Favian surfaced from sleep slowly, like a man clawing his way up through deep waters. For a brief moment, he felt weightless and untouched by pain. Morning light slanted through the shutters and he blinked at the familiar ceiling and frowned, unsure where, or who he was supposed to be.

  Then he tried to move.

  Pain lanced through his chest so sharply he hissed aloud. His breath felt like a blade scraping bone. The night before rushed back in pieces— the woods, the Rageler, the fight and Darius shouting his name. And also, the truth they had buried so quickly.

  He lay still, breathing through clenched teeth.

  After a moment, he turned his head and scanned the room. No one. The door stood slightly ajar, with a breeze slipping through it. He licked his dry lips and attempted to raise his voice.

  “Kriger,” he rasped.

  No answer.

  He tried again, louder, but his guide answered instead, in the hollow of his mind.

  >>Darius sat beside you until dawn. He left only moments before you woke.<<

  Favian exhaled. So Darius had kept watch.

  He braced an arm against the mattress and attempted to sit up. Fire surged beneath his ribs and he groaned. His teeth gritted with his fingers, clawing at the sheets.

  Just then the door swung open.

  Catherine stepped inside carrying a folded cloth and a bowl of cool water balanced on her hip.

  “Oh… thank the heavens,” she gasped, face brightening. “You’re awake!” She said with relief.

  She hurried to his side and placed the bowl on a low stool.

  “Lie back, lie back,” she insisted gently, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You’re in no state to stand, much less walk. You need rest, Favian.”

  He let her ease him down, though frustration held in his face. Rest was a luxury truth-bearers rarely could afford. Even breathing seemed to take more strength than he wanted to give.

  “Where is Kriger?” he murmured.

  Catherine wrung out the cloth, placing it cool across his forehead.

  “He and Nathan went to the market,” she answered. “Meredith too. They needed herbs and bandages. Supplies for your recovery.”

  Favian snorted, not in amusement, but in something close to irritation. So Darius left?

  With careful patience, Catherine slid an arm behind his back and lifted him. She propped him upright, layering pillows behind him until he rested comfortably, if not painlessly.

  “There,” she said, smoothing the blanket over his lap. “Better?”

  “A little,” he admitted.

  Catherine brushed her hands against her apron.

  “I made chicken soup,” she told him warmly. “Rich and spiced. It will help your strength return.” She moved toward the door but paused in the frame. “I’ll bring it in just a moment. Try not to move too much while I’m gone.”

  As Catherine’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Favian let out a slow breath, wincing as his ribs tightened. The room, though small, felt suddenly large.

  His Guide’s voice murmured through the quiet.

  >>She is kind, Favian. You chose well coming here.<<

  Favian scoffed under his breath, shifting slightly though the movement sent fresh pain scraping along his chest.

  “They’re kind now,” he muttered. “But that kindness would vanish the moment they learned what I am. What we are. Nathan would put a knife to my throat before I could explain myself, and his wife wouldn’t hesitate to help him hold me down.”

  His tone sharpened with bitterness. “And worse still, we’re living under the roof of a family close to a Valiant.”

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  His Guide did not flinch at the venom in the words. Instead, the voice came back patient and unbothered.

  >>You are right to fear them. Hatred of Truthers still runs deep.

  But even so, you chose well. Nathan knows medicine. That knowledge kept your heart beating long enough for dawn to find you.<<

  Favian frowned. The memory of being carried into the house, his blood soaking Darius’ shoulder… all flashed faintly behind his eyes. He recalled rough hands turning gentle, a voice urging him to stay awake, the sting of herbs pressed into torn flesh.

  He sighed. “Then we were fortunate. If only we had some portion of the mend, this injury would be easy work.”

  With quiet curiosity, his Guide replied:

  >>Kriger did not seem to suffer nearly as badly.<<

  Favian nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the shuttered window.

  “He was scratched by the Rageler. Deep. Across the chest, just like me.” He raised a hand to his bandaged ribs, feeling the throb beneath his fingers. “But the moment he lifted that cursed blade, he healed. It was as if the wound had never touched him.”

