Marta's shack stood out, a bit bigger than the village's other huts, serving as both a tavern and a creaky inn. The air inside was heavy, cheap ale, onion soup, and sweat mixing into a stale haze.
Kairos stepped in, his tattered tunic still hinting at noble roots despite the dirt. Marta, a broad-shouldered woman with eyes like a hawk, sized him up from behind the counter, her gaze sharp but not unkind.
"Need a room, stranger?" she asked, voice rough but warm, like she'd seen every kind of traveler. "Got soup and bread, too, if you're hungry."
"Yes, thank you," Kairos said, slipping into his alias, Aris, with a polite nod. He held out a silver coin, Aerion's last bit of wealth. "I can pay."
Marta's eyes flicked to the coin, gleaming in the dim light, and softened. "Right, then. Sit."
She wiped a scarred wooden table with a rag, motioning him over. "Where you from? Not many stumble out of that swamp looking like you."
Kairos sat, shoulders slumping just enough to sell his exhaustion. "Lyceum," he said softly, voice raw, like he'd barely escaped with his life. "I got out when it fell. I'm… just looking for somewhere safe till things settle."
He let his gaze drop, mimicking Aerion's despair, the mask fitting snugly.
Marta puffed on a clay pipe, smoke curling out, sharp and bitter. "Lyceum," she muttered, shaking her head, her sympathy sounding practiced. "Therion's got no soul, that's for damn sure. But out here, boy, Vaelgard's the real trouble. They barge in, drink my ale, eat my food, and don't pay a cent. Sometimes they wave their swords around, just to remind us who's boss."
She leaned closer, voice dropping, sharp with resentment. "Just last night, some of their scouts were here, led by that one-eyed prick, Bren. Loud as hell, bragging about the Iron River bridge, saying a Therion convoy's rolling through next week. Sounded like they're planning to stir up some shit."
Kairos's pulse quickened, but he kept his face blank, hiding the thrill. Bren. Stoneblood's man. Vaelgard and Therion at each other's throats.
"Iron River…" he said, pretending to think. "That's the main road to Etheleum, right? Why would Vaelgard mess with it? Aren't they allies?"
Marta snorted, a short, bitter laugh. "Allies? More like wolves and rats fighting over scraps. Therion's on the throne, sure, but Vaelgard wants a piece. That Bren was mouthing off about how Therion's too weak to hold the borders."
She tapped her pipe, ash falling to the floor. "And Duke Malkor, that fancy Therion lackey out west? He's either asleep in his tower or selling out. Pick your poison."
Kairos nodded, letting worry crease his brow, all part of the act. "That's… bad. If they fight near here, the village could get caught in it."
"We're already screwed," Marta snapped, her voice cutting like a knife. "Every time they clash, we're the ones bleeding. Therion's tax collectors strip us bare for his war. Vaelgard steals what's left for their supplies. We're stuck, getting crushed."
Her eyes narrowed, watching him, like she was testing his reaction. "Some folks say we should fight back, but against who? They've got steel. We've got dirt."
Rebellion's spark. Kairos saw it, raw and ready, but kept his face grim, nodding like he shared her pain.
"Soup and bread, please," he said, voice soft, settling into his role. Marta shuffled off, and he leaned back, ears open, catching the tavern's murmurs.
Talk of bad crops, sons dragged off by Therion's recruiters, dread of Vaelgard's next patrol. The room was alive with quiet anger, a fire he could stoke.
As he headed to the back for the privy, a young man slipped up, his face hard, eyes burning.
"Aris?" he whispered, his voice tight.
Kairos turned, nodding, keeping his expression neutral.
"Old Nel by the well said you're from Lyceum. That true?" The man's eyes lit up, desperate, hopeful.
"Yeah," Kairos said, voice flat, careful."My brother," the man said, voice cracking. "He was at Lyceum, an apprentice. Is he… alive?"
His hands shook, like he already knew the answer.
Kairos met his gaze, letting 'grief' settle on his face, practiced and perfect. "I don't know every name," he said, slow, heavy.
"But Lyceum… almost no one made it." He put a hand on the man's shoulder, light, feeling him tremble. "I'm sorry."
The man's eyes welled, not with sadness but rage, hot and raw. "Therion," he hissed, voice venomous. "And Vaelgard, letting it happen, maybe helping. They'll pay."
Kairos kept his face soft, sympathetic, but inside, he grinned. Good. Burn.
"I get it, kid," he said, low, faking empathy. "But watch your words. Spies are everywhere."
He slipped his last silver coin into the man's hand, hidden in the dark. "For your family. Hold on."
His tone carried a hint of something darker, a promise wrapped in Aerion's voice: hold on, because revenge is coming.
The man gripped the coin, his eyes flickering with gratitude and confusion, then vanished into the shadows. Kairos headed upstairs to his room, a cramped, dusty hole with a straw mattress and a cracked basin.
He shut the door, and the mask fell. His shoulders sagged, not from fake tiredness but from the relief of dropping the act.
He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing at the lie of Aerion's kindness, the noble's soft eyes.
His mind, though, was racing, cold and sharp. The intel was gold: Vaelgard patrols under Bren, itching for the Iron River bridge. Therion's convoy, ripe for ambush. Duke Malkor's betrayal, leaving the west open.
The village's anger, ready to explode. This place was a powder keg, and Kairos held the match.
But he needed more, names, plans, weaknesses. And this body, still too frail, had to get stronger, faster.
He moved to the window, its glass filthy, and stared out. The village was quiet, moonlight glinting on thatched roofs.
In the dark, he saw it all, chaos waiting to spread, Therion's throne cracking, Vaelgard's wolves circling.
A smirk curved his lips, cold and real. Aerion's mask would open doors, but Kairos's fire would burn the world down.