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Chapter 24:Hunger and Decisions
The cart pulled to a stop before its destination. Night had settled fully over Avalon, and the trading district carried that distinct rhythm of a medieval town winding down. Lanterns swung on iron hooks, their flames licking and sputtering against the cool wind. Merchants with raspy voices still cried their final bargains, though most stalls had already shut their shutters. Drunken laughter spilled from a nearby tavern, muffled by thick wooden walls. The streets smelled of roasted meat, horse dung, and spilled ale, a mixture that only a city like Avalon could make feel alive.
Xiall felt his stomach twist and growl in low protest, a sound that was both relief and warning. Food--he needed food. He decided to cast his dilemmas aside until he had quieted that hunger. First the stomach, then the thoughts. Always in that order.
But gods, he was tired. His body throbbed from the endless labor of the day--offloading those heavy sacks of grain at the port had left his muscles screaming, joints stiff and heavy. His mind was no better, bruised by Tiffany's relentless questions and his own suffocating inner battles. And over it all was the mask, the damned mask, that he had to keep fixed firmly in place. Always smiling, always careful. Always pretending.
He sighed and alighted from the cart, the wooden frame creaking as if protesting under his weight. His feet met the cold stone of the cobbled street, a sharp reminder of the night's chill. For once, he was thankful to the old man for lending him a pair of leather boots; barefoot, he would've frozen solid.
When he lifted his head, Tiffany was already standing beside him. She had stepped down before him, silent and graceful as ever. Her eyes rested on him--not warmly, not cruelly, just with that piercing indifference she wore like a second skin. A touch of confusion was there too, as though she was trying to solve a riddle and he was the answer that refused to fit.
Not that he hated being stared at. Stares from a beauty weren't exactly punishments. But there was something about her gaze that made him feel like he was missing a detail, like a page torn from the story of his own life.
What am I missing? he asked himself inwardly. Nothing came. Just empty static. Maybe he was overthinking again.
Then her voice pierced the night. Beautiful, melodic, yet edged with coolness--the kind of voice that could soothe a man only to cut him down the next second.
"Parking the cart in the storeroom, guiding the beast of burden to its stable... and also feeding it--that is the work of a laborer," Tiffany said. Her tone was indifferent, though a faint mercy softened its edge. Her auburn hair fluttered gently in the wind, and somehow his heart fluttered with it.
Then the words sank into his head. All he could think was: Huh?
He really needed power. He couldn't keep doing this--living life as a laborer, breaking his body on menial tasks. One day he'd die for real, not from knights or abominations, but from sheer exhaustion. He wanted to grumble, but he couldn't. Not here, not now. Reputation mattered.
You have to maintain a nice reputation. A nice one, he repeated inwardly, again and again, to smother the resentment bubbling up.
He snapped out of his haze and realized she stood before him, close enough that her presence stole his breath. For a moment, he forgot the coldness, the watchful eyes, the riddles and jabs. All he saw was beauty--pure, breathtaking beauty, enchanting as an angel descending.
Then her lips parted.
"And that is what you are, Xiall--a laborer, not a guest," she added bluntly, stepping past him.
The faint scent of lavender followed her, leaving his thoughts scattered and his chest hollow.
Was that really necessary? he groaned inwardly. He regretted letting himself be blinded, even briefly. There was no Tiffany without her indifference, no Tiffany without that sharp edge. He was sure there were a thousand softer ways she could've put it.
But thoughts like these were a dead end. They'd only delay the inevitable. Best to finish the task at hand.
His stomach grumbled again, louder this time.
"Sorry, buddy... just a little patience," he whispered, patting it before moving back to the cart, muttering silent curses all the way.
---
Moments later, he stood in the stable. The place smelled of straw, dung, and warm animal breath. Wooden beams arched overhead, the walls lined with haystacks and half-rusted tools. A lantern flickered weakly in one corner, barely keeping the darkness at bay.
The donkey was already at ease, munching on a pile of hay and carrots with the calm dignity of a creature that had done its day's work. Xiall watched it chew, and, to his own surprise, felt a stab of envy. The beast had worked as hard as he had, yet here it was--fed, content, and resting. And he? He was starving, aching, lost in dilemmas.
For a dangerous moment, he even considered stealing one of its carrots. Hunger was a merciless persuader. But he shook the thought away. Who the hell shares food with a donkey? Still... men shouldn't underestimate the compelling power of hunger.
He leaned against the stable post, fatigue dragging him lower. He wasn't just tired; he felt hollow, as if his life force had been poured out on the port stones. For a brief, unsettling instant, he wondered if he was dying.
Oh, I am dying...
No, you're not. Snap out of it, Xiall.
