06-05-2025, 04:56 PM
Elias’s mouth fell open with a stunned scoff, his brow furrowing as though Sören had just slapped him.
“Gone?” he repeated, incredulous. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to blame me for that.” He stepped back half a pace, then forward again. Circling, pacing like a caged animal, water still dripping from his sleeves. “You think because you decided to show up with your borrowed name and your half-truths that you’re the authority now?”
His voice pitched higher, sharper at his accusations. “I conjured one storm. One. It wasn’t even that bad.” A muscle twitched at his jaw as he waved a hand toward the lake, like the storm’s raw destruction wasn’t still soaking through every stitch of his clothes. “You don’t know what I saw. You don’t know what it felt like. What answered when I called. Something moved out there. I know it. And you can’t just say it’s gone like you speak it and it makes it real.”
He pointed sharply at Sören. “So either you’re lying to get out of the deal, or you’re too proud to admit you lost track of it. Which is it, Alvis?”
He spat the name now, with bitter emphasis. Sören’s correction about aliases barely registered. When he called Elias a child, there was the briefest flinch—small, but real—but Elias masked it with a derisive snort, tilting his head with mocking disbelief.
“You think calling me names is going to change what happened out there? That wasn’t a tantrum. It was control. It was power. And if you ask me, you are scared of it.”
Sören’s expression didn’t move, and Elias hated him for it. Hated how calm he stayed while Elias’s world tilted sideways. But when the older man told him to fetch the doctor, Elias froze for half a breath. His jaw locked tight. He stared at the floor, as if the splintered wood would offer a rebuttal. Then, with a huff through flared nostrils, he turned on his heel and muttered, “Fine.”
The so-called doctor turned out to be a hunched, hunched old man with a sour expression and a satchel that looked like it had seen two world wars. He didn’t speak much, just nodded to Kemala, asked for water in a rasp, and began examining Asha where she lay curled on the bed.
Elias hovered nearby with arms crossed, keeping close but not too close. He didn’t look at her for long, just enough to confirm that she was breathing. That was all he needed to see.
When the doctor finally straightened, he gave his verdict in a few clipped words: she would recover, with rest and warmth. No cracked ribs, no fluid in the lungs. Nothing beyond exhaustion and cold.
He lingered at the door a moment once the old man was gone, his hand on the doorframe, gaze slipping toward the lake beyond the shattered windowpanes. The surface was still now. Too still. His reflection wavered in the glass. Drawn face, bloodshot eyes, expression caught somewhere between bitterness and grief. He looked away before it could solidify into anything he didn’t want to name.
Some time passed. Long enough for the fire to warm the walls, for the storm outside to fully recede. Long enough that the sounds of the village began to return. Shovels scraping debris, doors creaking open, the murmuring suspicion of survival. And then he moved again.
His boots struck the floorboards hard as he crossed the hallway, shoulders stiff beneath a dry coat that didn’t quite fit. The innkeeper’s spare. One sleeve too short, one cuff frayed beyond help. It only added to the indignity of it all. He found Sören alone, standing near the hearth like he was part of the architecture, brooding and quiet. Always quiet. Always unreadable.
Elias didn’t knock. He didn’t wait. “You said we’d talk,” he said, stepping in and letting the door slam behind him. “So talk.”
Sören didn’t turn. Not right away. Elias stood with arms folded across his chest, chin lifted in practiced defiance.
“You say the shard’s gone. Fine. Prove it. Explain it. Something moved out there when I summoned the storm, and I saw it. Felt it. Don’t pretend that wasn’t real. You even referred to a creature.”
He took a few steps closer, voice dropping into something colder.
“And don’t try to walk away from this like it was just some ‘contract.’ That thing was mine. We had a deal, and you owe me more than some half-baked line about a trinket being gone. You were there. You saw it. That power. It answered. So unless you’re going to tell me you’re deaf, you felt it too. And if it left, I want to know why. I want to know where it went. I want to know what you were doing while it was fleeing."
