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crow-mortis · 2 months ago

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“Birdie, you’ll catch your death out here.”

Her hands were cold, covered in water and soap suds as she stared out at the Gorkhon. She was frozen – her mind far away. She hadn’t noticed how cold it was, despite the occasional gust of wind that swept along the river.

The voice brought her back to her body once more, and she turned her green eyes upward to meet the gaze of Lara Ravel – her best friend. The woman was standing with a basket propped on her hip, and she used it to nudge Violet gently in the shoulder as she passed. She pulled a knitted shawl from where it was tied about her waist and draped it gingerly over Violet’s shoulders.

“I hadn’t realized…” Violet mused as she looked down to her hands in the wash bucket again. The bloodless sky reflected in the soapy water – gray and dull against the brown ridges of the steppe. It was September, and she could smell twyre on the breeze as it kicked up again. It was chilly for the season, uncharacteristically so. She hoped it would not be an omen of things to come.

Violet focused on her washing again as Lara took each garment and pinned them to the line. Fabric rustled in the wind, and the first shiver of the morning raced down Violet’s back. Once the washing was done, she stood and hauled the basin to the edge of the Gorkhon. She gingerly poured the remnants of the soapy water into the river and watched as the suds floated along with the current.

“Would you mind refreshing the guest room in the east wing?” Lara called to her as she pinned a white blouse to the line, “Bee in the foyer this morning.”

Lara said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and Violet gave a light chuckle. The other girl favored old wives tales, and Violet often found herself freshening up the sheets in the guest suite any time there was a sign of a future visitor. She would love to say that she didn’t believe in any of it, that they were just simply that: old wives tales.

But Lara had never been wrong.

She popped a hip out to support the wash basin and headed back for the large house, giving Lara’s hair a playful tug as she passed, “Hopefully our guest appreciates the thrice-washed linen.”

Lara giggled and swatted a hand at her, but only smiled knowingly as she returned to her work.

Violet entered the manor through the kitchen, depositing the wash basin into a linen closet as she pulled a fresh set of cotton sheets and a duvet cover from the shelf.

Violet had been working as a live-in housekeeper for Lara since Artemy left. It had felt odd to remain in Isidor’s home without him. The light had been drained from the space, and after the sand plague outbreak five years before, something had changed in Isidor. It was like a cold hand had reached into his chest and wrapped his heart in ice.

Violet rarely saw him now, unless she was bringing him extras from their small garden or selling him some herbs for his tinctures. He saw patients in his home, but often she would see him about the town with a gaggle of children at his heels. Some thought it odd, but Violet hoped that the sudden affection the children showed him would bring a little warmth back to his eyes.

They hadn’t talked much since the quarantine of the Crude Sprawl. Secretly, Violet harbored a small piece of resentment in her heart for him, for that . How could she not? He had made orphans of a number of children with one decision; though she always came back to how many he had saved.

They rarely spoke; Isidor would offer a few hums of acknowledgement here and there when she would drop by, but he was always in his clinic, buried in his work. Whenever she saw him like that she could almost swear this dark cloud hung around his neck and shoulders.

She tried not to think about it too much, but she did worry for him. For all his faults, Isidor had become a surrogate father for her. She knew the children that followed him around thought the same. She had asked one of the kids why they liked Isidor:

“He talks to us like we’re people. He needs us, and we need him.”

That had been the end of the conversation, and the child had trotted off after the rest of the crowd of kids. Violet decided then to put a pin in the thought for later, but later never really came around.

She ascended the stairs with bedding clutched in her arms. The wooden steps creaked under her boots as she went, the only noise in the stillness of the manor. Well, besides the ticking of the grandfather clock near Lara’s office.

It had previously been her father’s office, but since his recent passing Lara had taken up residence there. Sometimes she would sleep on the sofa near his old desk, and Violet would creep in and drape a blanket over her shoulders. She was grieving, and if Violet couldn’t shoulder her pain, she could at least lighten its weight a bit.

She pulled the stale sheets off the queen-sized bed methodically, tossing them into the linen hamper nearby to await wash. No one had slept in them, but this wing of the house was empty; Lara took to only living in one half of the manor, Violet as well.

