The next day Lee Heston strolled into the office, late as usual. He waved a lazy greeting, his salutations half-hearted. Giles, stewing in impatience, met him with a stare of stone. With hardly a word, he shoved a stack of dusty files into Heston’s arms and ushered him toward the archives. His fingers twitched toward the lock, but he held back.

  Freed from the archives’ monotony, Giles claimed a field day. He volunteered to complete an integrity inspection of Cujo's Crossing, a task so dull it almost begged for a hand other than his own—Tennyson or Vashe was far more suited. But Giles had no intention of actually inspecting the bridge. He planned to tick a few boxes, fudge a few numbers, scribble a report, and spend the time pursing his true purpose: a quiet and unauthorised investigation into the matter of strife.

  Virgil made no objection. “It's about due,” was all he said, then returned to his papers.

  Giles left the office promptly, the door creaking shut behind him. It was a cool morning, the road still wet from last night’s rain, a welcome reprieve from yesterday’s heat.

  He set off towards Cujo’s Crossing. Beyond the river, the baron’s copper mine loomed—a fortress of rust and smoke.

  The bridge was a relic, its ironwood planks darkened by time. For centuries it had withstood wind, storm, and flood. It spanned the Greenbank just before it flowed into the Enki River, a crossing between Othilia and the mines, between the living and the labouring, between the present and the past.

  Giles stood on the bridge, kicking at the timeworn wood. The bubbling of the waters below was drowned by the hum and grind of the mine, a sound so constant it had become the voice of the valley itself.

  He leaned on the rail and looked toward the bluff townside where there stood the ruins of an old farmhouse, its broken walls under the clutch of creeping vines. They had stood since Giles was a child. Countless times had he and Miles played there, battling an imaginary enemy or searching for a dragon’s hoard. That was before the fire, before the curse of strife brought doom upon their father—in the mists of time that are but a dream for a man with a child of his own.

  A horse-drawn caravan clattered down from the mines, driven by an old crone whose grey hair hadn’t met a brush in a decade. On the side of her caravan in faded white paint read COFFEE, TEA & BISCUITS. The wheels squealed with each rotation, and the horse was as grey and weary as the crone who held her reins.

  The crone leered at Giles as she approached, her eyes narrowing with the disdain of one who had little patience for youth. Giles raised a hand in greeting, bid her a polite good morning.

  The crone did not return the pleasantries. Instead, she pulled the reins slightly, slowing her pace. “Have you nothing better to do, young man? Standing here looking busy. It is all you Guardians do.”

  Giles brushed off the words easily—the sharpness worn smooth by years of repetition.

  “When you need us, ma’am, we will come.”

  “Well, my caravan needs an axle replaced, has a leak to patch, and could use a new coat of paint.”

  “For that, I’d recommend the wainwright,” Giles replied dryly.

  Sincerely unimpressed, the old crone—called the coffee lady by much of the town—muttered curses under her breath, her words dissolving into grumbles about taxes and wasted resources as the caravan creaked past. Giles watched her go, her complaints blending into the drone of the mines.

  Alone again, Giles turned his gaze upstream. For a time he watched the running of the river, the sun glistening on the surface, the splash of water against half-sunken stones. The view was peaceful, marred only slightly by the great towers and chimneys of the copper mine on the foothills. His entire life he had lived in this valley; and although great anguish had been the lot of his childhood, there was no other place in the world that Giles would call home.

  He declared his inspection of Cujo’s Crossing complete. His final assessment: the bridge had stood this long, and would stand a while longer yet.

  He crossed the bridge back toward Othilia, and made for the General Store to seek counsel with his brother.

  Miles was the proprietor of the Othilia General Store.

  Though the elder, he and Giles were often mistaken for twins—spit from the same mouth. Yet Miles’s flesh was marked by the tragedy, that in Giles, dwelled only in his heart. His arms and the side of his face were a map of pale scars, carved by the fire that devoured their childhood home. His five o'clock shadow touched only the left side of his face. The other side never darkened with stubble.

