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  Chapter 14: That Ends Well

  Sam pressed himself against the cool stone, just beneath the worn stairs leading up to the tavern’s main level. The boards overhead creaked under slow, deliberate steps. Two voices floated down; low, purposeful, and trying not to be overheard.

  He held his breath and strained to listen. “…Ruwan said he’d cleaned up the mess. No traces left in the garden,” one voice murmured; a woman’s, sharp-edged with an accent he couldn’t place.

  “And the boy?” asked the other, a gruff male voice, older. “He looked half-dead when they dragged him in.”

  “He’s more valuable alive. For now. The poison was just to keep him disoriented. It’s supposed to keep him weak for another day at least.”

  “You sure it’s working?”

  “Hard to tell with his kind. He hasn’t shown any… obvious symptoms. Just looked dazed when we checked in. Like he’s not all there.”

  “Then good. That’s exactly how we want him.” The footsteps shifted. A low door creaked somewhere overhead, then shut with a muffled thud.

  Silence returned.

  Sam waited in the hush that followed, heart pounding, counting the seconds until he was sure the two had moved on. When the quiet held, he moved.

  He crept up the worn stairs one step at a time, careful to place each footfall on the outer edges of the wood, where the planks groaned less. The smell of damp ale and old stone thickened as he ascended, mingling with smoke and food drifting down from above.

  At the top of the stairs, he paused just shy of the doorframe, crouching low. The faint light of the tavern spilled into the hallway, flickering orange against the walls. He could make out shadows moving; two figures seated at a corner table in the far side of the room, mostly obscured by a hanging curtain and shelves of dusty bottles.

  The woman leaned forward, her face mostly hidden by a dark hood. Her voice was still low but clearer now. “…he doesn’t know what he is. That’s the point. He doesn’t even know what he took.” The man grunted. “We were lucky he didn’t drop dead. You saw how fast it took hold.”

  “It was supposed to confuse him, not kill him. Whatever’s in his blood; ” she paused, fingers drumming on the table, “; it reacted. Not how I.. , but it’s. We need to… him longer.”

  “Not too long. You know Ruwan doesn’t like loose ends.”

  “Neither do I.” The curtain fluttered slightly with the breeze from an open window. Sam pressed himself closer to the wall, a shadow in a corner of deeper shadows. They didn’t know. Not about the veins. Not about the vine. Not about what had changed inside him, whatever it is, and that gave him time. Time to learn more. Time to escape. Time to decide what to do with the thing waking beneath his skin.

  Sam pulled back from the doorframe, breath tight in his lungs. Every instinct screamed to run; but he moved slow. Controlled. Silent.

  He descended the steps one at a time, ears tuned to every creak. The voices above continued, muffled by distance and wood. He reached the bottom and paused, listening. No footsteps followed. No shouts. Just the faint clatter of dice and laughter echoing from the chamber where the guards were still indulging themselves.

  Good.

  He turned down the passage, hugging the walls. The corridor twisted, dim and close, the stone damp beneath his fingers. He passed crates, broken chairs, old barrels; junk long forgotten. The air grew colder the farther he moved, and the scent of mildew thickened.

  Then, just ahead: a sliver of light. He approached carefully, crouching low. The light spilled from a cracked door. He pressed one eye to the gap. A stairwell. Narrow. Crumbling. Leading up.

  He tried the handle. Unlocked. One last glance over his shoulder; no sounds behind him; then he opened the door just enough to slide through.

  He climbed, heart thudding in his ears, until the hallway behind disappeared in shadow. And then, faintly, he heard it: the dull hum of street noise. Carriage wheels. Voices. He was close. Freedom might be just ahead.

  The hall emptied into a cramped storeroom, dim and rank with the smell of root vegetables, damp burlap, and dust long undisturbed. Sam slipped through the doorway, his breath shallow, each step careful. Shadows crouched between crates and sacks stacked to the ceiling. A faint lantern glow from a slit in the wall barely illuminated the far side, where a crooked door sagged on rusted hinges.

