Days of the Week:
1. Solisday - First day of week, holiday
2. Lunaday - First working day of week
3. Martisday
4. Mercaday
5. Jovisday
6. Venerisday
7. Saturnisday - Last working day of week, works only half day
Month: Amberfall (7th month of the year)
CHAPTER TWO
Burdens and Brotherhoods
The kitchen of Thornwick Manor held the lingering scent of baking bread and the faintest trace of the lavender that Bran's uncle had once hung from the rafters. Rain drummed against the diamond-paned windows with increasing intensity, each drop catching what little light filtered through the grey Amberfall morning—the seventh month bringing its typical summer storms that could turn even the warmest days unexpectedly cool and damp. The house itself seemed to exhale with age—its dark wooden beams groaning softly, its stone walls thick enough to muffle the worst of the storm outside.
Affice Rayne sat hunched over a chipped ceramic mug, his shoulders curved inward as though he were trying to disappear into himself. Even in the dim morning light, his sharp cheekbones and intense features were striking—storm-grey eyes that seemed to hold secrets they were reluctant to share, and unruly dark hair that fell in waves no amount of combing ever quite tamed. He had the lean, athletic build of someone who had spent months in active combat, his frame still strong beneath the simple black robes he wore.
But there was a tension to his posture that spoke of burdens that had nothing to do with physical weakness, and his right hand rested against his chest in an unconscious gesture, fingers brushing over his neck where a thin white thread was barely visible—though only to him. What appeared to be nothing more than a simple string to any observer was actually an enchanted leather pouch that turned invisible the moment it touched his skin. The magical storage charm expanded to hold objects far larger than its appearance suggested, and within its hidden depths lay the Wand of Ruin, safely concealed from the world yet always within his reach.
Across from him, Bran Corbin sprawled in a chair that creaked ominously under his weight, his long legs stretched out comfortably in the warm summer air. Where Affice was all sharp angles and barely contained tension, Bran was broad shoulders and easy confidence, even at rest. His black hair was perpetually tousled, as if he had just rolled out of bed, and his warm brown eyes held a mischievous glint that never quite disappeared, not even in the darkest moments. There was something undeniably magnetic about him—the kind of person who could walk into any room and immediately become its center, not through effort but through sheer force of personality. Even now, worried as he clearly was about his friend, there was an almost lazy grace to the way he sat, one hand absently turning the pages of yesterday's Arcadian Chronicle without really reading them.
"Still going on about you, then," Bran said, his voice carrying that familiar note of amused exasperation. He held up the paper, where Affice could see his own name printed in bold letters across yet another article. "Two months, Affice. Two bloody months since Varkthar fell, and they're still milking every drop of drama they can squeeze out of it."
Affice's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "And that Blackthorne woman is the worst of them all. Liana bloody Blackthorne." The name left his lips like something distasteful. "She's obsessed—completely fixated on inserting herself into every aspect of my life. First she was the 'brave duelist fighting alongside the hero,' now she's the 'concerned friend worried about the mysterious Peacemaker.' She won't take a hint, won't accept that I want nothing to do with her. Just keeps finding new ways to stick herself to me like some sort of parasite."
Bran's grin was infuriatingly knowing. "You do realize she's been completely mad for you since our college days, don't you? All that 'sticking' might have less to do with fame and more to do with her twisted idea of devotion. The woman's never learned the meaning of 'no.'"
Before Affice could respond, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, followed by footsteps and the rustle of a rain-soaked cloak being shaken out. Both young men looked toward the kitchen doorway, and Affice felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as a familiar figure appeared.
