Chapter 19: Fading Sidelines
Xiall woke to a world of bright, intrusive sunlight. He squinted, groaning as the sharp rays from the room's single window landed directly on his face. Every part of him felt heavy, as if his bones had been filled with lead during the night. His muscles ached with a deep, persistent soreness, and a dull throb had taken up residence behind his eyes. He had the mysterious knight and the horrendous monster to thank for that.
He pushed himself up, managing to sit on the edge of the bed, but the effort sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. His eyes stung in the light, and his ears winced at the distant, normal sounds of the city coming to life. Each breath he drew burned slightly in his lungs, a raw reminder of the strain he'd put his body through. So this is the price, he thought, the realization settling in his gut like a stone. It's not a gift. It's a tax on my soul, and my body is paying it. He collapsed back onto the thin mattress with a heavy sigh. There was no hurry. He hadn't heard Old Matt's voice bellowing from downstairs. Why rush into the pain?
He felt his chest; it was bare. A spike of panic made him reach down, and he let out a shaky breath of relief. He wore a simple tunic, the rough fabric scratchy against his skin. Half-naked was better than completely naked. At least his tired self from the night before had possessed enough sense to shed the damp, blood-stained clothes and tuck them out of sight. Small mercies, he thought.
Then, the memories of the previous night began to creep in, not as a flood, but like a slow, dark tide. The knight. The darkness that drank the rain. The thing with too many eyes. A whirlwind of questions started to spin, making his already-pounding head worse. No. Not now. He pushed them down, a conscious effort. Today had to be normal. He desperately wished he could spend all of it right here in this lumpy bed, but he couldn't. He was a labourer here, not a freeloader. Why did I have to be so damn penniless?
Huhh…
The door to his room swung open forcefully, without a knock, jerking him from his thoughts. Startled, he turned to see a figure standing in the doorway. It was the girl. The one with the auburn hair. The annoying one. What was her name again? It was something… ordinary. Trisha? Tabitha? It started with a 'T'. He scrambled through the fog in his mind. He'd talked to her just yesterday. This was bad. Was the strain making him forgetful? Tanya? No, that wasn't it. Then it clicked. Tiffany. Right. Of course. How could he forget something so simple? Well, he reasoned, when you've been used as a conduit for cosmic trees and seen battles between nightmares and shadow knights, a girl's name seems pretty small.
And there she stood, having barged into his room—well, his for now—with that same indifferent face he was starting to know. He was almost grateful for the lack of expression; he'd half-expected a look of pure disgust after his idiotic staring yesterday. But it wasn't his fault! His eyes had a will of their own. Ugh, stop it, he told himself. You're getting lost in your head again. The nightmares are messing with you, making you overthink every little thing.
As always, he automatically plastered a friendly, harmless smile on his face.
"Old Matt calls you. Downstairs," Tiffany said, her tone flat. Her eyes did a quick, efficient survey of the room, a habit of someone used to cleaning up after others. But then he saw it—a flicker. A faint, rosy shade touched her cheeks, and her gaze wavered for a split second as it passed over his bare chest before snapping back to a neutral point on the wall. Huh. So he did have some effect on her. The thought was a tiny, warm ember in his weary chest. Maybe I'm not completely invisible.
But just as quickly, she recomposed herself, her face a mask of cool detachment once more. She turned to leave. "And don't forget a trip to the bathroom..." she added over her shoulder, her voice already fading as she walked out, her footsteps echoing purposefully down the corridor.
Ugh. He sniffed himself. He smelled… like a man who had slept in his clothes after a traumatic mystical experience. So, not great. His brain, occupied with cosmic horrors, had completely dismissed the concept of a morning bath. It was a basic human thing, and he'd forgotten. That reminder, delivered with her typical indifference, was both disgraceful and annoyingly necessary. And that face of hers, so determinedly blank, was somehow more irritating because it was… enchantingly beautiful. No! he screamed internally. She is annoying. Focus on that. Annoying. Not the way her hair catches the light. Annoying!
Time to face the day. He summoned all his strength and stood up, a low groan escaping his lips. As he did, his eyes fell upon a mirror in the far corner of the room, its surface murky with dust. He hadn't noticed it before. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, he walked over and stood before the glass.
The reflection that stared back was startling. Long hair, pure as snow, cascaded over his shoulders. His eyes were a silvery white, so pale and bright they seemed to glow in the dim room. For a moment, he was captivated by his own image. His skin was abnormally pale, like polished marble, and his features were sharp and angular. A crooked smile touched his lips. Well, look at you. Not bad, Xiall. Not bad at all.
But then, his smile faltered. The reflection in the mirror wavered. For a terrifying second, he did not see himself. Instead, the Colossal Tree filled the glass, its slick, scale-like bark glistening with a sickly light. The soulless husks dangled like rotten fruit. A violent tremor shot through him, and he stumbled back a step, his heart hammering against his ribs. No. Not this. Not now. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three. When he opened them, the vision was gone. The mirror showed only his own pale, shaken face once more. He let out a long, slow breath. It's just your mind. It's just trauma. It's not real. He had to believe that.
He straightened his tunic. He had wasted enough time. He had to head to the bath, his body still heavy with exhaustion but his mind a little clearer. Time to wash the night away, to try and feel human again.
...
Moments later, he descended the stairs, feeling somewhat refreshed. His skin carried the faint, clean scent of lavender, and he was ready, or at least more prepared, for the day's work.
The common room was quiet. Old Matt was at the hearth, stirring a pot of porridge. Tiffany was moving quietly between the tables, setting down wooden bowls and spoons with practiced efficiency. She didn't look at him.
"Took you long enough," the old man grumbled without looking up. "Sleeping the day away?"
Xiall offered a weak smile, sliding onto a bench. "The tiredness from yesterday's work caught up with me. I fell back asleep even after… well, after I was woken up." He carefully avoided any mention of the roof or the battle.
Old Matt glanced at him, his eyes sharp and curious. He ladled porridge into a bowl and pushed it across the table. "Aye, well, rest is a fickle friend. Heard the news? Strange happenings last night."
Xiall's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He kept his voice casual. "News?"
"Tiffany was just at the market," Old Matt said, nodding toward the girl. She paused her work, listening but not looking at them. "Talk is, a farmer on the city's western edge lost his entire flock. Goats. Not just killed or taken. Vanished. Poof. The ground where they were was scorched black, they say. In strange, sweeping marks. Folk are whispering about demons."
Xiall's blood ran cold. Sweeping marks. Like the slashing of massive tentacles. Scorched black. Like the ground touched by the knight's consuming darkness. He forced himself to take a bite of porridge. It tasted like ash. "That's… strange," he managed, his voice tighter than he intended.
Old Matt studied him, not like a guardian uncovering a secret, but like a curious old man piecing together a puzzle. "Aye, strange indeed. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? The world is full of oddities. Sometimes things… bleed through from elsewhere."
The old man's words hung in the air. Tiffany resumed her work, the clatter of the dishes the only sound. Xiall ate the rest of his porridge in silence, his mind reeling. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the battle wasn't a separate thing, a play on a hidden stage. Maybe its shadows had reached out and touched the real world, leaving a mark for everyone to see. The thought was terrifying, but beneath the fear, a fierce, human curiosity sparked to life. He hadn't just witnessed a phantom battle; he had witnessed the cause of a real mystery. The longing to know more, to go and see the scorched earth for himself, to find proof that he wasn't mad, ignited in his chest. The sidelines he had hoped for were disappearing, and the call to step onto the field was growing louder.