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Chapter 17: The Rooftop and the Ruin
Sleep was a distant country. Xiall lay on the creaking rope bed, his body still but his mind racing in frantic circles around the same foolish idea. He wasn't just thinking about it; he was already halfway out the door in his head, and that was the problem. A part of him--a loud, reckless part--was fully on board. What was the point of having these strange abilities if he didn't use them? But the other part, the part that valued not being thrown out into the street or worse, screamed about the consequences.
Getting caught was the main thing. Slipping out in the dead of night would draw exactly the kind of suspicion he was trying to avoid. Old Matt seemed easygoing, but how would he react to a guest skulking around after dark? And the city itself was a labyrinth. He didn't know the trading district, let alone the rest of this vast place. Getting lost was a real and terrifying possibility.
But the urge was a physical itch under his skin. The thrill of it! To walk unseen, to see the world with his new, crystal-clear senses... to see things no one else could see. The thrill of using his ability to observe... private matters... to, say, glimpse women unclad through a bathhouse window—
He cut the thought off, a flush of heat warming his face even in the cool room. Focus, you idiot. The idea was to scout the city, to test his limits. That was the noble reason. But he knew himself too well. Just scouting would be boring unless there was some... fun involved. And that was the trap. He was supposed to be talking himself out of this, but his mind kept finding new, exciting angles. It was stupid. It was risky. He couldn't let the reckless part of him win.
"Breathe," he muttered to the dark ceiling. He took a deep breath, trying to empty his mind. No scouting. No adventure. Just sleep. For a few, precious minutes, it worked. The urge quieted. He had won.
Then, like a sneaky thief, a substitute idea crept in. One that solved almost every problem. What if he didn't go into the city at all? What if he just went up? His window looked out onto the back of the property. Earlier, while feeding the donkey, he'd noticed the roof wasn't steeply pitched with wooden shingles. Instead, it was a flat expanse of stone flagstones, surrounded by a low stone parapet, like a balcony. It was close, just above his window. If he was careful, there would be no noise to alert Old Matt. No risk of getting lost. He could see the whole district from up there. It was perfect. Smooth, with benefits.
As the deep blue of night settled, bathing the room in shadows, a treacherous smile curled his lips. His inner person wasn't just reckless; it was a genius.
Now, he just had to wait. He estimated Old Matt would be lost in his big book for another hour or two. He curled up, feigning sleep, the crooked smile still on his face. For the first time, he felt a flicker of gratitude toward the Great Tree. For a second, it almost felt like a partner in crime. But the memory of the screaming souls and the piercing tendrils quickly snuffed that thought out. Some companions were worse than being alone.
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Time crawled. Finally, the sound he was waiting for drifted up through the floorboards: a low, rattling snore. Old Matt was asleep.
Xiall moved like a ghost. He slid from the bed with a snake's grace, his feet silent on the rough wooden floor. He pressed his ear to the planks, listening. Another, louder snore confirmed it. The coast was clear.
He crept to the window. The roof was right there, just as he remembered. The main house had a flat roof of large, flat stone slabs, edged with a knee-high parapet of rough-cut stone. It was a practical design, maybe for drying herbs or just for the cool air. Best of all, it meant no noisy tiles to dislodge and no steep pitch to slide off. He wouldn't have to worry about a fatal fall... well, not much. A fall from this height would still break bones, or his neck. He pushed the image away.
Taking a deep breath, he squeezed through the window. The night air was cool and damp. He stretched up, his fingers scrambling for the top of the parapet. He got a grip, but as he heaved himself upward, one hand slipped on the dew-slicked stone.
Panic. Pure, cold adrenaline flooded his veins. His heart hammered against his ribs as he dangled by one arm, his feet kicking uselessly at the wall. He watched a few bits of dislodged dust and moss fall silently to the stone-paved yard below. That could have been him. The substitute idea was trying to kill him already.