Violet was the only one of them to venture to this side of the estate. She dusted and fluffed throw pillows and washed curtains and swept floors that would likely never be used. Lara told her once not to bother with it, to just leave it as it was, but she couldn’t do that. What if Lara wanted to visit that end of the house? Violet couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing her childhood home in a state of decay and neglect. So, Violet made a point to maintain this half of the manor in the same way she did the other half.

Once the sheets were on the bed and the pillows fluffed and the duvet changed, Violet retrieved the linen hamper and headed back down the stairs.

There was a tall, arched window in the wall of the landing. She paused there, skirts dusting over her boots as she did. She stared out at the gray September sky, her mind wandering back to Artemy, as it often did. Their final moments on that platform had replayed time and time again in her memory.

In the years he��d been gone, she’d written to him many times. After the first few letters were sent with no reply, she kept writing anyway. Something in her chest told her that he was reading them, that he was too busy with his studies to reply. She would write about the weather and about the locals. She would share tales of Grief and his gang of misfits. She would remind him that he had a home – somewhere he could come back to – in her.

She never got a reply, but they were also never returned. That was good enough for her, at least for now.

Sometimes she wondered how life would be different if Artemy had been allowed to follow the path of his father, but she knew it did no good. Artemy was ambitious with a mind full of new and innovative ideas. Sharp as a razor and eager to learn and experience everything the world had to offer him.

The painful thought was that this life was too boring for him now, that she was boring. He just didn’t want to waste ink and paper to write back to a childhood friend he hadn’t spoken to in so many years. That’s why he never wrote back, never came home to visit.

She wasn’t too proud to admit she missed him, but her feelings had been buried so long now that it seemed such a difficult task to unpack them again. She would take care of Lara, check up on Isidor, patch up Grief’s knuckles, trade books with Rubin, and she would occupy herself with a laundry list of things to do to keep those feelings tightly packed away.

A sudden, loud thud against the glass made her jump, and she dropped the linen basket and it went tumbling down the stairs. She looked up to the window just in time to see what had made the noise.

A second thud – a mass of black feathers fell out of view.

She rushed down the stairs, careful not to trip on the dropped basket as she made her way through the foyer and outside. Under the window in the grass lay two crows; one was still, its body not stirring at all as she approached. The other…

Its neck twisted sharply at a right angle, its wings spread and trembled as its beak opened and closed, pitifully gasping for air. Panic rose in her as she tried to think of some way to help the poor creature, but as she reached out toward it, the bird let out a pitiful croak of a caw and began thrashing about in the grass; droplets of blood flew from its nostrils and stained her blouse.

After a moment the creature grew still, the small rising and falling of its chest the only indication of life. She watched it for a long time, until the last breath whispered out of its parted beak.

The cold wind whipped through the yard and she shivered. She could hear Lara’s footsteps approaching, and then felt her friend’s warm hand on her shoulder. Violet glanced up at her, and Lara shook her head.

The steppe traditions would not allow them to dig a grave; Violet carefully disposed of them near the fork of the river.

When she had begun her long walk through town to the Factory district, the sky had been gray and cold above her – it threatened rain. Unsurprisingly as she entered the Backbone, rain began to fall. She opened her umbrella above her and pulled her cardigan tighter around her frame.

She hated the September rain. It always brought a chill with it that sank heavily into her bones and weighed down her body. The damp air also brought sickness, and the memories of the outbreak five years before were still fresh in her mind.

Though she knew her mother’s blood made her one of the Kin, it was difficult for her to really relate to them. She hadn’t lived among them like her mother had – at least not before Violet moved to the Town. She saw them everywhere, despite the unrest between themselves and the townspeople.

Most were friendly enough, and they always greeted her with a smile. She knew she looked like them – the dark hair and features that so resembled her mother. A few of them had recognized her by this alone, and they told her about her mother – they were often pleasant stories about her childhood. It helped Violet feel close to her again.

She passed by an herb bride as she walked – the woman turning for a moment to meet Violet’s gaze as she went. She recognized the bride, though she didn’t know her name. She would often sit for long periods beneath the large tree near the Shelter. The scent of twyre and swevery followed her – nearby the wind picked up and the soft twinkling of windchimes broke the stillness.

Violet paused and turned to look back at the woman, only to find the street empty.

She adjusted the weight on the basket of goods she carried. She hooked her opposite arm under the handle and settled the weight on her hip. She had a few things for Grief.