Canjiro Tanaka stepped into the warm glow of the kitchen, and for a moment he simply stood there, letting the heat chase the chill from his bones. At five feet eleven inches, he was not particularly tall, but there was something about his presence that seemed to fill the space around him—a quiet intensity that spoke of steel wrapped in silk. His black hair was cropped short and practical, still damp from the rain, and his deep brown eyes—dark enough to appear nearly black in dim lighting—were sharp and watchful, missing nothing. There was an economy to his movements that suggested someone who never wasted motion, never acted without purpose. A thin scar ran from his left temple to just below his ear, a souvenir from the war that he bore without apparent self-consciousness. His traveling robes were simple but well-made, and despite the rain, he somehow managed to look put-together in a way that both Affice and Bran had long since given up attempting. At his side hung a sheathed sword, the kind sharpened on both edges—a weapon that spoke of serious purpose rather than mere decoration.
"You're back," Affice said, and though his voice was carefully neutral, there was relief buried in those two simple words.
Canjiro gave a slight nod, hanging his cloak on the peg by the door with precise movements. "Morvain is... complicated. But they're alive." He accepted the mug of tea that Bran slid across the scarred wooden table and wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.
"More importantly," Bran interrupted with a mischievous grin, "did you meet any lovely Morvain girls while you were there? I hear they have quite striking dark eyes and—"
"Bran," Affice said with mild exasperation.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question! The man's been traveling for weeks in a foreign country. Surely there were some romantic encounters worth mentioning?"
Canjiro's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "I was somewhat preoccupied with keeping my parents alive."
Bran's expression shifted instantly from playful to serious, his chair legs hitting the floor with a sharp thud. "Wait—they were actually found? Varkthar's people tracked them down?"
Canjiro's deep brown eyes hardened. "Varkthar's followers were thorough in those final months. They knew I was fighting alongside Affice, which painted a target on anyone I cared about." He paused, taking a careful sip of his tea. "Father being a Natural while Mother is an Unnatural, made them particularly... interesting to Varkthar's people. But more than that, they knew capturing or killing my parents could be used as leverage—to force me to betray you, or to draw all three of us into a trap. The kind of family connection they enjoyed exploiting."
"What happened?" Affice asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"They found our safe house in Kaelreach three weeks before Varkthar's fall." Canjiro's jaw tightened at the memory. "Father said it was closer than he wanted to admit—too close. But desperate love and Natural magic can accomplish remarkable things when survival is the only option."
"Your father fought them off?" Bran asked.
Canjiro's mouth curved in what might have been pride or grim satisfaction. "Fought them, misdirected them, and ultimately convinced them that he and Mother had perished in the fire he set to cover their escape. My father has always been... resourceful when it matters most." He stared into his tea, watching the steam rise. "They've been living as Unnaturals under false names in a village near Bravok ever since—Father completely hiding his magical abilities to blend in with the oppressed Unnatural class."
"Smart," Affice murmured.
"Necessary," Canjiro corrected. "Though it was Mother's idea, actually. She understood better than Father how to be invisible—she had learned during Varkthar's first reign how an Unnatural survives by staying unnoticed. During Varkthar's reign, Naturals were actively hunted for recruitment or elimination—too dangerous to leave free if they wouldn't join him. Unnaturals were simply expected to keep quiet and obey whoever held power—not worth the effort to hunt or recruit." His voice grew softer with what might have been admiration. "Better to disappear among those already invisible than risk being seen as something that needed to be eliminated. It worked perfectly. It took me weeks to track them down, and I knew exactly where to look."
Bran let out a low whistle. "Well, that puts things in perspective. And here I was complaining about my uncle's portrait collection giving me nightmares."
"Your uncle's portrait collection is genuinely disturbing," Canjiro replied with what, for him, passed for humor. "But yes, it seems we all have our burdens to bear these days."
Affice's hand pressed more firmly against his neck, fingers finding the invisible thread that held his most dangerous secret. For a moment none of them spoke, the silence stretching between three friends who had seen too much, done too much, survived too much. The weight of recent months settled around them like smoke—all the battles fought in shadow, all the choices that had carved permanent lines in their souls, all the burdens they now carried that would never grow lighter with time.
Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, washing the world clean while leaving some stains that might never fade. In the warm kitchen of Thornwick Manor, three young men sat with their tea growing cold, each lost in memories of a war that was over but would never truly end.
The afternoon light had grown thin and grey by the time the sharp rap of knuckles against the front door echoed through Thornwick Manor, followed immediately by a cheerful voice calling out, "Anybody home? Or are you two still wallowing in that charming post-war melancholy?"
Bran grinned and pushed himself up from his chair. "That'll be Jarik and Voss. Right on time, as usual." He strode out of the kitchen, and they could hear the front door opening, followed by a burst of good-natured conversation.
Moments later, Bran returned with two young men in tow, both shaking rain from their cloaks but presenting vastly different demeanors.
Jarik Ashworth was the taller of the two at six feet three inches—matching Bran's impressive height—with a lean build and an angular face that might have been called handsome if not for the slightly crooked nose that spoke of at least one serious altercation in his past. His dark hair was swept back from his face with military precision, and his brown eyes held a sharp intelligence tempered by natural caution. There was something measured about the way he moved, as if he were constantly calculating risks and outcomes, the kind of person who planned three moves ahead and rarely smiled unless he meant it. His clothes were neat and practical, every gesture deliberate and purposeful.
Voss Ashworth was shorter and stockier, with broad shoulders and calloused hands that spoke of practical work. His brown hair was perpetually tousled despite obvious attempts to tame it, and his warm hazel eyes sparkled with irrepressible mischief and something that might have been romantic distraction. Where Jarik was all careful consideration and measured words, Voss was quick grins and spontaneous enthusiasm, the kind of person who could find humor in a funeral and somehow make it appropriate. They were not brothers by blood—the shared surname was a legacy of the Ashworth Foundling Home where they had both grown up—but twenty years of friendship had created bonds that went deeper than mere genetics, with Voss's effervescent cheer perfectly balancing Jarik's natural seriousness.
"Gentlemen!" Voss announced with theatrical flair, sweeping an imaginary hat from his head in an elaborate bow that would have made a court jester proud. "We bring glorious news from the commercial battlefields! After a month of hawking our wares from street corners and market stalls, we're finally ready for the big step—our very own shop in Aurelius Quarter, opening in just one week!"
Jarik stepped forward with a slight nod, his manner businesslike despite his partner's dramatics. "The lease is signed and the space is nearly ready. We thought you might want to see what your recommendation letters accomplished." His tone was respectful but practical, focused on the actual purpose of their visit.
"Legitimate businessmen now, are we?" Bran asked with obvious amusement.
"I prefer 'entrepreneurially reformed,'" Voss replied with a theatrical sigh. "Honestly, we grew tired of the con games and petty fraud. After everything we did during the war, the Home Ministry was grateful enough to grant us full pardons for our... previous entrepreneurial ventures. Nothing serious, mind you—just the usual tricks to keep food on the table. But now we can actually build something proper together." He brightened immediately. "Though speaking of business, did you happen to see that absolutely enchanting redhead who works at Minerva's Millinery? She came to our market stall yesterday and bought one of our Singing Teapots, and I've been composing a sonnet about her smile ever since."
"Oh, the one with the green ribbon in her hair?" Bran asked with sudden interest, leaning forward in his chair. "Lovely laugh, dimples when she smiles? I may have noticed her when I passed by last week. Quite fetching, actually."
"Exactly!" Voss exclaimed, delighted to find a kindred spirit. "Those dimples could inspire a man to greatness!"
"Or at least to terrible poetry," Bran added with a grin.
Jarik's expression grew long-suffering. "You've fallen in love with a different woman every week since we started this business. Last week it was the baker's daughter with the golden hair, this week it's the redhead with the melodious laugh. You spend more time writing terrible poetry than organizing our inventory for the stalls."
"My poetry is heartfelt artistic expression," Voss protested, looking genuinely wounded. "And I can't help it if I have an appreciation for feminine beauty in all its varied and wonderful forms."
