Chapter 8

  Tivric, Skorval, and Vaeyra found themselves at the very heart of the town. Livestock wandered freely—chickens pecked at the dirt in the middle of the street while children played games with crude, hand-carved toys. It wasn’t a large settlement. In fact, they had only been there a short while before they began seeing the same faces again and again.

  The townsfolk had been staring since the moment they entered. Skorval noticed it most. In Karr’s Bastion, stares carried hatred—open scorn in narrowed eyes. Here, though, the looks were different. Curious. Almost awed. He suspected many of them had rarely, if ever, seen Grimtails before.

  Ahead of them rose a substantial structure—less a grand cathedral and more a sturdy abbey, with a large wooden barn grafted onto one side. As they stepped inside, the scent of raw timber and sawdust hung heavy in the air. The interior was clearly a work in progress, recently salvaged and rebuilt; crude scaffolding clung to the walls in patches where the finishing touches were still being applied to the masonry.

  Without a word, two men in simple cloth rushed to Skorval and guided him to a stone table draped in thick blankets. As they laid him down, a warm golden glow radiated from their hands, washing over his body and seeping into his wounds.

  “Welcome to Embercross, travelers,” a calm voice said. “We serve mainly as a resting place for those traveling the Living Face. And you three look well traveled. I am Father Thalion.”

  “Tivric,” Tivric replied simply.

  “I’m Vaeyra,” she added, gesturing with her chin. “And the injured one over there is Skorval.”

  “A pleasure,” Thalion said with a small bow of his head.

  “How much will your services cost?” Tivric asked, his hand instinctively hovering near his coin purse. “We’ve had a run-in with the dead.”

  Thalion didn't look at the purse. He was looking at the specific craft of Tivric’s leatherwork—the utilitarian, mud-stained gear of the deep reaches. He looked at the exhaustion etched into their faces.

  “Keep your silver, son,” Thalion said softly. He stepped forward, gesturing for them to bring Skorval toward the light. “Embercross hasn’t seen a raid in a year. We know why. Word eventually trickles down from Hearthrun about who is actually holding the line while nobles at Karr’s Bastion plays at politics.”

  Thalion adjusted his robes and stepped back to give the healers room, though his gaze remained on Tivric. "Rest. Eat. We do not take coin from the people who kept the undead from our gates."

  Tivric’s eyes widened. For a moment, he struggled to find a response; he was used to suspicion or indifference, not a debt of gratitude.

  “We… we appreciate that, Father,” he finally managed.

  As Thalion turned to check on the bandages, Tivric looked past him at the abbey. He noted the stone spliced into ancient walls and the scorch marks still staining the high rafters. He wondered just how many atrocities this town had endured before the Grimtails had finally broken the tide.

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  Another priest approached Thalion, speaking in a low, respectful tone. “He is stable, Father. The Grimtail had two broken ribs, but they are fully mended now.”

  As the priests shifted their attention to Vaeyra’s shield arm, Tivric felt his whiskers twitch. A sudden spike of unease prickled at his neck. His hand shifted toward his belt, a reflexive thought darting through his mind: Are we surrounded?

  He cut his eyes toward the windows. A crowd of townsfolk lingered outside, stealing cautious looks into the abbey. They didn’t look angry—there were no pitchforks, no sneers. If anything, they looked worried. They weren't worried about the three of them; they were worried for them.

  Near the entrance, a priest gently ushered a group of onlookers away, while another shooed a few curious children from the windows with a broom, muttering a soft scolding.

  Once the ache had faded from Vaeyra’s arm, Father Thalion walked them to the heavy oak doors. He offered a small, parting bow. “If you ever have need of our hearth or our healing again,” he said kindly, “the doors of Embercross Abbey are open to you.”

  Skorval, Tivric, and Vaeyra traded a brief, stunned look before offering their thanks and departing into the cool air of the square.

  When they stepped back out into the town square, the heavy, cautious stares had vanished. In their place were small nods and the occasional wave from shopkeepers and travelers. News moved like a wildfire in a place this small; by now, everyone knew who had been bleeding on the abbey floor.

  They made their way to the local inn and secured a room, though the quiet of upstairs held little appeal compared to the heat of the hearth. They settled into the common area, letting the atmosphere wash over them.

  Tivric watched, half-amused, as Skorval leaned into the chaos. With a drink in one hand and his other arm locked with a boisterous local, the warrior stumbled through a clumsy dance, laughing as if he and the stranger were old war companions reunited. Vaeyra had found a quieter corner, her brow furrowed in concentration as she challenged a local to a strategy game played with weathered, carved pieces. She called it the Crucible—or something to that effect.

  Tivric leaned back, nursing a mug of warm cider and letting the tension drain from his shoulders. He still preferred the safety of the burrows—the scent of damp earth and the familiar narrow halls—but for the first time in a long while, he found he liked it up here, too.

  The fire eventually burned down to low embers, and one by one, they finally retired to their rooms.

  He fell asleep easily, sharing the small room and its two bunks with Skorval. Sometime in the middle of the night, Tivric stirred and opened his eyes.

  Skorval was awake.

  He was standing by his pack, his hands moving with rhythmic, restless silver-light precision through its contents. Tivric almost closed his eyes again—until he noticed the specific pocket Skorval kept returning to. It was the same one he had obsessed over the night the undead attacked.

  Something was wrong.

  “Skor… you alright?” Tivric’s whisper was a thin thread in the dark.

  Skorval didn’t answer immediately. His features were lost to the deep shadows, but a lifetime in the burrows had sharpened Tivric’s eyes for the dark. He could see the jagged tension in Skorval’s frame, the way his shoulders were pulled tight as a bowstring.

  “I’m not alright, Tiv,” Skorval said, his voice barely a murmur. “I think I made a mistake. I think Warlord Marn was right… about us. About the Grimtails protecting the surface.”

  Tivric sat up, the straw mattress rustling beneath him. He let the admission hang in the air for a long moment.

  “It’s alright, Skor,” he said gently. “Marn understands why you believe what you do.” He hesitated, the weight of a secret pressing on him, then added, “He told me he feels guilt, too—for what happened that day.”

  A sound escaped Skorval then. It was soft and unfamiliar—a jagged friction between a ragged breath and a break in his composure.

  “Do you think Marn will forgive me?” Skorval asked, his voice cracking.

  Tivric didn’t hesitate.

  “He can’t forgive you,” he said.

  Skorval stiffened, his silhouette freezing in the gloom—

  “Because he was never angry with you to begin with.”