The small garden she kept was nearly wrapping up for the year, but she ended up with a lot of extras, and she knew Grief loved pickled foods. She had a few jars of pickled cucumbers and radishes, and she had even prepped some squash and cabbage. Though, she knew his favorite of the bunch would be the candied tomatoes.

With the war, supply chains were having trouble keeping up, and she found herself very fortunate to have such a productive garden this year. So, she had decided to surprise Grief with his favorites.

The rain drummed steadily against Violet’s umbrella. The streets were slick with mud, the shallow puddles reflecting the dim glow of a pale gray sky.

The scent of wet stone and rust clung to the air, sharp and metallic, intermingling with the acrid smoke that spewed endlessly from chimneys scattered across the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, a machine groaned and hissed, its labor unending.

As she approached the warehouse where Bad Grief had carved out his dominion, the environment shifted. The streets became narrower, their paths uneven and treacherous. Broken crates and discarded scraps littered the ground, merging with pools of rainwater that caught and refracted the dull light of occasional lamps. The buildings leaned in closer here, their facades weathered and crumbling, their windows darkened by grime or shattered entirely.

Violet paused at the edge of an alley, her green eyes scanning her surroundings with practiced caution. She spotted a pair of Grief’s men lounging near the warehouse entrance, their postures casual but their watchfulness unmistakable. One of them, a lanky young man with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, straightened slightly as he caught sight of her. The faint glow of the ember at the tip of his cigarette lit up his face, pale and sharp-edged.

“Birdie,” he greeted, his voice rough from smoke and the ever-present dampness of the district. “Grief’s been waiting for you.”

She returned his nod, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just bringing him some things,” she replied, her tone light but measured.

The other man, stockier and older, leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. “You’re brave, walking through this muck alone,” he remarked, his voice a mix of admiration and mild reproach. “Not everyone out here’s as friendly as us.”

“I’ll take my chances,” She said with a chuckle as she stepped into the warehouse behind them. The door creaked as it swung closed behind her, the sound muffled by the ambient hum of voices and faint rustling within.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, saturated with the mingling scents of mildew, tobacco, and spilled alcohol. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by lanterns hung haphazardly from wooden beams that creaked ominously with the weight of age. Crates and barrels were stacked along the perimeter, their contents hidden beneath oil-stained tarps. Makeshift seating had been arranged near the center of the space—worn chairs and overturned crates serving as impromptu chairs for Grief’s associates.

Bad Grief himself sat at a table near the back, his imposing frame hunched over a deck of cards spread loosely before him. His sharp features, angular and weathered, were partially obscured by a thin haze of smoke curling up from the cigarette resting in the ashtray at his side. He looked up as Violet approached, a grin breaking across his face that softened his otherwise sharp demeanor. His eyes, however, retained their usual glint of cunning.

“Birdie,” he drawled, his voice carrying easily over the low murmur of conversation. “What’ve you brought me this time?”

She set the basket down on the table, careful to avoid knocking over the cards. Unpacking the jars one by one, she began to list them off. “Pickled cucumbers, radishes, squash, cabbage, and…candied tomatoes. I thought you could use some of the harvest.”

Grief leaned forward, the warm light of the lanterns catching on his face as he inspected the offerings. He let out an approving hum, his fingers brushing against one of the jars. “You spoil me,” His tone was light, almost teasing, but Violet caught the subtle undertone of gratitude. He picked up the jar of candied tomatoes, holding it up as though it were a rare jewel. “The tomatoes, though…those are a treat.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Violet’s lips, though it barely lingered. “I figured you’d like them,” she said simply, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.

Grief snapped his fingers and the man who was seated at the table with him got up and disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse. Grief gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit a moment,” he said, leaning back with an ease that seemed both practiced and deliberate. “Tell me, how’s life treating you?”

Violet hesitated briefly before lowering herself into the chair, the empty basket resting on the floor beside her. The faint murmur of conversation around them faded into a low hum as she met Grief’s gaze.

“It’s been quiet,” she replied after a moment, her voice steady but guarded. “Or as quiet as it ever gets.”

Grief chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his cigarette. “Quiet’s just the calm before the storm in this town,” he said, the cigarette bobbing between his fingers.

Violet didn’t respond, her thoughts too occupied with the weight of his words and the creeping unease that had followed her all day. She let her eyes wander briefly over the warehouse’s interior, taking in the chaos of the space and the shadows that seemed to gather in the corners like restless spirits.

