The return to Nairn was a blur of spatial jumps, but the smell traveled with him.
Lencar stood in the center of his small, dark room in the Scarlet household. He had stripped off his black cloak, his mask, and his gloves, throwing them into the corner as if they were contaminated with plague. He stood there in his trousers, shivering, despite the warm summer air drifting through the window.
He looked at his hands.
They were clean. He had scrubbed them in the horse trough outside before climbing through the window. But in the dim moonlight, he could still see the phantom charcoal stains. He could still feel the vibration of the chains as the bandit—the man with the scar—had thrashed against them while the fire consumed him.
"It was necessary," Lencar whispered. His voice sounded thin, cracking in the silence. "It was a calculation. Fear is the only currency they understand. I saved the hostages. I saved the village."
He repeated the logic. It was sound. It was efficient. It was the correct move for a Sovereign building an army from the dregs of society.
But his stomach didn't care about logic.
A violent wave of nausea hit him, and he barely made it to the washbasin before he dry-heaved, his body trying to purge a poison that wasn't physical. Nothing came up but bile and the taste of acid.
He collapsed onto the floor, leaning his back against the bedframe. He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the moment he did, the image was there—high-definition, unyielding. The flesh bubbling. The scream turning into a wet gurgle.
I killed him. I didn't just kill him; I tortured him to break the others.
In his past life as Kenji Tanaka, the most violent thing he had ever seen was a bar fight in Shinjuku. He was a modern man, civilized, domesticated. He believed in due process, in humanity.
But Lencar Abarame was a predator. And tonight, the predator had eaten the man.
"I can't sleep," Lencar realized, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. "If I close my eyes, I'm back in that forest."
He needed an off switch. Logic wouldn't work. Breathing exercises wouldn't work. He needed magic.
He reached for his grimoire, his hand trembling so badly he almost dropped it. He flipped through the pages until he found the section he had harvested from Jinto, the Plant Mage bandit.
[Plant Magic]: [Slumbering Poppy Pollen]
Usually, this spell was used to incapacitate enemies. Tonight, the enemy was his own memory.
He channeled a tiny amount of mana. A small, purple flower bloomed from the page. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. The scent was heavy, sweet, and cloying.
"Just sleep," Lencar begged his own brain. "Just turn off."
The magic hit his bloodstream instantly. The edges of his vision blurred. The screaming in his memory dulled, receding as if underwater. His limbs went heavy, the trembling stopped, and the darkness finally rose up to claim him, dragging him down into a dreamless, chemical void.
"Lencar? Lencar!"
The voice came from a great distance, filtering through layers of cotton. Lencar groaned, fighting the artificial heaviness of the magical sleep. He peeled his eyes open.
Sunlight was streaming aggressively into the room. Dust motes danced in the beams.
Rebecca was standing in the doorway, a basket of laundry on her hip. She looked concerned.
"Lencar, are you okay? It's past eight. You never sleep this late."
Lencar sat up. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool—the hangover effect of the poppy pollen. He blinked, trying to reassemble his reality. The room. The sunlight. Rebecca.
"I..." Lencar's voice was a croak. He cleared his throat. "I overslept. Sorry. The alarm... I didn't hear it."
He didn't have an alarm. He had an internal clock that hadn't failed him in ten years. Until today.
Rebecca stepped into the room, setting the basket down. She walked over and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. Her touch was cool and grounding.
"You're not feverish," she murmured, her brow furrowed. "But you look pale. Like you haven't slept at all, even though you slept in."
"I had... weird dreams," Lencar lied, swinging his legs out of bed. He felt dizzy. "I'm fine, Rebecca. Just a slow start. I'll get ready."
"You don't have to," she said softly. "Gorn can manage without you for a day. If you're sick, stay home. Rest."
"I'm not sick," Lencar said, perhaps a little too sharply. He softened his tone immediately. "I'm not sick. I need to work. Routine is good. I just need coffee."
He stood up, forcing his body into motion. If he stayed home, he would have to think. If he worked, he could drown the thoughts in the noise of the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, the trio—Lencar, Rebecca, and Marco—were walking down the cobblestone streets toward "The Rusty Spoon." Luca had stayed behind to watch the babies, looking very serious about her responsibility.
The town was bright and cheerful. Merchants were shouting their wares. Children were running. It was a stark, jarring contrast to the muddy, blood-soaked forest of the night before. Lencar felt like a ghost walking among the living, separated from them by an invisible wall of ash.
They arrived at the restaurant, and the shift began.
Usually, Lencar was a machine. He moved with an efficiency that bordered on supernatural. Chop, sauté, plate, clean. He was the rhythm section of the kitchen.
But today, the rhythm was broken.
Lencar stood at the chopping block, a pile of carrots in front of him. He raised the knife.
Flash.
The orange of the carrot wasn't orange. It was the color of the fire. The snap of the vegetable under the blade sounded like a bone breaking.
Lencar froze, the knife hovering in the air. He stared at the cutting board, his breath hitching.
"Lencar?"
He didn't answer. He was watching the steam rising from the stock pot. It looked like smoke. The smell of the roasting pork suddenly turned rancid in his nose, smelling like burning hair.
"Lencar!"
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Lencar flinched violently, spinning around with the knife still in his hand, his eyes wide and wild.
"Whoa! Easy, lad!"
It was Gorn. The burly owner held his hands up, eyeing the knife. "You okay there? You've been staring at that carrot for five minutes. And you look like you've seen a ghost."
Lencar lowered the knife, his heart racing. He looked around. The kitchen was normal. Rebecca was watching him from the stove, her eyes wide with worry. Marco was peeking out from the pantry.
"I..." Lencar put the knife down. His hands were shaking again. "I'm sorry. I just... zoned out."
Gorn frowned, wiping his hands on his apron. He walked over and placed a heavy hand on Lencar's shoulder.
"You're not right, son," Gorn said gently. "You're cutting slower than Marco, and you nearly dropped a pot of boiling water earlier. You're shaking."
"I'm fine, Gorn. Really. Just didn't sleep well."
"No," Gorn shook his head. "I know 'tired.' This isn't tired. This is 'unwell.' Go home, Lencar."
"I can work," Lencar insisted, almost desperate. "Please, Gorn. I need to work. If I stop, I just..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. If I stop, I remember the screaming.
Gorn exchanged a look with Rebecca. He sighed. "Look, I appreciate the dedication. You're the best worker I've ever had. But you're a liability right now. If you hurt yourself with that knife, Rebecca will kill me. Take the rest of the day. Sit in the corner, drink some tea, or go for a walk. But get out of my kitchen."
It wasn't a request. It was an order.
Lencar slumped. The fight went out of him. He nodded silently, untying his apron.
"Okay," he whispered.
He spent the rest of the shift sitting at a small table in the back of the dining room, nursing a cup of tea that went cold. He watched Rebecca work. He watched the customers laugh and eat.
He felt disconnected. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that the "Boy Next Door" mask he had crafted so carefully had cracked. He wasn't one of them anymore. He was the man who burned people alive in the woods. He was the monster who kept the monsters at bay.
Is this the cost? he wondered, staring into the dark tea. To be the Sovereign, do I have to lose the ability to be Lencar?
The day dragged on, heavy and grey, despite the sunshine outside.