With a grunt of sheer effort, he transferred all his strength to his one good arm and hauled himself up, scrambling over the parapet until he collapsed onto the solid, cold surface of the roof. He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, listening. No shouts. No sound from Old Matt's room. He was safe.
The roof was rough and damp under his bare feet. The air felt heavy, promising the rain he'd sensed earlier. He looked up, and froze.
The moon was blue.
It wasn't the pale white orb he remembered from the ruined city. This was a deep, luminous sapphire, hanging oppressively low in a starless sky. It felt close, too close, like a great, unblinking eye. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran down his spine. He shook his head. He wasn't here to stargaze. He was here to scout.
He tore his gaze from the weird moon and looked out over the city. From his perch, the trading district was a sea of dark, slumbering shapes. The outlines of closely packed buildings with steeply pitched roofs created a jagged silhouette against the night. He could see the dark, bulky shapes of warehouses and the wider avenues leading to the city gates. A few pinpricks of lantern light moved like fireflies—night watchmen on their rounds. It was a normal, sleeping medieval city, bathed in the eerie blue light.
Time for the main event. He closed his eyes, turning inward. He focused, conjuring the haunting memories that seemed to be the key: the terrifying sight of the Colossal Soul Tree, the helpless human husks, the immense hand crowned with seven stars. He willed the hypersensitivity to return.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, he felt it—a cold, electrifying tingle starting at the base of his spine and spreading outwards. His heartbeat kicked up, a loud, frantic drum in his ears. He focused harder, pushing. The feeling intensified, building to a climax until... click.
The world exploded into sound.
It was a deafening wave. The clank-clank-clank of a blacksmith working late, the sharp hiss and cloud of steam as he quenched hot metal in water. He could feel the humidity that action created in the air. The rumble of a lone chariot on cobblestones streets away, the crunch of each wheel. Laughter from a tavern, the thump of a wooden tankard on a table. Whispers from a lovers' lane. Old Matt's snore, now a roar. It was all there, rushing into his head at once, a chaotic, screaming gibberish that threatened to crack his skull open.
He groaned, stumbling back a step. It was too much. His brain was frying. He had to focus, or he'd go mad. Gritting his teeth, he poured all his mental strength into one thing: the rhythm of his own breath. In. Out. In. Out. He forced the chaotic symphony down, wrestling it into submission, channeling it into a single, low-pitched hum. It was like tuning a lute, finding one pure note amidst the discord. Slowly, painfully, the noises receded, merging into that manageable drone. He could control it. He could choose what to listen to from that single stream of sound.
He heaved a sigh of relief, the sound of his own breath the clearest thing in the world. He had done it. He was in control.
He turned his amplified senses outward, toward the city walls, ready to begin his scouting. But the adventure died before it was born.
A wave of pure, undiluted terror slammed into him.
It was a physical pressure, a nausea that twisted his gut. It was bloodlust, so potent and ancient it felt like the air itself had turned to ice. His head snapped toward the source. It was coming from beyond the city's towering outer walls.
His sight, sharper than any hawk's, cascaded across the distance. It flew over the rooftops, past the spires of cathedrals, over the main thoroughfares, zeroing in on the great grey walls. His vision swept up and over the battlements, to the watchtowers that stood as silent sentinels.
And there, he saw it.
The thing was a monument of nightmares. It stood on the horizon, so colossal it dwarfed the great walls of the city. Its eyes were not eyes, but two blazing crimson orbs that burned with a malevolent intelligence. Each step it took was a distant, muffled thump that vibrated through the very stone of the roof. From its broad, monstrous back sprouted six gargantuan tentacles, each thicker than a ancient tree, which slithered and coiled in the air like monstrous serpents. Its head was a crown of twisted, jagged horns that speared the sky.
But most terrifying of all was its presence. It seemed to drink the very light from the blue moon, casting a shadow of absolute dread that stretched toward the city. This was no mere beast. This was Ruin, given form. And it was approaching.