  They had grown up together in a cottage on the outskirts of town, now reduced to ash. The firestorm had obliterated both house and memory, their possessions devoured by the flames, their mother burning alive. It was a black day in Othilia; but the brothers had survived. Miles had dragged Giles from the flames, through choking smoke and falling embers.

  They emerged with nothing but singed clothes, a few charred books—The Purple Oliphant among them—and the bond of brotherhood. Together, though only children, they scraped out an existence as Othilia’s orphans.

  They built a ramshacke refuge from what remained of the burned cottage and whatever scraps they could scavenge from the town—a leaning shelter of warped boards and an old blanket that barely halted the wind.

  To fill their bellies—or at least dull the hunger—they scavenged riverbanks for fish too small for market, stole eggs from unwatched coops, and, when desperation pressed, begged in the streets for whatever coin pity would spare.

  As the months and years wore on, they worked odd jobs for little pay: scraping shit from stable floors, hauling sacks of flour, or mending fences in the blistering heat.

  Each night they shared their spoils, whether meagre or mild, sharing a crust of bed or a handful of foraged berries.

  Yet together, they survived. This was their history.

  And so it came to pass that Miles won himself a job stacking shelves at the General Store. The pay was little, but steady; and they could soon afford to rent a room in the backstreets of Othilia. A year later, Giles descended into the mines in search of wealth.

  By the time Virgil led him from the dark tunnels under the mountains, Miles had become the proprietor; for Giles had used the riches won from his toil to purchase the deed for his brother. Miles had fought against the proposition, insisting his brother’s money was now his own, that Giles owed him nothing; but Giles had insisted. And when Miles did not relent, Giles arranged the sale directly with the old proprietor, and at long last, won Miles his freedom.

  "So you do still know I exist."

  Miles leaned over the cluttered counter, his brows raised.

  Giles grinned. "I've been busy."

  Miles rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. They clasped hands, then abandoned formality, embracing with the fierce warmth only brothers or lifelong friends understand.

  "It's good to see you, brother," Miles said, clapping Giles on the back.

  "You know, the office isn’t far—you could drop by sometime."

  "I've tried," Miles said, snorting. He leaned back with folded arms. "You're never there!"

  Giles shrugged. "I like the fresh air. You should try it sometime. You're stuck in this cave all day—you're starting to look pasty."

  "We can't all earn a living from pointless busywork, my dear brother. I have to work for my dues."

  "Oh, yes, it must be so hard." Giles grinned mockingly. "Owning your house, a horse, and your business. Truly, you’re the most destitute son of a bitch I’ve ever known."

  Miles laughed.

  They bucked back and forth for a short while, throwing half-baked insults as brothers do. There wasn’t a hint of malice in their words, but a warmth woven with unspoken gratitude. Eventually, Miles offered to close the store for an hour so they could share a meal.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Think you can brave the sunshine? I wouldn't want my brother to burn."

  His grin softened, his scars catching the light. “I burned once for you, Giles. And I’d burn again.” The words were lightly spoken, but they were forged with the hammer of truth.

  For while the pain of the night they lost their mother was buried deep in the mists of time, their bond endured, as strong as iron.

  At the Heron’s Blessing they ordered beef pies and pints of spirit. They spoke of many things, their conversation drifting from idle gossip to half-forgotten memories, their words punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses.

  The exact nature of their palaver remains their own. Words shared between brothers, when their concern is only each other—be they spoken in levity or in truth—never travel far.

  Yet through the meal, a whisper of cinnamon plagued Giles. It was not the same stench that had plumed from the pouch he had found yesterday afternoon. No—this was subtler, like the sour stink of rot threading through a crack in a window. Distant and fleeting; it teased his senses, lingering on the edge of his awareness, refusing to leave him in peace. Whenever Miles wasn’t looking, Giles scanned the room, his thoughts drifting into suspicion.

  But as the phantom scent stoked both his anger and his unease, Miles’ laughter—loud, bold, and full of heart—threw water on the rising embers. Giles smiled, let the scent come and go, and raised his glass.

  The time slipped by, lasting a trifle longer than either intended. But there was no regret, no worry for lost hours. This was long overdue.

