Kael shifted under the warm sheets. His back pushed against something softer, so much softer than the broken pavement of his shelter. For the briefest instant, he enjoyed the wonderful hard mattress. Then, it struck him. Mattress. Wrong!
He jerked his chest up. Instead of scanning the room, he gripped his forehead. Spots of light mottled his vision. His breath came out ragged, and a low ringing sound whistled in his ears.
Don't panic. With long inhales, the white spots dimmed into darkness, and the ringing faded.
Soft fabric brushed his fingers. Someone had bandaged his forehead. He also reeked with the stench of ointment. Els?
He turned his head slowly this time. Her auburn hair spread on the red cushion on his right. Tonio took his left, coiled over the blanket in his rat-man body.
His shoulders relaxed, and memories filtered through the haze of his awakening. We met Marc, who ran off to work mid-talk. We're safe. For now.
A painful grumble from his stomach confirmed it. Eat first. Since he couldn't leave the bed from any side, he left it the way he had joined it; he slid under the sheet.
The bed creaked as a navy-blue carpet tickled the soles of his feet. Tonio shifted. When he stilled, Kael looked for his shoes. He found them beside the bed, with their twelve arrows neatly arranged on their blankets. Els' basket rested on a flat, knee-high rock, with his bloodied shirt tucked between a half-closed can of ointment and Joss' machetes.
He ran his hand over his greasy skin. She shouldn't have wasted it, but his chest warmed when he looked at her face. He picked and buttoned his shirt, then tiptoed to the door.
His muscles ached even though he didn't feel exhausted, so he traced the wall and walked down the stairs.
The living room was as cold as this morning; the lamps were as unlit, too.
Something stirred in the dark, and a playful voice cut his observation short.
"Awake at last?" Marc pushed himself from his seat at the table. "Thought you never would."
Kael rolled his eyes. "Say you thought I'd die. Wait... you're back already?"
Marc blew on his fingernails. "Already? It's two in the morning, lad. And if you ever plan to die, please do it outside. Last thing I want is for my poor bedsheets to reek of death."
Kael clicked his tongue. "A stench as unpleasant as your jokes. I'm too starved to entertain you." He moved to the kitchen, but paused at the door. "Still, thank you for taking us in."
"Your and Els' parents were good people; it doesn't make us close enough for me to shelter you." Marc massaged his brow on his way to the stairs. "We'll talk when you're all awake tomorrow. Your plate's on the counter."
Kael leaned toward the stairs. Marc was already gone.
"Stuck-up," snorting, he entered the kitchen.
The soft glow of dying coals from the fireplace brightened the room. He didn't see his plate. He smelled it—cold grilled meat and something else. His body moved instinctively to the counter. The fork glowed in the coal light, its surface ignored or unseen.
Instead, Kael wolfed down the white meat with his bare fingers. The first taste widened his eyes. After the second, he couldn't stop himself before he devoured it whole.
Why was this meat different? It reminded him of the leftover chicken he had in the sewers, but a hundred times fresher, and salted. Salt!
Creamy mashed potatoes and mushrooms vanished into his mouth. All salted. How much did Marc earn at the factory to own a two-story house covered in carpets and still have enough to waste a king's dish on him?
His eyes trailed to two other plates, and the voices of Edwin, Walter, and Ben resurfaced from old memories.
"Why's that bastard flaunting his wealth in Ashcoil Row?" Edwin had groaned.
"Because they forgot to hammer the last nail of his brain." Walter had spat in front of Marc's house.
Ben had simply shrugged. "The air's much more breathable in the central district. Let him stay. He'll die in the same dirt as us in the end."
Kael frowned. No matter how he looked at it, Marc's earnings didn't make sense, at least not compared to other factory workers, who didn't own half as much as he did.
With his stomach full, his sluggish thoughts picked up. This morning's warning, the tokens, a ninth god, and the unusual use of "we" when he recounted a history of the slums Kael had never heard of.
Everything was far too off about Marc. He should be around thirty-seven. Yet, between today and ten years ago, Kael couldn't make out the shadow of a wrinkle on his thin face.
