Chapter 16:The Weight of a Title
The words - The Hallowed Descendant of Ruin - didn't just fade away. They settled in his mind like a stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples of meaning and absurdity spreading out until they touched every corner of his thoughts. A title. It had to be. And it was meant for him? His first, idiotic instinct was a kind of grim pride. Surviving the tendrils and the void must have earned him some kind of cosmic participation trophy. Well, isn't the great Tree generous. Should he send a thank-you note?
But the sarcasm was a thin shield against a colder, more terrifying idea. What if it wasn't a trophy? What if it was a job description? Had the Tree chosen him as its agent? Was he, Xiall, who currently just wanted a full stomach and a safe place to sleep, supposed to go out and spread ruin like the Tree had destroyed Eden? The sheer stupidity of that notion was almost comforting. If that was the plan, then the Tree was a terrible judge of character. He could barely manage his own life; orchestrating the downfall of civilizations was decidedly not on his to-do list. Frustration, hot and sharp, twisted his gut. He was so tired of the weirdness. To hell with this title and all the baggage it carried.
"Seems you are done eating... Reekin-"
Tiffany's voice cut through his internal rant. She caught herself, but her eyes, those watchful, indifferent eyes, stayed locked on him. Reeking Man. She was still hung up on that. He forced his face into a neutral mask, then stretched his lips into what he hoped was a harmless, grateful smile. It felt stiff and unnatural on his face. A complete deception.
"Xiall," she corrected herself, her tone flat as stale beer. She stood and cleared her dishes, then moved to Old Matt's. The old man was nursing a cup of some greenish liquid, looking content.
As she leaned over to take his wooden bowl, he got his first real, close look at her. And for a moment, his brain shut off all the cosmic dread and focused on something simple, something human. She had supple skin, pale like fresh milk, and it carried a faint, clean scent of lavender. Her lips were a surprising, cheery red against her usual pallor. Annoying as she was, she was… strikingly appealing. His gaze, without any permission from his higher reasoning, decided to embark on a journey south. Stop it, he commanded himself. This is how you get branded a creep. But his eyes, traitors that they were, ignored the order.
They slid down the graceful, slender column of her neck. Stop. They traced the delicate, pristine line of her collarbone. Seriously, stop. This is degenerate behavior. But the urge was like a current, pulling his gaze further down, over the smooth, milky skin, towards the gentle swell of her-
"Degenerate."
The word wasn't in his head. It was a sharp, venomous hiss, spoken aloud. It pierced the air and his skull at the same time.
His head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. He met her gaze, and the hostility in her eyes was a physical force. His face ignited with a flush of pure, unadulterated shame. Oh, he was so thoroughly caught. He gulped, his throat suddenly dry. He braced for a slap, for the bowl to be smashed over his head. But she just stared, her disgust a palpable thing in the space between them. He was no longer just the Reeking Man. He'd been promoted to the Lecherous, Reeking Man.
With a final, contemptuous glare, she turned and stalked away. He immediately glanced at Old Matt, his heart hammering. But the old man was in his own world, sipping his drink with his eyes closed, a picture of blissful ignorance. The relief was so profound he almost sagged in his chair. His reputation with him, at least, was intact.
Tiffany disappeared into a back room and didn't emerge for what felt like an hour. He just sat there, stewing in his own embarrassment. When she finally came out, she had removed her apron and was wiping her hands on a cloth. She bid a curt, silent goodbye to Old Matt and, on her way out, shot him a look that could have frozen hell over. The door shut behind her with a definitive, angry thud. Any thought of apologizing died instantly. He'd been wrong about her; she wasn't a permanent fixture here. She was just a worker. Which made his gawking even more pointless and stupid. He'd managed to alienate the one person who didn't even have to be here.
The blue light of dusk was deepening through the window. A deep, bone-weary tiredness was finally overwhelming the adrenaline of shame. His body felt heavy, his mind frayed. The Tree, the tendrils, the whispers, and now this social disaster-it was all too much. He needed to sleep.
He dragged himself over to Old Matt. He was rocking gently now, his cup replaced by a heavy, leather-bound book. It was the first time he'd seen him look truly focused.
"Sir?" he said, his voice rough. "The night's coming on. Where would you have me sleep? The floor by the fire is fine, truly."
He didn't look up from his page, just gestured a gnarled hand towards the staircase. "First door at the top. Key's in the lock." His voice was a low rumble, all business.
"Thank you. For everything," he managed.
A grunt was his only reply. He was already lost back in his book.
Grateful for the simplicity, he found the cold iron key and headed for the stairs. The first step let out a loud, groaning creak. Then the second. And the third.
And that's when it hit him.
The sound was just a creak. A normal, wooden-staircase-complaining-under-weight sound. It wasn't a symphony of splintering wood fibers. The deep blue of the twilight outside was just… dark. It wasn't a thousand shades of indigo and navy. The world had gone quiet. Muffled. Normal.
The hyper-clarity was gone.
A jolt of shock went through him. It was like a sixth sense had been switched off. For a few seconds, he felt a bizarre sense of loss, as if he'd been seeing in color for the first time and had now gone blind again. But that feeling was quickly swamped by a wave of relief. How could anyone live like that? It was exhausting. Maybe it only happened in bursts, triggered by stress or focus. Right now, its absence was the greatest gift he could have received. He needed the world to be soft and blurry if he had any hope of sleeping.
The corridor upstairs was short and dark. The door to the room was heavy, damp-cool wood. The key turned with a solid clunk, and the door swung open on protesting hinges.
The room was a perfect snapshot of commoner life. A small, square window looked out onto the darkening sky. A three-legged stool stood next to a small, wobbly-looking desk that was scarred from use. In the corner was a narrow wardrobe, its door slightly ajar. And against the far wall was the bed: a stout wooden frame with a lattice of rope supporting a thin, lumpy-looking mattress. No sheets, just a rough wool blanket.
He noticed a few tunics hanging in the wardrobe. So that's where his clothes came from. A new puzzle nudged his brain-how did an old man have clothes that fit a random stranger? Maybe from his youth. The room, though sparse, was spotless. Tiffany's work, no doubt. Annoying, but thorough.
He didn't even bother taking off his boots..well that's if he had any. He just collapsed onto the bed. The whole structure let out a groan of protest so loud he thought it would give way entirely, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap of splintered wood and humiliation. Just how old was this place? But the thought was distant. He was too tired to care. Today had been a lifetime. Sleep was the only escape.
He closed his eyes, ready to sink into nothingness.
But then, from the depths of his exhaustion, a foolish, reckless, and utterly irresistible idea began to uncoil. It was born from the lingering echo of that title, from the frustration of having no answers, from the sheer,stupid abnormality of his consciousness. It was a terrible idea. A dangerous one.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to do it.