Cheese knew exhaustion. He was a man who worked diligently, day in and day out, stopping only for a breath or a swig of water before plunging back into the task at hand. But this was different. This was an exhaustion that reached past muscle and bone, that stripped him bare and drained his will. Now, as he stood within the strange palace of his own soul, he battled something more elusive, more treacherous—a darkness that seemed to take root in his very being.

  His axe swung again and again, each strike carving through shadows that crept and coiled, eager to consume him. But for every sliver of light he freed, the dark spread wider, deeper. It wasn't a battle he could win by force. His strikes landed as hard and as fast as he could make them, yet still, the darkness regenerated, fed by some endless source. He had taken the measure of that force as he battled it before, ripping it apart, yet here in his soul the darkness had found and fed on something else, something deeper than itself. So far after it should have ended the darkness pressed into the young man.

  And then, as if mocking him, the whispers began.

  “Why fight? You’ve done enough,” a voice murmured. It was soft at first, reasonable even.

  “Rest,” it continued, seeping into his mind between swings. “Lay down your head.”

  He hacked at the darkness, but each chop was met with new whispers, more insistent, more intimate.

  “Give in.”

  Chop.

  “You are struggling for nothing.”

  Chop.

  “Why continue this?”

  Chop.

  The voices rose and fell with every stroke, each cutting closer to the truth he didn’t want to face—that maybe, just maybe, there was no end to this. But still, Cheese didn’t stop. His entire life, he had kept going, a steady rhythm that only knew how to move forward. He swung and cut, deeper and harder, until he wasn’t fighting the darkness anymore; he was dancing with it.

  The rhythm changed then, and he knew the fight had shifted. He wasn’t clearing the dark to destroy it, he was clearing it for something else—space, openness, acceptance. He knew, as he struck in sweeping arcs, that the darkness wasn’t his enemy. It was a part of him, a weight he bore as naturally as the warmth at his back, which he now felt stronger than ever.

  In this strange half-light, Cheese understood this wasn’t the day the dark would take him. Not yet. Today, he could hold it at bay. He kept moving, not in struggle, but in a fierce, deliberate celebration of himself, of his own endurance. The darkness was a shadow at his feet, a whetstone against which he sharpened his new gift he held the blade in his hands as one would hold the palm of a lover, tenderly yet firmly, guiding it in their dance. And he used the darkness that was his soul to grind that gift to a finer point than any axe he had ever wielded.

  In the small room Ibron, Rook, and Villa watched him as Cheese laid there on the bed. Ibron stared, unsettled. “He’s… smiling,” he murmured, watching Cheese’s face where he lay in a small, humble room. Only a few days ago, his friend had been wreathed in golden fire, but now, he seemed at peace.

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  Rook only nodded, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. “My boy’s found what he is looking for.”

  Villa spoke next, glancing at Ibron with a steady gaze. “Have you thought about it?”

  He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Yes. I’m still not sure, but… I think it might be worth a try.”

  The news from the county capital had come days ago, a list of horrors that swept through every city, every town, leaving nothing untouched. Villages like theirs were battered but standing, while others fared worse. Those had been attacked by everything from necrotic creatures similar to the ones that Timberbrook had destroyed to fire-breathing lizards the size of small houses.

  They knew now that they couldn’t survive the winter without help. Supplies were scarce, and they needed the stores left in Fairhaven.

  A day before the giants had gone. They had roamed to the north towards their allies who lived under the Baron Gabrio. The baron had ordered his people to flee the city under guard in anticipation. In response the council had chosen Ibron, the only remaining merchant, to join a convoy under the guard of the Milita. With enough men, carts, and courage, they would recover what they could from Fairhaven. This was their only hope to endure the long months ahead.

  Villa eyed her son uneasily as she asked her husband "Do you think it will be long now? Will our son wake up."

  The large man frowned as he considered the question. "A night more my love. He is done, but he will not wake until he has rested. He will sleep now."

  She stood then and Ibron shifted and looked away as the large man reached out and kissed his Wifes fingertips gingerly. "If anything changes" the elder said "I will send a runner. I ask you to sleep wife." He said, his eyes never leaving his son as he spoke. Villa looked at her husband with a frown, and for a moment her eyes glanced at the mug by his side, still full. Yet she said nothing as she walked out of the room. She had always trusted Rook to raise his sons as men, and even now her trust for his actions was unshakable.

  "Ibron" The mans voice cut in as the merchant began to rise.

  "Ye- Yessir" spoke out the young man softly.

  "I have spoken to the council. It must happen" said the old man, he cast a sad look at his sons friend and Ibron caught a sliver of pity in that glance.

  He stuttered again as he responded "It- It-it simply wont do, the audacity of it, me? An elder? I'm not even two score winters sir. What do you mean it must be? Surely there is another more qualified for the position. I swear I will do this task, but to ask that is to much."

  The old man nodded as Ibron spoke, yet he did not change what he said. He simply would no, no could not be swayed. "Ibron, none can replace master Duncan. It simply cannot be done, but you are the only one who possesses the skills of a master merchant."

  It was true, since the unbinding had started Ibrons skills had exploded. He had taken over as quartermaster for Timberbrook. The disaster at the market had resulted in every other merchant over level 15 dying to the Nekomata that had fought Cheese. Rooks' eyes leveled on Ibrons head, and he saw [Merchant: 14]. The explosion of insight had been necessary, and thus it had happened. Timberbrook had needed a merchant, and thus the cream had risen, and now it would rise more. Rook reached out and handed the young man a pouch. It held a single golden band. It mirrored the ring around Rooks own arm, the armband of the quartermaster. What he was forcing on this young man was more than a seat on the council, it was a station that was matched by only two men in their town. Rook held one, a bronze armband, the master of the warriors. The third was held by the eldest man in the village Elder Tompson, a man of well over 90. It was for all intents a military position as much as a social rank. That is why the young man was so reluctant to take it. But what Rook said was true, and Tompson agreed with him. Theirs was a town on the move, and the likelihood was once they got proper word from the capital they would be called to the march, and an army needed a quartermaster. As Ibrons hand closed around the pouch Rook glanced his eyes to his son and used his observation skill. As he did, he smiled and sat down. Whatever came next, he would face it with his family.