Grief watched her in silence for a moment before speaking again. “Anything new from Isidor?” he asked, his tone casual but his interest evident. “Still burying himself in his work?”

Violet’s hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table. “He’s busy,” she replied, her voice quieter now. “I don’t see him much these days.”

Grief snorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “No surprise there. That man will work himself to death.” He paused, taking a drag from his cigarette before exhaling slowly. “And Artemy? Any word from him?”

The question struck a nerve, the name stirring something heavy and unspoken within her. She watched as Grief tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. Violet shook her head, her expression carefully neutral. “No,” she said softly. “Not since he left.”

Grief tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he were trying to extract meaning from the spaces between her words. He held her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable before he leaned back, exhaling another plume of smoke. “Shame,” he said finally, his tone quieter but no less pointed. “Town misses him. Things aren’t what they used to be, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked, unable to keep the curiosity from creeping into her voice. She knew better than to bite at his bait, but the weight in his tone was impossible to ignore.

Grief’s expression darkened, the sharp lines of his face softening into something more somber. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his cigarette trailing ash over the battered wood. “The town’s changing,” he said, his voice low. “It’s not just the war. There’s something in the air—something wrong. People are on edge, more than usual. And the Kin…” He trailed off, his gaze slipping past her to the shadowy corners of the room as though searching for something hidden.

“What about the Kin?” Violet pressed, her chest tightening as she turned to look where he was staring, seeing nothing in the darkness.

Grief tapped the ash from his cigarette. “They’re spooked,” he muttered. “Talk of omens, strange happenings. You know how they are—superstitious to the bone. But this…this feels different.”

Violet leaned back in her chair, her fingers tightening around the worn armrests. She thought of the crows she had seen earlier, their bodies thudding against the window with an unnatural finality. The memory sent a shiver up her spine, and she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Have you seen anything strange yourself?” she asked, her voice steady despite the unease settling deeper in her chest.

Grief studied her for a long moment, the lines of his face unreadable. Finally, he shook his head, though his movements lacked conviction. “Not yet,” he said. “But I’ve heard the stories. And you know me, Birdie—I don’t put much stock in tales. But when enough people start whispering the same things…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, the weight of it settling between them.

She frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line as her thoughts churned. “Do you think it’s something serious?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Grief sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his expression older in the dim light. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What I do know is that things are tense, and tense towns break like old bones if you’re not careful.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening as it locked onto hers. “Be careful, Birdie. You’ve got a habit of poking around where it ain’t safe.”

Violet allowed herself a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I can take care of myself,” she replied, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

Grief’s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no real humor in it. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But humor me, yeah? Keep your head low. This town’s got teeth.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the sound of rain on the warehouse roof filling the space between them. Violet studied him, noting the faint lines of weariness etched into his face, the way his shoulders carried a tension that seemed out of place on someone like Grief. He caught her staring and raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as if to reclaim his usual bravado.

“What?” he asked, his voice lighter now, teasing. “Didn’t realize I was such a fascinating study.”

Violet rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in amusement. “You just look tired,” she said. “More tired than usual.”

Grief snorted, his smirk deepening as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Tired’s the least of it,” he said. “This place’ll do that to you. But you’d know that better than most, wouldn’t you?”

Violet thought of her first few months in the town, and she glanced away, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. “We all carry it differently,” she said quietly.

Grief studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head, the smirk softening into something almost genuine. “That we do,” he said. “But you’re tougher than you look, Birdie. Always have been.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a small, reluctant smile. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Grief said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair again. He reached for a tin to stub out his cigarette. “Anyway, you’d better keep an eye out. Things aren’t the same as when we were kids, running around the Station pretending we owned the place.”

“Maybe not,” Violet said, her smile fading slightly. “But some things don’t change. Like you still thinking you own the town.”

“Someone’s got to,” Grief said, his grin returning full force. “Might as well be me.”

Despite herself, Violet laughed, the sound soft but genuine. For a moment, the tension that had been coiling in her chest all evening seemed to ease, replaced by the faint warmth of familiarity. Whatever else was happening in the Town, Grief was still Grief, and that was something she could hold onto.