  Something tugged at him as he neared it; intuition or instinct, he wasn’t sure. He pushed it open slowly, hinges groaning like they hadn’t moved in months. Inside, a tiny closet, its walls pressed close and air stale. On the back wall, garments hung like slumped ghosts; kitchen aprons, a moth-eaten shawl, a rain-slicker stained with old oil.

  And then; his eyes settled on it. A moss-green cloak, thick-weaved and heavy, the fabric dulled with age but still whole. It hung with a peculiar presence, almost like it was waiting for him. The hood was long and deep, perfect for shadowing his face. His fingers, shaking with exhaustion and the strange buzzing under his skin, brushed the edge of the fabric. It was cool to the touch; damp, but clean. Beneath the scent of cedar and earth, there lingered something sharper: crushed herbs and bitter smoke.

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  He hesitated. Was this theft? Would someone come looking? But then his eyes flicked to his arm; the veins pulsing bright beneath his skin, glowing just faintly now that the exertion had settled. No. I don’t have time for guilt. I need to move.

  He pulled the cloak from its hook, swinging it around his shoulders and fastened the clasp. The weight of it settled over him like a second skin; comforting, anonymous. The hood fell forward easily. He pulled it low. And then he opened the side door, stepped into the night, and didn’t look back.

  The cold hit him like a slap. The night was alive; full of movement, light, and distant music. He stood for a moment in a narrow alley framed by brick and cracked plaster, letting his eyes adjust. Ichi City’s streets were close, twisted, full of bends and unexpected openings. Lanterns flickered from iron poles and overhanging signs, casting a flickering orange glow on the slick stones.

  Sam leaned against the wall to steady himself. The city swam in front of him. His legs still felt unsteady, like he might crumple if he stepped too quickly. But the air smelled like life; sour and vivid and real.

  Then; voices. “He’s gone!” Boots scraped stone. Shouts carried. “Down that way; check the alley!” Sam’s chest tightened. They’re already looking. I don’t have much time.

  He ducked around the corner, slipping into a thin passage between buildings. Laundry flapped above his head. Somewhere, a dog barked. He kept moving, each step a strain, pressing himself into shadow wherever he could.

  The city blurred as he passed; doorways, window shutters, the perfume of baked bread mixing with the sharp tang of smoke. Lanterns cast long shadows that danced with each gust of wind.

  Don’t run. Blend in. Act like you belong. But that was harder than it sounded. His cloak gave him cover, but his gait was off; unbalanced, like something was wrong beneath the surface of his skin.

  It was. Beneath the fabric of his tunic, the green veins throbbed again. Not visibly glowing, not yet, but hot; alive. They curled up his shoulder, crept down his chest. He could feel them squirming like a second pulse beneath his own. Keep it together.

  He stumbled into a forgotten courtyard tucked behind a line of closed shops. A collapsed cart leaned against a broken wall. Weed-choked cobbles slanted toward a rain-filled basin. No lamps burned here. No windows opened.

  Safe,

  for now.

  Sam dropped to one knee behind the cart, clutching his arm. His breath came in sharp gasps. Sweat slicked his face despite the cold. His hood slipped back, and he let it fall. His hair clung to his forehead.

  He peeled back the cloak and stared at his left arm. The veins had spread further. They glowed faintly, spider webbing through his flesh; green and sickly, like poisoned ivy crawling over stone. His fingers trembled. The pulse in his chest was no longer just his own. It felt doubled. Echoed. Like something else was moving in sync with his heartbeat, but separate.

  “What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. He pressed his hand against the side of the cart and let his head rest against his arm. If this keeps going… someone will see. I’ll lose control again. Maybe I already have.

  But even as the fear swelled, so did a faint memory; vines unfurling from his fingertips in the dark. A fever dream, or real? He had made them move. Controlled them, even if only for a second. He needed help. Not a priest. Not the guard. Someone who would understand this; whatever this was. Someone who worked with plants, poisons, strange blood.