"You have an appreciation for anything in a skirt," Jarik replied with the weary tone of someone who'd had this conversation many times before. "Yesterday you nearly gave away three Whizzing Worms to that blonde customer just because she complimented your vest."
"It's a very nice vest," Voss said defensively.
"It's a standard brown vest," Jarik countered. "And we're here to discuss business, not your latest romantic obsession."
"Canjiro!" Voss exclaimed suddenly, as if just noticing him in the kitchen. "When did you get back? We thought it was just Affice and Bran wallowing in post-war blues."
"This morning," Canjiro replied with a slight nod. "Just returned from Morvain."
Jarik's expression grew more serious. "Your parents—did you find them?"
"Alive and well, thankfully," Canjiro said, settling back in his chair. "Though it was a close thing. Varkthar's people had tracked them to Kaelreach just weeks before his fall."
Over the next few minutes, Canjiro recounted his journey and his parents' narrow escape—how they'd been forced into hiding, living as Unnaturals under false identities, and the clever deception that had convinced their hunters they'd perished in a fire. Affice appeared in the doorway partway through the tale, drawn by the familiar voices, and settled quietly into his chair to listen. Jarik listened with the focused attention of someone cataloging useful survival tactics, while Voss's romantic soul was clearly moved by the story of desperate love and sacrifice.
"Your father sounds remarkably resourceful," Jarik observed when the tale was finished.
"And your mother's idea to hide among the Unnaturals was brilliant," Voss added with genuine admiration. "True love finding a way, even in the darkest times. It's rather inspiring, actually."
Canjiro studied both men with amusement. "I take it the business is doing well, despite the... distractions?"
"Business is picking up slowly," Jarik replied, his tone becoming more serious. "People are still cautious about enjoying themselves. As if laughter might somehow dishonor those we've lost."
"Which is exactly why we need to help them remember how to smile again," Voss added, his usual cheer dampening slightly. "Though I do think beautiful women make excellent customers. They have such lovely laughs when our products work properly."
"When they work properly being the key phrase," Jarik noted dryly. "Yesterday we had a small incident with a customer who thought our Whizzing Worm was meant for gardening."
"What did he expect?" Affice asked, drawn into their familiar dynamic despite himself.
"A normal earthworm that would help with his garden," Voss replied with an exaggerated pout, already bouncing back to his cheerful self. "What the poor fellow got was an enchanted earthworm that spent three hours chasing his cat around his sitting room while making sounds like a tiny dragon in heat! It was absolutely hilarious, though I don't think he appreciated the artistic value of magical chaos."
"We never actually advertised it as garden-appropriate," Jarik pointed out with a slight frown, his businessman's mind already working. "Though we probably should have been clearer in our product descriptions. Customer satisfaction is important for long-term success."
Voss waved a dismissive hand. "Details, details. The important thing is that everyone had an adventure!" He straightened with theatrical flair, spreading his arms wide. "Speaking of which, shall we take you gentlemen to see our soon-to-be kingdom of controlled chaos? Come with us to Aurelius Quarter right now! I promise there will be demonstrations of our finest products, minor explosions for entertainment value, and possibly a glimpse of that lovely brunette who runs the apothecary next door."
"Now? Today?" Bran's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Absolutely! I've been dying to see what you've done with the place. And did you say brunette?"
"Count me in," Affice said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
Canjiro nodded his agreement. "It would be good to see what our recommendation letters accomplished."
"Excellent!" Voss clapped his hands together. "Though you might want to change out of those house robes first. Can't have you looking like you just rolled out of bed—well, except Bran, who always looks like that regardless."
"Hey!" Bran protested good-naturedly, already heading toward the stairs. "I'll have you know this is carefully cultivated casual charm."