Their eyes caught in the dim light, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background—the muted murmur of voices, the patter of rain against the warehouse roof, even the faint curl of smoke that lingered between them. In Grief’s gaze, she saw a flicker of something familiar, something she had glimpsed often before. It wasn’t the sharp, calculating look he usually wore when dealing with the Town’s scheming, nor was it the casual, teasing warmth he reserved for their conversations. This was something softer, quieter. Admiration, perhaps. Or maybe something deeper.

Violet felt her chest tighten. What did Grief see when he looked at her like that? Did he think of the times they had slipped through the narrow alleys of the Backbone as children, their laughter echoing against the walls? Or of the days when his hands had been stained with oil and soot instead of blood, back when his world was small and honest.

There was a part of her—a small, stubborn part—that couldn’t help but wonder. Would things have been different if Grief had stayed a clocksmith? If he had clung to the trade that his father had taught him, instead of carving out his empire in the shadows of the Town’s underbelly? She could almost see it: a simpler life, one where the weight of the world hadn’t yet pressed its sharp edges into his shoulders. One where he might have looked at her with the same spark of admiration, but without the shadow of what he had become trailing behind it.

Would he have asked her to stay? To be a part of that life, the one he might have had? The thought was absurd, almost laughable, and yet it lingered, stubborn and unshakable. He had always been reckless, even as a boy, but there had been a time when that recklessness was tempered by hope. She wondered if he had ever thought of her as part of that hope, even fleetingly, in the quiet moments when his mind wandered.

Violet’s gaze dropped to her hands, resting lightly on the table. Her fingers brushed against the rough grain of the wood, grounding her as she fought to keep her thoughts from drifting too far. Whatever might have been was just that—an echo of something unrealized, lost to the choices they had both made. Grief’s path had taken him far from the world where such notions had a place, and hers…well, hers was still up in the air.

When she looked back up, Grief had leaned back in his chair, the flicker of vulnerability already gone from his expression. He smirked, tilting his head in that familiar, cocky way that made it impossible to tell if he was hiding something or simply didn’t care.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

She gave him a faint smile, shaking her head as she straightened in her seat. “Nothing important,” she replied, her tone measured. “Just tired, I guess.”

Grief watched her for a moment longer, as though he didn’t quite believe her, but whatever he saw in her face seemed enough to convince him to let it go.

“Don’t let Gravel work you too hard.”

She nodded, his words settling over her like a faint comfort. But even as she smiled and met his gaze, the thought lingered—faint but insistent, like the remnants of a dream she couldn’t quite shake. If things had been different, if Grief had stayed the man he might have been, what would he have seen when he looked at her like that?

And more than that: would she have looked at him the same way?

“I should go,” she said after a while, rising from her chair and adjusting the basket on her arm. “The rain’s letting up, and I don’t want to be caught after dark.”

Grief stood as well, his chair scraping against the floor as he stretched to his full height. “You need someone to walk you back?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said, offering him a faint smile. “Thanks for the company.”

“Anytime,” he said, his tone light but his gaze lingering. “Don’t let the boogeymen get you.” He wagged his fingers in a mock-spooky gesture, his grin wide and teasing.

It worked, pulling a soft laugh out of her despite the tension still clinging to her chest. “You’re ridiculous,” Violet said, shaking her head, though there was warmth in her voice. She adjusted the basket on her arm and took a small step back, preparing to leave.

Grief leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her. “Ridiculous maybe,” he replied, his smirk still in place, “but you’re smiling, so I must be doing something right.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it, letting the faint curve of her lips linger for a moment longer before it faded. The weight of their earlier conversation settled back into the silence between them, heavier now that the laughter had died away. Violet shifted her stance, her boots scraping against the warehouse floor as she glanced toward the door.

“You sure you’re alright, Birdie?” Grief asked suddenly, his voice quieter, less teasing. The sharp edge of his usual bravado had dulled, leaving something rawer in its place. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” Violet asked, turning back to face him. Her brow furrowed slightly, her green eyes searching his for some clue as to what he meant.

“That one,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her. “Like you’re carrying more than you can hold, but you’re too stubborn to set any of it down.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words didn’t come. He wasn’t wrong—not entirely. And the fact that he had noticed, that he had seen through her attempts to mask it, left her feeling more exposed than she was comfortable with. Violet let out a soft sigh, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before she met his eyes again.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Just tired, like I said.”

