Chương 8: Chapter 7: Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Need to move faster, Torin thought. It was getting late. Rays cut through the smoke pillars in the War District, heralding the waning hours of another day. Night would soon come. A pang of regret cut through Torin. Even if he sprinted the rest of the way, he would not make it in time to meet Thaddeus's deadline. What would he do if he declined to sponsor him? Torin shook off the stupidity. The Academy plan was dead and buried. With a Trait of this nature, it would not be possible to go down that road anymore.

The State would catch him on the first [Identify]. A lack of an answer would give them an answer of its own, one he could never explain without compromising himself. No, there would be no Academy training arc, no years of his life spent balancing schoolwork with forced socialization and political subterfuge. That whole idea was gone, completely gone. Fortunately, Torin was mentally prepared for this too. His uncle once promised a life-changing adventure, only to be killed soon after.

Torin's trajectory had altered with it. He adapted to those shifting circumstances instead of being consumed by them. The same would happen again. He couldn't mourn abandoned plans. The only path forward was through this next challenge. Torin turned a corner. A patrol had stopped a group of laborers, the Hawks "searching" their victims as they emptied their pockets. Children sobbed on the side, powerless to stop this harassment. And Torin's pupils quivered, the color flooding to his face.

The fires burned brightly again. His father was on the ground, blood pouring from his wounds. His mother cried for help, only to hit deaf ears. Grown men revelled in their suffering. Knives planted into innocent flesh. Torin's fingers dug deep into his palms. He advanced a few paces. Did these monsters think they could get away with this again? He would kill them all! Another pedestrian bumped into Torin. He blinked a few times, suddenly realizing what he was about to do.

It took another moment to see he'd already drawn his hammer. Some heads turned his way, but he quickly jogged back the direction he came. This was not good. When Torin accepted the memory of his parents' deaths to unlock his Trait, he assumed there would be some risk. As satisfying as they were, those first kills happened because the weight of that hatred had been too great. Now, he was scrambling around the city to undo this mess. All because he lost temporary control. And it almost happened again.

Had he not reeled his fury in, he would have attacked these Hawks too. The mere sight of their exploitation set him off at once. There was no way out of it. Just as the Anomaly warned, regaining this memory had changed Torin permanently. He could not face the State's rampant oppression and stay numb like before. Not after understanding just how intimately they harmed him. But Torin couldn't allow that pain to consume him either. Facing every battle would accomplish nothing but a premature death.

This feral desire would have to be controlled, or at least redirected into winnable fights. With another deep breath, he went back down the street. The searches continued and his blood pressure rose, but now that he was aware of this new reflex, he tempered it at once. His emotions had never overwhelmed him before, so they wouldn't start now. Torin would refine and weaponize them like anything else. He reached the neighborhood before long.

The Hawks had set a barrier around the crime scene, blocking anyone from getting near. Torin approached from the opposite side, only interested in the cobbler's shop. To his dismay, the door had been locked. Closing time already? He looked over his shoulder. Hawks buzzed around one hundred meters away. Even if Torin had enough aspirations to use the prying bar, he could not risk it with them so close. More than that, one stood apart from the others.

Where the Hawks all dressed in studded leather armor and kettle hats, this man was adorned in a simple, dark tunic. Silver-stranded hair blew with the wind, his skin far paler than those nearby. But what caught Torin's eye was the cut of his cowl. It rolled onto his shoulders, black as night, a half-cape trailing behind. An Owl had come. Torin gulped. He couldn't stick around lest they question him too. There was an opening nearby.

He moved quietly into a nearby alley, hopped atop an old shed, and tapped the window to the unit above the shop. By luck, it had been unlocked. Torin squirmed into the dim room. Bookshelves lined the walls, thick layers of dust covering shoes and boots where exposed. Crates sat in the center, leather and laces inside. Some cobwebs hugged the exterior, and candlelight leaked through the floor. Slowly, carefully, Torin crossed the room, mindful that he did not upset the floorboards.

A shadow passed through the front, only to disappear as fast as it appeared. Torin scanned the shelves. Damn, not here. Imagining his boots repaired proved difficult given their original state, but the size and shape could not be ignored. That man stood almost two meters tall and had feet to match. This room's contents had been made for children. He pressed his ear against the door and waited patiently. With his slight boost in Perception, he could hear floorboards creak whenever someone moved.

Only after it disappeared did he feel satisfied enough to slip through. The main room was as quaint as the one he left, a living room combined with a kitchenette made with worn, oaken wood. Like most structures in Vrisgard, the gypsum walls had long since cracked, leaving gashes where dust inevitably swirled through. But the furnishing remained spotless, its owner doing what she could to maintain them. There you are. Right across the way in a workshop area, Thaddeus's boots waited.

Torin crossed the threshold and snatched them up. Dissatisfied, he emptied his pockets and left a number of coins, paying much more than the asking price. The cobbler would find it missing soon enough, and she deserved something for her discretion. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. But the second Torin turned, he found that moment came faster than planned. The old woman folded her arms.

"What are you doing here?" Torin grimaced beneath his mask.

"I'm sorry, my situation is complicated. I need this returned at once." She looked at the boots, then the pile of coins.

"It's twice what you wanted," Torin explained.

"Please take it." She frowned.

"You're the one they're looking for, aren't you? You brought the State near my shop." There was a sadness in her voice, a resignation. Torin chewed his lips, feeling the pang of regret.

"You have nothing to worry about. You haven't seen anything. You don't even know what I look like." The cobbler nodded.

"No, I suppose I don't. I wouldn't want to anyway. Not after what was happening to that poor girl." Torin exhaled.

"Thank you. Is there anything else you need?"