Twenty minutes later, all five of them gathered by the front door of Thornwick Manor, properly dressed for an excursion into the city. Affice pulled his hood up over his distinctive dark hair and kept his head down—the last thing he needed was to be recognized as the famous war hero on the streets. The rain had eased to a fine mist by the time they made their way through the winding streets toward Aurelius Quarter, the magical shopping district that served as the beating heart of the city's commercial life.
They passed through the First Gate, its ancient stone archway marking the entrance to the commercial district. The cobblestones were slick with moisture, reflecting the warm glow that spilled from shop windows even in the grey afternoon light. Unlike the grand, imposing architecture of the government buildings, Aurelius Quarter had grown organically over the centuries, a maze of narrow lanes and unexpected courtyards where enterprising witches and wizards had set up shop to serve their community's needs.
The air hummed with barely contained magic—the kind of low-level enchantments that made everyday life more convenient and occasionally more interesting. Street lamps that would light themselves at dusk, cobblestones that repelled the worst of the mud, shop signs that moved and shifted to catch the eye of potential customers. It was a place where the practical and the whimsical collided on every corner, where you could buy a loaf of bread that would stay fresh for a week and a hat that would tell you the weather three days in advance.
"There," Jarik said, pointing down a narrow lane lined with colorful storefronts. "Between Caldwell's Cauldrons and Minerva's Magical Millinery."
"Right next to all those beautiful shop girls," Voss added dreamily. "It's like working in paradise, except with more explosions and fewer angels. Though some of the customers are positively angelic."
The shop that bore the sign "Ashworth Brothers: Purveyors of Practical Jokes and Impractical Solutions" was narrow but deep, its front window filled with an eye-catching display of their wares. Brightly colored packages promised everything from "Instant Aged Cheese" to "Disappearing Ink That Only Disappears When You Want It To Stay." A mechanical dragon about the size of a house cat was performing lazy loops in the air above the display, occasionally breathing tiny puffs of harmless but dramatic purple smoke.
"Impressive," Bran said approvingly. "Very professional."
"Jarik insisted on the proper presentation," Voss explained as they approached the door. "I wanted to put up a sign that said 'Danger: Uncontrolled Whimsy Within,' but apparently that's not good for business."
"It would have attracted the wrong sort of customer," Jarik replied practically. "We want people who will buy our products, not people looking for actual danger."
The bell above the door chimed a cheerful tune as they entered, and Affice was immediately struck by how different the space felt from the grand, intimidating shops that catered to the wealthy Natural families. This was a place designed for ordinary people—bright and welcoming, with wide aisles that could accommodate families with children, and price tags that didn't require inherited wealth to afford.
"Welcome to our domain!" Voss announced with a sweeping gesture. "We've got everything from standard novelty wands to our new line of 'Melodic Mayhem'—pranks that sing while they perplex!"
"The Melodic Mayhem was Voss's idea," Jarik noted with what might have been pride. "Though I had to help with the actual magical theory to make them function properly."
"Tell them about the Humming Hex Bags," Voss urged, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
Jarik's expression grew slightly warmer. "They're actually quite clever. You slip one into someone's pocket, and for the next hour, everything they touch hums a different tune. Nothing harmful—just musically inconvenient."
"We tested it on our landlord," Voss added with obvious glee. "He spent twenty minutes trying to figure out why his quill was humming 'Greensleeves' every time he tried to write our lease agreement. I thought he was going to cry with frustration, but then he started laughing instead. Gave us a discount on next month's rent!"
As they wandered through the shop, examining the carefully arranged displays and listening to the brothers explain their various inventions, Affice found himself genuinely impressed. The Ashworth brothers had always been clever—it was how they had survived on the streets before the war, and how they had made themselves so useful during the fighting—but seeing that cleverness channeled into something constructive was oddly moving.
"Business really does seem to be improving," he observed, watching Voss demonstrate a set of self-shuffling playing cards that formed elaborate patterns in the air.
"Slowly but surely," Jarik confirmed. "People are beginning to remember that joy isn't disrespectful to those we've lost. If anything, I think the dead would want us to find reasons to smile again."