Grief’s expression softened, his smirk giving way to something quieter, almost tender. “Tired’s one thing, Birdie,” he said. “But you don’t have to keep pretending like you’ve got it all figured out. Not with me.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Grief wasn’t the kind of person who invited vulnerability—not his own, and certainly not anyone else’s. But there was something in his tone, in the way his sharp eyes held hers, that made her feel like maybe he meant it.

“I know,” she said finally, her voice soft. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the table and straightening. “But it helps, doesn’t it? Having someone to share the weight?”

Violet smiled faintly. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But that’s not how things work in this Town. Not for people like us.”

Grief snorted, studying her for a long moment. “Speak for yourself,” he said, his tone lighter now, though there was still a thread of seriousness beneath it. “I’ve got an empire of misfits who’d kill for me—or at least die trying. Can’t say I’m lacking in support.”

Violet shifted the basket on her arm again. She glanced toward the door, the faint sound of rain still pattering against the roof reminding her that the world outside was waiting.

“I really should go,” she said, though her voice was softer now, less hurried.

Grief nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. “Alright,” he said. “But you know where to find me if you need anything. Or if you just want to drop off more tomatoes.”

Violet chuckled, the warmth of his teasing easing some of the tension in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As she turned toward the door, he called out after her. “Hey, Birdie.”

She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. His smirk had faded again, replaced by a faint smile that was almost disarming in its sincerity.

“Be careful out there,” he said, his tone quiet but firm.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied, offering him a faint smile of her own. “I always am.”

Grief didn’t argue, but the way he watched her as she stepped into the damp gray world beyond the warehouse told her he wasn’t entirely convinced. The rain had eased, but the low-hanging clouds and the strange yellow tinge to the light seemed to press down on the streets, amplifying the stillness. Violet tightened her grip on her umbrella as she made her way back toward the manor.

The shortcut through the steppe was not one Violet usually took, especially as the evening began to deepen into dusk. The Factory’s streets and the Town’s tension seemed to press in on her tonight, making her chest tighten with every step. The path near the train station, though desolate and dark, offered a quieter, swifter return to Lara’s manor. That silence, she decided, was worth the risk.

The rain had softened to a fine mist, but the ground remained treacherously slick beneath her boots. The steppe stretched out wide and restless around her, the tall grass whispering in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and twyre, its sharp, earthy aroma tugging at old memories. Above, crows circled in the dim sky, their cries distant.

The remnants of an old fence loomed ahead, its posts weathered and leaning, marking the edge of the station’s boundary. Beyond it, the train tracks gleamed faintly under the muted light of the setting sun, rain clinging to the metal. Violet paused briefly, pulling her cardigan tighter against the wind’s sudden chill. The faint whistle of the breeze through the grass carried something else with it—a low murmur of voices.

Her steps faltered as she strained to hear more clearly. The sound wasn’t far, coming from the curve in the tracks where the horizon dipped into shadow. Crouching low, she moved toward the noise, her basket clutched tightly against her side.

Peering through the tall grass, Violet froze. Three figures stood near the tracks, their postures tense, radiating aggression. One of them, the largest, held a knife, its dull blade catching what little light remained. His companions flanked him, their stances wide and predatory, their hands gripping crude weapons—a plank of wood and a rusted crowbar. Opposite them stood a lone man, his back to Violet.

He was tall, his broad shoulders shrouded by a weathered coat that clung to him like a second skin. His hair was damp, plastered to his head, and his posture betrayed a bone-deep exhaustion.

“Give us the bag,” the man with the knife demanded, his voice sharp and cutting through the mist like a blade. “Hand it over, and maybe we let you walk out of here.”

The lone man didn’t reply. He shifted slightly, his weight adjusting with a deliberate slowness that seemed almost taunting. Violet held her breath, the tension coiling in her chest as the silence stretched thin.

The man with the knife sneered. “Suit yourself,” he growled, stepping forward.

What followed was a whirlwind of brutal, desperate violence. The lone man moved with a speed and precision that belied the exhaustion etched into his posture, closing the distance between himself and the first attacker in a single, deliberate stride.

The man with the knife lunged, his blade catching the lone man in the ribs with a sickening, glancing slice. A sharp grunt escaped him, his steps faltering briefly under the jolt of pain. But he didn’t crumble. His resolve, forged in something far deeper than the moment’s desperation, carried him forward. His hand shot out like a viper, seizing the attacker’s wrist in an iron grip.

