on the bench.

He hadn’t meant to wear them. He hadn’t planned to. But now… his own were stiff with salt and blood, crusted and stinking.

He'd washed his old undershirt in the shower with him. He put it back on. He couldn't be too careful.

The new, clean shirt smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lavender. The fabric was soft. Not the kind that itched. Not the kind you inherited from someone worse off than you.

He pulled it on slowly. Then the pants. A bit long in the leg, but not bad. And the shoes… strange. Heavy. But warm. Protected.

He wasn’t sure he liked them.

But he didn’t hate them either.

When he finally opened the door, the hallway was quiet. Beritrude was waiting a few steps away, leaning against the wall, a folded towel in her hands.

She looked up and smiled.

The smile wasn’t proud, or pitying.

Just kind.

“You look good,” she said.

Rishmond didn’t know what to say. No one had ever said that to him.