"Son, you may think you're tough as nails after what you did, but I have been living in this city all my life. I don't need anything other than peace."

"I understand. You'll never see me again." He went for the window he'd come through, stashing the boots in his backpack.

"Don't worry," the cobbler said behind.

"Your secret is safe with m–" Torin glanced over his shoulder. The cobbler stood frozen, her face locked up mid-speech. Worried, he took a few steps closer.

"Are you alright?" The cobbler said nothing, but her eyes stared vacantly forth, out the front-facing window. And it was through there that their mutual enemy approached. Less than fifty meters away, the Owl gestured at their spot, a troupe of Hawks sprinting beside. The shop's entrance smashed below them. Torin sought an escape, but there was none to be had. Too many Hawks moved about outside for him to sneak back out. Footsteps came up the stairs rapidly.

Torin dove into another room as the Hawks kicked down the door. * Drelk stepped through the opening. The old woman remained where he'd left her. Normally, [Serpent's Gaze] needed his direct focus to maintain this paralysis, but those with baseline Wisdom made for the most malleable subjects. His web enveloped the home. Drelk waited another moment, but his [Spiderling Sense] detected no movement. They were comfortably alone. Drelk snapped his fingers, and [Serpent's Gaze] ended.

His target blinked, eyes darting madly as she realized a group of State officials surrounded her.

"Good evening. I am Drelk de Lokthra, Silver-Rank [Inquisitor] from the Roost of Owls. State Intelligence, if you will. I have a rather baffling dilemma I'm hoping you can resolve. What is your name, by the way?" The old woman looked around, still confused. Oh, how commoners loved playing the fool. Though Drelk supposed his Fringeling appearance did not help much.

Despite only being in his late twenties, his genetic roots in Serefall cursed him to look like a vampire, with silver-stranded hair and a pale complexion to match the obligatory scarlet pupils. This woman must have assumed as much by the way she watched him. Why must everyone be so discriminatory?

"Don't worry. I might torture, flay, hang, burn, and sometimes drown, but I most certainly do not bite." Drelk reassured the cobbler with a smile, knowing it would appear as anything but that. The old lady gulped.

"Sara."

"Ah, nice to make your acquaintance, Sara. As I was saying, I have a quandary of sorts. A group of State guards were murdered outside—I'm sure you noticed, it would be impossible to avoid. However, there have thus far been no witnesses who can identify the attacker."

"I didn't see anything either," Sara stated, quite forcefully.

"I was busy with a job."

"Yes, you are a cobbler, I saw the sign. Tough profession, but necessary. You see, Sara, I was somewhat misleading. We have one witness, a woman caught in the middle of the affair. She swore by the Swan she could not see the murderer's face, but she did see where he came from. How long have you been working at this job? Is there anything identifiable about it?" The old woman shook her head.

"No. If that boy is who you're looking for, then you're too late. He's already come by and picked those boots up." She sighed.

"I did not see his face either. He came in the dust, he did. Mask and all." A half-truth. Most frustrating. Sara knew how to answer honestly without being honest. No matter. Drelk had plenty of experience too.

"How many grandchildren do you have?" he asked.

"Living, of course." She gawked.

"What?" Drelk examined the room further. Two-story home with a shop in the base. Several bedrooms atop, but no signs of other occupants. Not possible to buy this unit with cobbler wages. Must have been inherited.

"I count two," Drelk said, pointing at the kitchenette wall where a series of faded scribbles once measured children's heights.

"It would be three, but by the worn difference between here and here, the first is a generation apart. So, this is either your son, or a very fast-growing daughter. The other two are girls, or very slow-growing boys. Is that correct?" Sara stared at the wall and said nothing.

"Remember, lying to State Intelligence is a crime."

"It is true. And yes, the Swan is good. Both my granddaughters live." Perfect. A line to cast. A thread to pull. Drelk needn't waste more time. Drelk took another step forth and focused his mana, redirecting the sound waves to strike her ears at uncomfortable angles.

"What would happen if you were arrested?" Drelk wondered.

"Who would take care of your granddaughters? Is there anyone? Anyone to trust? What about those strange men always leering at them? What would they do without you around?" Sara glanced around the room, sweat building. From her perspective, Drelk's voice bounced from shoulder to shoulder with each new question. This wasn't a proper Skill, but it was a trick he taught himself over countless interrogations. It broke the composure of his target and was also quite fun to do. He took another step, focusing deeper.

"Maybe it would be better if they went to a Stork's Nest. A little hard work never hurt anyone. Some, maybe, but if they're young, they're strong. Then again, there are miscreants in those camps too. Who knows what will happen? The State can't protect everyone. Could you guarantee they won't suffer more?" Tears grew. Sara averted her gaze. Just a little more. Drelk stepped ever closer.

"It would only take one word from an Owl. Where are those boots? Do you want to protect your family? What did you see? They'll suffer a fate worse than death if you don't save them. We know everything already. Why forestall the inevitable? It's just a pair of boots. What did the murderer look like? Speak honestly and support the State. Your loyalty will be rewarded. What did he do with those boots?" The poor woman finally broke, bawling her eyes out.

Drelk exhaled, knowing he only needed to wait for her to finish before he got a full accounting. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. His web had been touched in the adjacent bedroom. The floorboards creaked. Drelk cast [Deepsight] at once, and… The Skill failed?

"Curious," Drelk said, forgetting Sara immediately. His [Spiderling Sense] caught movement any time someone touched his web, and he evolved [Deepsight] as a means to [Identify] without direct visualization. How could he sense movement without identifying the source? What type of magic could fool one but not the other? He entered the chamber. The curtains furrowed in a corner. It could have come from the wind, or perhaps something more. Drelk grinned, his interest piqued.

"Curious, indeed."