His gaze wandered, empty, until it caught the strange moon above. A deep blue sphere hung in the sky, glowing with a light that seemed too calm, too unnatural. Back on the road to Avalon, the moon had been pale white, ordinary. But here--why was it blue?
A sudden jolt of awareness shot through him. The moon. The wind that shifted direction when he first crossed Avalon's border. Things here were different, warped. Nothing was normal--not the land, not the people. Not even him.
But what was the use of thinking on it? His brain would only fry itself chasing mysteries it couldn't answer. Better to save that energy for the walk back inside. Still, a short rest wouldn't hurt. He let himself collapse onto the stack of hay.
When he looked up, the donkey was staring at him. Its dark, glassy eyes seemed almost judgmental.
"What are you staring at? Never seen someone sleep in a stable before?" he muttered, glaring.
The donkey blinked, recoiled slightly, and returned to its meal without so much as a snort.
Xiall facepalmed inwardly. Really? Picking a fight with a donkey now? How idiotic can you get? Of course it had never seen a man sleep in its stable--what donkey would? He couldn't even imagine Old Matt or Tiffany lowering themselves to this level. Only him. Only the fool.
Fresh night air drifted in, cooling his sweat and calming his lungs. He moaned softly in relief. But calm never lasted long. Doubt crept in, heavy and suffocating.
So what was it--power or survival?
The question gnawed at him. He was surviving well enough, wasn't he? He had food, a bed, people to talk to. He had carved out a life, fragile though it was. But Tiffany's words returned to him, sharp as ever: Peace and freedom that come with hiding are fleeting illusions.
Illusions. Yes. He knew it. Everything he lived for now was a house of cards built on lies. At any moment, a slip could bring it all crashing down. Peace? Freedom? Nothing but delusions carved to trick his own mind.
When had his inner voice become so persuasive?
Still, there was truth in it. He could keep this up, couldn't he? If Tiffany's eyes missed him, if the Knights ignored him, if luck favored him... he could live. Whether illusion or not, it was still life. And life, even a false one, was better than dedicating himself to endless retribution.
But none of it was certain. Not the secrecy, not the lies, not his safety. It was a frail conjecture, walking a thin line above an abyss. He couldn't bet his life on chance. He needed something stronger. He needed leverage.
Then the thought came. It crept in on the back of a cold gust of wind.
Power.
He already had the Colossal Tree, the Glorious Halo. They had given him heightened perception. Couldn't they give more? What if the Tree wasn't just a terror, but a helper? What if it was leading him, showing him a path to strength?
The memories returned: the tendrils suspending him, the sense of consciousness slipping away, the brush with losing himself. Those moments had felt like horrors--but could they also be gifts?
He scoffed, bitter. Path to power? What sarcasm. Peril dressed as guidance? He could laugh at the absurdity. And yet... the thought clung to him.
Because deep down, he longed for it. To live without fear of Knights or abominations. To wield strength like the Obsidian Knight at the tower. To stare into terror and feel nothing. That--that was power.
And unlike ordinary folk, he already had a path. Dangerous, yes, but a path nonetheless.
A try won't hurt, will it?
He groaned, clutching his head. His mind spun, tangled in webs of ideas. But through the noise, clarity struck: Power or survival? The answer was neither. Power was survival. And a survivor needed the sharpest tool.
Time to use his uniqueness--the Colossal Soul Tree and the Glorious Halo. He didn't yet know how, but he'd figure it out. Maybe tonight. Maybe soon.
Strength returned to his limbs, sudden and jarring. He rose from the haystack so abruptly that the donkey shrank back with a startled neigh. A smile stretched across his face.
"Sorry, mate, for occupying your space," he said, reaching out to pat its head.
The donkey, startled at first, softened under his touch. Its ears flicked back, then relaxed. It pressed its muzzle gently into his palm, snorting in quiet submission to the warmth. For all its stubbornness, even a beast craved gentleness.
Then the scent hit him--rich, warm, delicious. A mouth watering dish: roasted venison with spiced barley and onions. The aroma drifted in from the shop, carrying the unmistakable weight of a meal ready on the table.
All his grand thoughts melted instantly into hunger. His stomach growled louder, demanding what it was owed. Tiffany must've finished preparing dinner.
He swallowed hard, mouth watering, and his eyes landed on a fresh carrot in the donkey's stack. Still crisp, untouched.
"Thanks, mate," he muttered, snatching it and giving the beast another pat.
The donkey froze, ears twitching in disbelief as Xiall skidded out of the stable in hopping strides, munching noisily on the stolen carrot.
A defiant neigh followed him out into the night, but Xiall didn't care.