With a swift, calculated motion, he twisted the man’s arm away, forcing the knife’s point away from his body. The attacker struggled, his teeth bared in a snarl, but the lone man was relentless. He pivoted, leveraging his weight to drive the blade upward and into the attacker’s ribcage with brutal precision.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, a wet, choking sound bubbling from his throat as blood spilled over his lips. The lone man’s movements were efficient, almost mechanical. As the attacker’s strength ebbed, his body sagged, and the lone man released him, letting the lifeless form collapse into the mud with a muted thud.

Rain slicked the blade now embedded in the attacker’s chest, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, the lone man planted his boot against the man’s torso, bracing himself as he wrenched the knife free. The motion was forceful, deliberate, accompanied by the wet, nauseating sound of steel leaving flesh – grinding against bone. The man’s body jerked slightly with the motion before slumping motionless once more.

The lone man straightened, his chest heaving as blood seeped from the wound at his side, staining his shirt and mingling with the rain. He spared the fallen attacker no more than a glance, his focus already shifting to the next threat, his body coiled with readiness despite the growing threat of his injuries.

The second attacker didn’t hesitate. He charged forward, a heavy wooden plank clutched tightly in both hands. The lone man barely had time to shift his stance before the plank swung through the damp air, slamming into his shoulder with a sickening crack that echoed across the steppe.

The force of the blow sent him staggering back, the knife slipping slightly in his bloodied grip. Pain flashed across his face, his breaths coming sharp and uneven, but he pushed forward. The attacker swung again, this time aiming for his head. The lone man ducked low, the plank grazing just above him, close enough to stir the air.

He surged upward, using the momentum of his crouch to drive the knife into the attacker’s stomach with brutal precision. The blade sank deep, and the attacker froze, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. Rain streaked down his face as his knees buckled, the plank falling uselessly from his grip. With a sharp twist, the lone man wrenched the knife free, and the attacker collapsed, his body folding awkwardly at the impact.

Blood stained the ground in stark black streaks, the rain carrying it in rivulets toward the tracks. The lone man swayed slightly, his chest heaving, but he didn’t stop. He turned to the last attacker, who hesitated at the sight of his fallen comrades.

The third man, wiry and tense, gripped a rusted crowbar with both hands. His eyes darted between the bodies on the ground and the lone man standing before him. Doubt flickered across his face, but desperation quickly swallowed it. He yelled, his voice raw and guttural, before charging forward.

The crowbar swung wide, its jagged edge catching the lone man in the ribs. He staggered, a sharp cry escaping his lips as he clutched his side, blood seeping between his fingers. The attacker didn’t relent, swinging again, this time aiming lower. The metal struck just above the lone man’s knee with a hollow thud, forcing him to the ground. He dropped to one knee, the knife trembling in his grip as his blood mixed with the rain-soaked earth.

The attacker loomed over him, crowbar raised high for a final strike.

But the lone man wasn’t finished.

With a desperate surge of strength, he lunged upward, the knife flashing in a deadly arc. The blade plunged into the man’s chest just below the collarbone, stopping the crowbar mid-swing. The attacker gasped, his grip faltering, and the lone man pressed forward, wrenching the blade free and driving it across his throat in one fluid motion.

A crimson spray arced through the air, bright against the gray haze of the rain. The attacker stumbled back, his hands clawing at his throat as blood poured freely. He collapsed moments later, his body twitching once before going still.

The fight was over.

The lone man remained standing, though barely. His chest heaved with each labored breath, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his injuries. Blood seeped from the gashes in his sides, staining his coat and dripping onto the ground below. His arm hung limply, his shoulder clearly injured, but his fingers still clung to the knife as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Violet crouched lower in the grass, her entire body trembling. The scene before her was carnage—raw and unfiltered. Three bodies lay crumpled in the mud, their blood pooling in shallow streams that mingled with the rain. The sharp scent of iron hung heavy in the air, blending with the earthy dampness of the steppe.

The lone man staggered toward the tracks, his steps uneven and faltering. He dropped to his knees, his free hand pressing tightly against the fresh wound as though willing the bleeding to stop. His head hung low, his hair plastered to his face by the rain. His movements were heavy now, sluggish, as though the fight had drained every last reserve of his strength.

Then he collapsed.