  When they returned to the General Store, and their voices had wound down to quiet baritones, the warmth of their fraternity gave way to a mounting tension inside Giles. And before they said goodbye, Giles unloaded his burden.

  "I'm not supposed to tell you this," Giles began, his voice heavy with sudden fatigue.

  "Then you probably shouldn't."

  Giles ignored him. “It’s not even under investigation. Virgil refuses. Says to leave it alone. If he catches me snooping, he’ll string me up by my toes.”

  Miles’s countenance darkened. "Giles. Please. Don't do this."

  Giles couldn’t meet his brother’s eye. "Yesterday I found strife."

  "The demon spice?" His voice was dry, his nerves frayed.

  Giles nodded grimly. "Not a whiff of it in ten years, and now here it is again."

  "Where did you find it?"

  "At an abandoned campsite by the Enki river. My guess is some kids were trying to be daring. I've not heard a whisper of delirium, and no mother has come forward crying about her son gone mad—not yet. What worries me is how they got it; and whether its roots are running through the town."

  "You're sure it was strife?"

  "It was." Giles bit his lip. "I'll never forget that stench."

  Miles nodded slowly. "Fair enough. So why are you telling me?"

  "I have to tell someone."

  Miles leaned back against the door, crossing his arms. "Are you accusing me?"

  "God's burning flesh, Miles, no! You're a saint. You made me read from the Good Book every damn night. I'd sooner see you smuggling slaves, because at least slaves have a chance to be free. I just thought—maybe—you might have heard something?"

  "And kept it from you? Come on, Giles. You know me better."

  “I don’t know anything anymore.” Giles sighed, looking dismayed. "I can't shake the feeling this town is under threat. There's a stash here. I can smell it. And I'm gonna find it. But I need help. Because I haven't the first idea where to look."

  "You're the guardian, I'm but a merchant."

  "You also know everybody in this town," Giles insisted. "And you're a hell of a lot smarter than me, always have been. And what is more, I trust you."

  Miles fished his keys from his pocket, his fingers fidgeting with them. "What do you want me to do? I haven't seen anything suspicious. But I haven't been looking." He found the right key, jammed it in the lock, then slapped his palm against the door in frustration. "Dammit, Giles! Why are you dragging me into this? If the Baron knew—"

  "Miles, I need my brother."

  The words hung in the air. Miles stared at Giles, frowning. "Why doesn't Virgil want you looking into this?"

  Giles shrugged. He opened his mouth but said nothing.

  "It's not him is it?"

  "Virgil?" Giles shook his head. "No, not him, no way. That man is lawful. He was forged by iron. The Dark Lord would sooner return before Virgil took to the Shadow."

  Miles cracked the lock, and the grinding of old metal filled their ears. He pushed open the door, revealing a large storage room packed with enough dry goods and supplies to feed one man fifty long winters. He leaned an arm against the doorframe, like a statue poised in perpetual thought.

  "So I ask again, why doesn't he trust you to handle this?"

  Giles frowned, his frustration growing. "He doesn't want to cause a panic. He thinks it’s isolated—probably brought in by some hawker from Calla Lily or beyond the hills."

  "And what if he’s right?"

  Giles clenched his jaw. "And what if he's not?"

  "Ask me as a member of this town, and I'll say let it go, trust in your Chief Commander. You’ve found a hammer, but no nail. You can’t just go around hitting everything until you find one."

  "I’m not asking as a Guardian. I’m asking as your brother. I won’t let my daughter grow up on tainted soil."

  “I get it, Giles, I do,” Miles said. “I know what strife did to our father. It’s an abomination. You have a good heart, brother. The Light is strong in you. But I don't want you getting hurt.”

  "I won't. But if you won't help, I’ll do it alone."

  Miles let out a sharp breath, shook his head. He couldn't abide his brother’s unflappable determination, his arrogance, though he knew he couldn't talk him out of it. Giles was going to march forward whether there be fire or storm or terror in his path; so rather than watch his little brother brave the struggle alone, Miles relented—against his better will.