Would be weird for him to know about truths without having one. He ages more slowly?We... as if he had fought for the concessions he told us about. How old is he? He rubbed his chin for a moment. Then, he licked his plate and put it on the counter. Don't know enough to guess. I'll ask. He'll likely refuse to answer.
With a shrug, he grabbed a canteen of fresh water and sank into a steel chair. Not the junk ones he was used to, but real, studded steel. He washed the taste of the sauce down, his eyes on the ledger hovering beside him. My new truth matters more.
The ethereal cover of the ledger hardened between his hands. Leather that smelled of an ancient beast, etched with interlocking arabesques, pressed against his fingers. He flipped to the first page. No more entries about unowned truths. They had been pushed to the second page. Two truths woven in sky-blue ink replaced them.
✦ Truth of Endurance ✦
────────────────────────────
Core: I persist
Anchor: Memory of Nes—
────────────────────────────
Stress on Anchor: 8̸5%
Risk of breaki—
────────────────────────────
Cost: Cannot voluntarily yield
Price: The warmth from the memori—
────────────────────────────
"The ink... Eighty-five per cent..."
His sharp inhale reverberated like a hiss blown on the crackling coal. He had felt the anchor crack when he had no choice but to anchor his second truth. A second crack won't only yield corrupted texts. He—Kael—would be gone, replaced by an anchor-ghast. Not dead. Not himself either. Just something...
Never!
A chill worse than winter's coldest night seemed to seep into his bones. No more stress for weeks. Perhaps even longer, and percent by percent.
He wrapped his arms around his chest. It didn't warm him at all. Eventually, his eyes trailed to his second truth.
✦ Truth of the Gutter-Serpent's Speed ✦
────────────────────────────
Core: The first strike is the only one that matters.
Anchor: Memory of Tonio's teachings.
────────────────────────────
Stress on Anchor: 30%
Risk of breaking: Low
────────────────────────────
Price: Exhaustion crash
────────────────────────────
Warmth somewhat returned to his bones. He chose what the truth took from him this time. Could it be called a loss, though? It was more of a recurring price to use his truth. Fine by him. No, excellent.
Although annoying, exhaustion was manageable if he used the truth strategically, and he could try mutating it. After endurance, of course. In the meantime, he'd slowly raise the stress in preparation.
"Mhh?" Midway into closing the ledger, his eyes narrowed on something odd about the truth of the Gutter-Serpent's speed. "A line's missing. Where is the cost?"
Now that he thought about it, the cost of endurance didn't make that much sense in the first place. Yield? Him? Ha! Even the spawn in the corrosive lake didn't make him give up, even if remembering its massive tentacles and how it had called him with the voice of his mom still made him shiver...
Either way, if it was a cost, he had never felt its weight. Perhaps it was the trait that made him compatible with endurance?
"I'll have the answer if I survive long enough to anchor a third truth that'll fight the first two to tear me apart." He chuckled as he let go of the ledger.
It instantly turned ethereal and hovered beside him, a silent witness waiting to record what he'd become. Something told him that it would have food to write soon.
Marc, however old he was, must have studied truths. He certainly knew more than an exiled priest who lied about having gold. Might even know how to mutate truths.
If he were so kind as to answer, that is.
Did he have any leverage to force him? Not really. The man didn't consider his parents' friendships enough to shelter him, so sharing his secrets... unlikely.
He closed his eyes and pinched his nose. Pointless staying awake. He'd ask first thing tomorrow morning and hope for the best.
With a sigh, he crept to the first floor. He passed the bedroom and went to the room he had always liked most in Marc's extravagant house.
More than his carpets and broad kitchen, it was perhaps the most glaring mark of his wealth: the latrines. That stuck-up had a whole pipe system to evacuate shit. Seriously, it was impressive, and he even kept water to wipe himself. At least he wouldn't have to do it in an alley.
Once done with his business, he slid back between Els and Tonio and closed his eyes. Before his twentieth breath, he was already asleep with a full stomach and questions simmering in his mind.