Chapter 20: The Crooked Smile and the Crimson Pyin
The morning after the unseen war, Xiall's body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of cattle. Every muscle screamed in protest as he forced himself to finish the last of his porridge under Old Matt's watchful eye. The night's horrors had been replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
"Right then, lad," Old Matt grumbled, pushing back from the table. "No time for lollygagging. The warehouse needs clearing. There's two-score sacks of wheat and ten of barley in the store unit out back. Needs loading onto the cart. Tiffany will see it gets to Aclove Harbor."
Xiall's heart sank. The mere thought of lifting heavy sacks made his arms tremble. But a laborer didn't complain. He simply nodded, his voice a rough croak. "Yeah."
The store unit was a small, dusty shed behind the inn. The sacks were heavier than they looked. The first one he hauled onto his shoulder sent a jolt of pain through his already-sore back. He gritted his teeth and began the slow, arduous process of carrying them one by one to the cart hitched in the yard.
Halfway through, he saw her. Tiffany emerged from the inn, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, watching him. She offered no help, no word of sympathy. Her face was that same opaque mask of indifference. With each staggering trip past her, a simmering anger grew in his chest. We're both workers here, aren't we? The least she could do is lift a single sack. Or even look like she gives a damn. But her gaze was impenetrable, making him feel more like a beast of burden than a person.
By the time he heaved the last sack of barley onto the pile, he was drenched in sweat and breathing in ragged gasps. His body trembled with fatigue. He leaned against the cart, trying to steady his breathing.
Tiffany pushed off from the doorframe. "The merchants at the harbor are waiting for the grain," she said, her tone flat and practical. "We've wasted enough time." She climbed onto the driver's bench and took the reins.
Xiall had no choice but to haul his aching body up beside her. As the cart lurched into motion, a new thought cut through his self-pity. The harbor was in a different part of the city. It was a chance to see more, to hear more. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn something about the rumors Old Matt had mentioned-the vanished goats, the scorched earth. His initial goal of investigating the strange events, which had been overwhelmed by fear, now flickered back to life. This dreary task might just be his opportunity.
As they guided the cart out of the Merchant's Ring and into the wider streets of Avalon, Xiall became acutely aware of a different kind of attention. Folk, especially women at the market stalls or drawing water, would stop and gawk. Their eyes would widen, following his progress. He saw whispers behind hands, and cheeks turning a faint pink.
A familiar, welcome feeling warmed his chest, momentarily pushing aside his fatigue. So, he still had it. The paleness, the white hair-it was a magnet here, not a mark of shame. A crooked, confident smile effortlessly found its way onto his face. He met the gaze of a young milkmaid, adding a subtle, charming wink. Her face flushed a deep crimson, and she nearly dropped her pail.wow!!.. he exclaimed in his thought, his chest swelling..
"Looks like I'm a sight to behold."he fbked internally.. perfection, no less...
A voice in the back of his mind, a small and sensible one, piped up. You're becoming a right self-esteemed egoist. You should stop this. But he quieted it just as quickly. Could he truly be blamed? If the mirror yesterday hadn't been lying, he was a living masterpiece. A little pride in one's own God-given form couldn't hurt, could it? It was only natural.
He was so busy basking in the attention that he almost missed the girl's voice, flat and dry as week-old bread.
"Cut it out."
He turned, his magnificent smile still in place. "Cut what out?"
"That grin," she said, her eyes fixed straight ahead on the cobblestone path. "It's crooked. Makes you look like a creep."
The smile vanished. A flash of hot anger shot through him. A creep? He, who had just made a milkmaid swoon? He clenched his fist for a second, then forced it to relax. The indifference on her face was absolute, as if she'd simply stated the sky was gray. Maybe she had impossibly high standards. A sliver of self-doubt wormed its way in. Was his smile crooked? He'd never had a proper look in the mirror to tell.
Then he remembered his resolve to make amends. He swallowed his annoyance. This was the moment.
"Look," he began, his voice a bit tighter than he intended,hands fumbling his hair. "About last night. The… staring. At you and at your..assets. It was rude. I'm sorry." He waited for a reaction—a nod, a sniff, anything.
She didn't even grant him a glance. For a long moment, he wondered if she'd even heard him, or if she was ignoring him so completely it made him feel a fool. If not for her frustrating, spellbinding beauty, he wouldn't even bother. He was sure there were plenty of other maids who'd appreciate a look from him.