  An herbalist, he thought. There must be one in the lower quarter. Someone who keeps to themselves.

  Sam moved through the winding streets of Ichi City, clinging to the shadows as if they might shield him from the voices still echoing in his ears. His breath came shallow, his limbs unsteady beneath the moss-green cloak. The hood hung low over his brow, casting his face in shadow, but every lamp-lit corner still felt like a threat. His heart beat a jagged rhythm; half from exertion, half from the strange energy pulsing beneath his skin.

  He rounded a quiet bend off the main road and spotted a crooked sign swinging gently in the wind above a recessed doorway. It bore a simple image: a leaf, delicately etched in silver on weathered green wood. He paused, the symbolism tugging at something instinctual. A leaf meant medicine. Growth. Healing.

  Help.

  He crept up the three stone steps and pressed a hand to the worn door. It creaked open with only the faintest protest. The scent hit him immediately; earthy, pungent, spiced with dried flowers and strange roots. The space inside was dim and warm, lit by low-hanging lanterns and the soft glow of alchemical bottles stacked behind the counter. Shelves crowded with jars and tinctures lined the walls, along with hanging bundles of herbs that rustled faintly in the breeze.

  Sam took a cautious step inside. “I’d close the door if I were you,” came a voice; wry, feminine, and far too amused. Sam froze.

  From behind the counter, a tall woman in a loose apron stepped into view. Her dark hair was braided back from her temples, revealing high cheekbones and a pair of shrewd green eyes that flicked over Sam’s cloak with sharp interest. She crossed her arms.

  “You’re not exactly subtle,” she added, lips quirking. “You’re practically bleeding ‘wounded fugitive.’” Sam blinked, caught between collapse and escape.

  The woman tilted her head. “But lucky for you, I’m good with bleeding things. Come in, shut the door, and try not to knock anything over.” Sam stepped forward, lowering the hood slowly. He gave her a long, wary look; then closed the door behind him. The latch clicked softly into place.

  “Name’s Myrtle,” the herbalist said, already moving toward a shelf of tinctures. “You’re safe here. For now.” Before he could respond, a firm knock rattled the front door.

  Myrtle’s gaze sharpened. Without a word, she stepped forward, took Sam by the arm, and pulled him behind a tapestry covering a narrow closet just beyond the counter. “Stay still. Don’t breathe too loud,” she whispered; and then swept toward the door.

  When it opened, an old man stepped inside, wrapped in a thick fur-lined cloak. His cane tapped against the floor with every slow, deliberate step.

  “Elder Thornhollow,” Myrtle greeted, her tone shifting to one of smooth cordiality. “Evening,” the old man rasped, pausing to cough violently into a cloth. A wet, sick sound followed, and when he pulled the handkerchief away, a red smear glistened against the white. Myrtle took it from him with practiced calm, tucking it out of sight.

  “I’ve got your elixir,” she said, producing a small glass vial from the shelf. “Double-distilled with hyssop and ground starcap, as requested. Enough to get you through tonight and the rest of the Cardinal Nomination.” Elder Thornhollow took it with trembling hands and downed it in a single gulp. His eyes fluttered shut as the relief hit. Another moment passed before he straightened and opened his eyes; scanning the room.

  And then… he paused. His gaze locked on the tapestry. No; through it. Sam held his breath. The old man squinted, brow furrowing.

  Elder Thornhollow dabbed at his lips with the stained handkerchief, his breath rattling faintly in the back of his throat. The scent of crushed mint and bitter root lingered in the air, stirred by the herbalist’s brewing pots behind the counter.

  Sam hesitated in the doorway of the narrow closet, the shadows of the herbalist’s shop still clinging to his cloak. He kept his hood up and his sleeves pulled low, conscious of every flicker beneath his skin.

  The Elder’s eyes flicked toward him, calm but knowing. “Well?” he rasped, voice low. “If you’re hiding from someone, best not linger like a statue.”