The sound of his body hitting the ground was dull and final, his limbs splayed awkwardly as the rain began to pool around him.

For a moment, Violet remained frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced to process what she had just witnessed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, as though pulled by an invisible force, she rose from her hiding spot. Her legs were weak, unsteady beneath her, but she stepped forward, closer to the figure lying motionless in the mud. She dropped her basket in the mud, forgotten.

The closer she got, the heavier the air seemed to grow, thick with the scent of blood and rain. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling. Something about the way he had moved, the way he carried himself even through the brutality, stirred a faint, unsettling flicker of recognition deep within her chest.

Her hands hovered uncertainly, trembling as she debated what to do. The rain continued to fall, a cold, relentless drizzle that prickled against her skin and seeped into her bones. She couldn’t just leave him here—not like this. But she had no idea who he was or what kind of trouble he might bring.

Pushing the doubts aside, her fingers fumbled against the damp fabric of her skirt, and with a sharp tug, she tore a long strip from its hem. The sound of ripping fabric mingled with the steady rhythm of the rain.

The man remained unmoving, though his ragged, shallow breaths sent faint clouds of vapor into the chilly air. Violet pressed the cloth firmly against the wound in his side, her hands slipping on the rain-slickened fabric as she packed the makeshift dressing into place. Warmth bloomed beneath her palms— his blood, thick and hot against the cold rain—and it sent a shiver through her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rain, though she wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or herself. She pressed harder, wincing as more blood seeped through her makeshift bandage.

A low groan rumbled from the man’s chest, a faint and guttural sound that made her freeze. His head shifted slightly, his hair clinging to his face. When his eyes fluttered open, they caught her off guard—a startling, piercing blue that seemed to cut through the dim light. They fixed on her with a hazy intensity, unfocused yet searching, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice shaking as she leaned closer. “Can you hear me?”

His brow furrowed as though her words were distant or muffled, his gaze flickering as he tried to process her presence. Rainwater trickled down his face, mixing with the blood that streaked his jaw. He attempted to push himself up, his arm trembling under the effort, but his strength gave out almost immediately. He slumped back into the mud with a sharp grunt.

“Don’t move,” Violet said quickly, opening her umbrella and angling it to shield his face from the rain. The effort felt almost futile—both of them were already soaked to the bone—but it was all she could think to do. “You’re hurt. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

His lips parted, as if to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a ragged exhale. She wasn’t sure if he understood her, but she pressed on, her voice steady despite the frantic pounding of her heart.

“Do you think you can walk?” she asked, leaning closer to ensure he could hear her.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward the dark horizon, his breaths shallow and uneven. Then, with a faint, shaky nod, he signaled his answer.

“Alright,” Violet murmured, swallowing hard. “We’ll go slowly. I’ll help you.”

She slid an arm under his, bracing her shoulder against his ribs. The strain was immediate, his weight sagging heavily against her as she tried to lift him. He hissed in pain, his body trembling under the effort, but he didn’t resist her. Violet gritted her teeth, her boots sinking into the mud as she bore as much of his weight as she could manage.

“Come on,” she urged, her voice strained. “Just a little at a time.”

They moved in staggered, uneven steps, the journey feeling impossibly slow. The man’s legs barely held him, his knees buckling more than once. Each time, Violet pulled him back upright, her arms burning with the effort. Rain streamed down her face and the chill of the night gnawed at her,

He didn’t speak, though his shallow gasps were loud against her ear. She could feel the tremors wracking his body, the way his strength waned with every step. Her own legs ached, her muscles protesting under the weight, but she pushed forward, and after a while the distant outline of Lara’s manor finally flickered through the mist like a beacon.

“We’re almost there,” she whispered, though the words were as much for herself as for him. Her vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion pressing against her like a heavy weight, but the sight of the manor gave her just enough push to keep going.

The front steps rose before them like a salvation, but Violet’s body screamed with fatigue. With one last burst of effort, she half-carried, half-dragged the man to the door. The door burst open as she turned the handle, and she collapsed onto her knees, still trying to support the man’s weight.

“Lara!” she shouted, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Lara, please I need your help!”

The rain continued to fall, unrelenting, as Violet waited for the sound of footsteps. She glanced back at the man, his face pale and streaked with blood. His eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow and uneven, and a pang of fear struck her chest.

“Hold on,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she gripped his arm tightly.

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