“Gone?” he repeated, incredulous. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to blame me for that.” He stepped back half a pace, then forward again. Circling, pacing like a caged animal, water still dripping from his sleeves. “You think because you decided to show up with your borrowed name and your half-truths that you’re the authority now?”
His voice pitched higher, sharper at his accusations. “I conjured one storm. One. It wasn’t even that bad.” A muscle twitched at his jaw as he waved a hand toward the lake, like the storm’s raw destruction wasn’t still soaking through every stitch of his clothes. “You don’t know what I saw. You don’t know what it felt like. What answered when I called. Something moved out there. I know it. And you can’t just say it’s gone like you speak it and it makes it real.”
He pointed sharply at Sören. “So either you’re lying to get out of the deal, or you’re too proud to admit you lost track of it. Which is it, Alvis?”
He spat the name now, with bitter emphasis. Sören’s correction about aliases barely registered. When he called Elias a child, there was the briefest flinch—small, but real—but Elias masked it with a derisive snort, tilting his head with mocking disbelief.
“You think calling me names is going to change what happened out there? That wasn’t a tantrum. It was control. It was power. And if you ask me, you are scared of it.”
Sören’s expression didn’t move, and Elias hated him for it. Hated how calm he stayed while Elias’s world tilted sideways. But when the older man told him to fetch the doctor, Elias froze for half a breath. His jaw locked tight. He stared at the floor, as if the splintered wood would offer a rebuttal. Then, with a huff through flared nostrils, he turned on his heel and muttered, “Fine.”
The so-called doctor turned out to be a hunched, hunched old man with a sour expression and a satchel that looked like it had seen two world wars. He didn’t speak much, just nodded to Kemala, asked for water in a rasp, and began examining Asha where she lay curled on the bed.
Elias hovered nearby with arms crossed, keeping close but not too close. He didn’t look at her for long, just enough to confirm that she was breathing. That was all he needed to see.
When the doctor finally straightened, he gave his verdict in a few clipped words: she would recover, with rest and warmth. No cracked ribs, no fluid in the lungs. Nothing beyond exhaustion and cold.
He lingered at the door a moment once the old man was gone, his hand on the doorframe, gaze slipping toward the lake beyond the shattered windowpanes. The surface was still now. Too still. His reflection wavered in the glass. Drawn face, bloodshot eyes, expression caught somewhere between bitterness and grief. He looked away before it could solidify into anything he didn’t want to name.
Some time passed. Long enough for the fire to warm the walls, for the storm outside to fully recede. Long enough that the sounds of the village began to return. Shovels scraping debris, doors creaking open, the murmuring suspicion of survival. And then he moved again.
His boots struck the floorboards hard as he crossed the hallway, shoulders stiff beneath a dry coat that didn’t quite fit. The innkeeper’s spare. One sleeve too short, one cuff frayed beyond help. It only added to the indignity of it all. He found Sören alone, standing near the hearth like he was part of the architecture, brooding and quiet. Always quiet. Always unreadable.
Elias didn’t knock. He didn’t wait. “You said we’d talk,” he said, stepping in and letting the door slam behind him. “So talk.”
Sören didn’t turn. Not right away. Elias stood with arms folded across his chest, chin lifted in practiced defiance.
“You say the shard’s gone. Fine. Prove it. Explain it. Something moved out there when I summoned the storm, and I saw it. Felt it. Don’t pretend that wasn’t real. You even referred to a creature.”
He took a few steps closer, voice dropping into something colder.
“And don’t try to walk away from this like it was just some ‘contract.’ That thing was mine. We had a deal, and you owe me more than some half-baked line about a trinket being gone. You were there. You saw it. That power. It answered. So unless you’re going to tell me you’re deaf, you felt it too. And if it left, I want to know why. I want to know where it went. I want to know what you were doing while it was fleeing."