  "Look—I’m just thinking out loud, but … Assuming the absolute worst—if there is someone in Othilia hoarding strife, they are covering their tracks with the utmost vigilance. It must be someone with resources, someone with connections, someone with enough foresight to plan against a potential insurrection. Someone who stands to profit from the ruin of others. You can't go straight for the source. Even if you found it, it wouldn't be safe. You'll have to take the long road."

  "And what road is that?"

  "Think about it,” Miles said. “They're going to need supplies coming in, right? And if they're producing enough, they need to move the strife out. Guardian Force oversees the town's imports and exports. Who’s your lead inspector?"

  “Vashe Martin,” Giles said, his brow furrowing.

  "Watch him. Either Vashe isn't doing his job, out of laziness or a lack of oversight—that is no slight on you, brother, but you know well what I think of your department. Either that, or he's covering for the farm.

  "If you really want my advice—and if, mark my words well brother, we assume the utter and unequivocal worst—then Vashe is your start. Check his reports. Watch his movements. Oversee his inspections. And for the love of the Light—stay quiet. Watch, but do not act. If Vashe be the culprit, he’ll slip up. They always do."

  Giles nodded, the fire in his eyes undimmed. "Thank you, Miles."

  Miles placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Just promise me, Giles—promise you’ll be careful.”

  “I will,” Giles said, his voice steady.

  But even as he spoke, Miles felt the unease settle between them. Like clouds that blot the sun before heavy rain, the shadow of Giles’s ambition fell upon the Durant brothers. Miles knew well the fire that burned in Giles’s heart. It was a fire that could illuminate, but it could also consume. Miles felt his own resolve waver.

  Silently, he uttered a prayer, ancient and familiar: Lord Wind, shepherd my brother toward the Light. Keep him safe from the Shadow he chases, and the Shadow that follows.

  Giles walked down the high street, a thunderclap of thoughts clashing in his mind. His brother’s steady warnings and the Chief Commander’s stern commands for patience reverberated like a great drum; but both were drowned out by the roar of his own unyielding determination. The demon spice was here, and left unchecked, the roots of the anbus would seep into Othilia’s soil, spread beneath foundation stones, and seize the entire town in its vile clutch. Waiting felt like surrender; caution, complicity.

  Along the high street a scatter of townsfolk were going about their day, although the drowsiness and languor of mid-afternoon business had settled upon Othilia. The clanging hammer of the blacksmith echoed from the corner. Behind a cart half-laden with vegetables the merchant sat on a crate in the shade, smoking a cigarette. Children darted between shop and stall, their laughter ringing like the chirping of birds. A dog barked near the butcher shop, tail wagging in anticipation of scraps. The aroma of roasted corn wafted through the air, mingling with the smell of iron and dust.

  Giles stopped at an intersection, his boots scuffing the road. The town swirled around him.

  To the left, the road led toward Vashe Martin’s house—the home of his first person of interest. To the right, the road led home, where Clementine and Aurora were likely tending to the garden as Aurora told her mother what she had learned that day—a cherished ritual.

  Giles started down the left road, his heart pounding. His brother’s voice came to him, soft but insistent: Watch, but do not act. Then Virgil’s voice, firm and final: Sometimes you must wait, even if waiting is the last thing you want to do.

  Giles was grinding his teeth. Patience was not his way. He could not wait while shadows gathered. He took a step toward Vashe’s house, the road groaning under the weight of his resolve.

  A sudden gust tore the lily from his jacket. The pale flower tumbled through the air, delicate and weightless, carried down the road to the right. Toward home.

  Giles froze. He watched as the lily settled in the dust. In that moment, Othilia seemed to still—the clamour of the market faded, the hammering of the blacksmith ceased, and even the voices in his head went quiet. An otherworldly calm washed over him.

  With a deep breath, Giles turned on his heel and went in the direction of home. The fire within still smouldered. But he resolved to heed the words of those he deemed wiser; to bide his time; to watch and to wait.

  For now.

  Coming up in Chapter 6…

  A porcelain bowl.

  A memory of Fairyland, and the monster that waits beyond the veil.

  Othilia is bleeding. And silence will not stop the rot.

  Chapter 6: A Widow’s Grief

  Coming next Thursday.

  Not all dreams are mercy. Some are traps.