  >>Then perhaps the sword mended him<< the Guide observed.

  >> A weapon with power like that may be worth—<<

  Favian cut the thought short. “The man who held that blade before Darius…” His expression darkened. “He withered. Diseased. The sword devoured him. It saved one life only to rot another.”

  Favian leaned back into the pillows with his eyes haunted by the memory of that blade’s black gleam, replicating in Darius’ eye sockets.

  “A weapon that grants healing by feeding death,” he murmured. “That is no blessing. It’s a curse wearing armour.”

  Before his Guide could answer, footsteps broke in the corridor. Favian straightened with pain, as the door slid open.

  Catherine stepped inside with quiet care, balancing a small wooden tray in her hands. A bowl of steaming chicken soup rested upon it, fragrant and warm enough to mist the cold morning air.

  “Oh...” Relief exhaled through her voice. “I thought I heard you speaking. Were you… talking to someone?”

  Favian forced his posture into ease, though his ribs protested sharply. “Just myself,” he lied smoothly, offering a faint, unbothered shrug. “Complaining, mostly. I feel rather useless lying here while Nathan does all the work in the market.”

  Catherine clicked her tongue gently, compassion softening her face as she came to his bedside. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You nearly died last night.” She set the tray down on the small table beside him, rearranging the spoon and cloth as if the order of objects might somehow bring healing.

  Steam curled upward between them.

  “You need time to mend,” she continued. “No man should expect strength overnight.”

  She reached for the bowl, lifting it carefully. “Here… let me feed you. You’ve lost a great deal of blood, it may be hard to—”

  Favian raised a hand, shaking his head with a disarming smile. “I appreciate the kindness truly, but I can manage. A moment to let it cool is all I need. I’d hate for you to sit here fussing over me when I have two hands of my own.”

  Her lips parted as if to protest, then she hesitated. At last she sighed lightly and set the bowl back on the tray, though not without a mother’s reluctance.

  “All right,” she conceded softly. “But only if you promise not to push yourself.”

  “I promise,” Favian replied with a tone gentle enough to sound sincere.

  Catherine stood, smoothing her apron as she moved toward the door. “If you need anything, truly anything, just call. I’ll be within earshot.”

  Favian inclined his head. “Thank you. I will.”

  But as Catherine turned to leave, tray in hand, something unexpected flared… a pulse of light beneath the blanket.

  Favian felt it before he saw it, a warmth blooming against his wrist like a brand awakening. A flash of gold shimmered through the linen folds, bright enough to cast faint colours across the room.

  His breath caught. Not now. He protested in his mind.

  He clenched his jaw, and with pain slicing through his chest, he yanked a thicker blanket over his wrist just as Catherine halted in her tracks. For a heartbeat, Favian concluded that the glow had betrayed him.

  Catherine slowly turned back, but her gaze drifted past him, toward the far corner near the washbasin.

  “Oh… those clothes,” she murmured, distracted.

  Favian forced himself still, forcing calm into his expression even as sweat prickled across his brow. Catherine crossed the room, stooped, and picked up the blood-stained tunic from last night, the one Darius had helped him peel off when they returned.

  It was heavy with mud and darker stains, but she said nothing. The woman merely folded it over her arm and headed for the door again.

  “I’ll have these washed,” she said gently. “Rest well, Favian.”

  The door shut behind her with the softest click. Favian waited a while for safety. When he was certain she was gone, he lifted the blanket again.

  The glow was fading, but not gone. Around his wrist lay something that had never been there before— a band of plated gold, so polished it caught light even in day. Embedded across its circumference, seven hexagonal gemstones glimmered, each a different hue:

  Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet. Seven colours and Seven stones.

  Favian’s mouth loosened in awe and unease.

  “What is this?” he whispered beneath his breath.

  His Guide’s voice answered at once.

  >>A message from the unknown<< it said.

  >>The Truthers must begin preparations. The cycle moves, as it always has. The Era of the Profane draws near— and your time is no longer slow.<<

  Favian stared at the band. The unknown had sent them a message. Time was no longer on their side.