Finally, she spoke, her tone still detached. "Doesn't matter." They passed a bustling tavern, The Grumbling Goblin, its door swinging open to release a wave of sound—the bellows of drunkards, the clatter of wooden tankards, a burst of raucous song. The smell of spilled ale and stew filled the air. "Not the first time a man's eyes have wandered," she continued, still facing the donkey. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're a lecher."
The word struck him like a cudgel. Lecher!. There it was. A new title to join 'Reeking Man.' He had seen it coming, but hearing it laid bare still stung. Yet, underneath the sting, he felt a strange relief. He had apologized. The air felt a little clearer. He even felt they'd gotten marginally closer, if only by a single, grudging step. It was enough for now.
Seeking to change the subject, he gestured at the changing scenery. The buildings were taller here, some with intricate carvings of sea monsters and ships on their façades. "So… this path leads to the docks?"
"Yeah. To Aclove Harbor," Tiffany said, her voice losing some of its edge as she fell into the role of a guide. "That's where the grain ships sail west." She pointed down the sloping street ahead. "This is Craftsman's Row. We've left the Merchant's Ring. The city's got four quarters: ours, this one, the harbor, and up there," she said, pointing a finger towards the city's heart where the land rose sharply into a fortified hill, "is the Citadel of the Nightingale. That's where the high lords and the Order keep their court."
Xiall followed her gaze to the distant citadel, its gray stone walls imposing and silent.
As they turned a corner, a massive building dominated the view. A cathedral, crafted from brilliant white stone that seemed to glow with a light of its own. Its spires stabbed the heavens, and great stained-glass windows showed stern-faced saints and blazing halos.
"The Blessed Church of Sanctification," Tiffany said, noting his gaze. Her tone was a strange mix of awe and sharp contempt.
But before he could ask, the sight ahead stole the breath from his lungs. The town square was packed with a murmuring, restless crowd. In the center, a wooden stake rose from a pyre. Tied to it was a woman, her head bowed. The air was thick with tension. Two knights stood guard. Their armor was the same obsidian black as the one he'd seen, but their cloaks were a deep, forest green. On their breastplates gleamed the golden, inverted crucifix.
There was no priestly sermon. One of the knights simply raised a gauntleted hand. A faint, sickening pressure washed over Xiall, a ghost of the previous night's terror. Then, the woman screamed. A raw sound of pure, internal agony. Smoke began to curl from her very skin. A searing, crimson fire erupted from within her, consuming her in a handful of heartbeats. The stench of burnt flesh was foul on the wind.
For a moment, the square was dead silent, stunned by the swift horror. Then, a single cry of "Murder!" broke the spell. The crowd, a beast of many heads, turned. A rotten tomato flew from the throng, splattering against a guardsman's helmet. That was the spark. The square erupted. It was not a battle, but a chaos. Tradesmen shoved against city guards trying to form a shield wall. Women shrieked, children cried, and men brawled in the streets. A cart was overturned, its contents of pottery spilling and shattering on the stones. The beast was unleashed, all rage and fear with no direction.
Xiall stood frozen on the cart, his blood running to ice. Purification. This was the fate of those touched by the unnatural. The fear that gripped him was a cold, sharp knife in his gut. He had to hide his secret, bury it deeper than any treasure.
"We're getting out of here!" Tiffany snapped, her face pale but set with a hard anger. She hauled hard on the donkey's reins, forcing the cart down a narrow, stinking alley to bypass the bedlam. Xiall held on, the image of the burning woman seared into his mind. The roar of the mob echoed behind them like a storm.
They emerged onto a quieter, winding road that led down to the harbor. The air was salty and fresh. Xiall leaned back, trying to calm his racing heart. He tilted his head up, seeking solace in the vast, simple blue of the afternoon sky.
And then he saw it.
A figure. Impossibly high, standing upon the air as if the clouds were solid ground. The sun was directly behind it, casting the form into a perfect, jet-black silhouette, edged with a blinding, golden halo of light. He could make out no features.
But the presence… the presence was a familiar, cosmic dread. It was no less than the colossal, star-crowned hand from his visions. A silent, immense weight upon the world.
Xiall shuddered, a full-body tremor of primal fear. The burning woman, the green knights, and now this silent watcher. Hiding was not just about avoiding a pyre. It was about surviving in a world where powers beyond mortal ken played their games, and a man with a secret was but a pawn on their board.
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