"Especially if those reasons involve pretty customers," Voss added with a wink. "Did I mention the absolutely charming witch who bought our Color-Changing Candles yesterday? She had these amazing violet eyes that—"
"She was eighty years old," Jarik interrupted.
"Age is just a number," Voss replied philosophically. "And she had a lovely young granddaughter who might visit on the opening day of our shop."
Bran grinned from across the shop where he'd been examining a display of Singing Teapots. "Speaking of which, is that brunette from the apothecary next door as lovely as you claimed? I might need to develop a sudden interest in potions ingredients."
"Even lovelier," Voss said with enthusiasm. "She has this laugh that sounds like wind chimes, and the way she arranges her herb bottles is absolutely—"
"Voss is in love with her organizational skills now," Jarik said dryly. "Last week it was her penmanship."
"You are incorrigible," Canjiro observed, though there was amusement in his deep brown eyes.
"I prefer 'romantically optimistic,'" Voss corrected. "Life's too short not to appreciate beauty wherever you find it."
The cheerful atmosphere of the shop began to settle into something quieter as the evening wore on. Eventually, Jarik approached Affice near a display of Whispering Wind Chimes, his expression growing more serious.
"There's something we've been curious about," he said, his voice lower than usual. "All these newspaper articles, all the speculation about your victory over Varkthar..."
Affice stiffened slightly, his hand moving unconsciously toward his neck.
Voss bounded over, apparently having overheard despite being halfway across the shop. "The papers keep going on about those Relics of Chaos! Makes it sound like there's a whole collection of magical artifacts just waiting to be discovered. Like a treasure hunt, but with more world-changing power and fewer pirates!"
"The Relics aren't a game," Jarik said sharply, shooting his partner a warning look. "But the question remains—if these other artifacts exist, what exactly are we talking about? In terms of... capabilities?"
The question hung in the air like smoke from Voss's mechanical dragon, and Affice felt the familiar weight of dangerous knowledge pressing down on him. Around them, the cheerful chaos of the nearly-finished shop continued—wind-up mice chasing mechanical cats, rainbow-colored smoke bombs producing tiny harmless explosions, displays being arranged and tested—but suddenly it all felt very far away.
"Listen to me carefully," Affice said, his voice taking on a harder edge that cut through the shop's ambient chatter. "The Relics of Chaos aren't treasures waiting to be found. They're curses disguised as gifts. Each one promises everything and delivers nothing but destruction to anyone foolish enough to seek them out."
"But surely—" Voss began, his usual cheerfulness dimmed by confusion.
"No." Affice's grey eyes fixed on both brothers with uncomfortable intensity. "There's no 'but surely' about it. The Relics aren't tools that can be controlled or used safely. They're instruments of corruption that destroy everything they touch." He looked directly at Jarik, recognizing the calculating intelligence behind the man's questions. "Whatever you're thinking, whatever possibilities you're considering—forget them. That path leads nowhere but darkness."
Jarik studied Affice's face carefully, his sharp mind clearly working through implications and possibilities. After a long moment, he gave a slow nod. "I understand. The risks outweigh any potential benefits."
"There are no benefits," Affice insisted. "Only prices that are never worth paying."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group, broken only by the continued mechanical sounds of the shop's various displays. Voss looked between his friends with obvious confusion, while Jarik's expression grew thoughtful in a way that made Canjiro's eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Well," Voss said finally, forcing brightness back into his voice, "hypothetical world-ending artifacts aside, would anyone like to see our new line of Exploding Mystery Boxes? We've managed to make them explode in different colors depending on what's inside! And the customer who ordered them has the most adorable assistant who—"
"Voss," Jarik interrupted, but his tone was gentler now. "Perhaps we should save the customer stories for later."
As they prepared to leave the shop, laden with small gifts that Voss had insisted they take despite Jarik's practical protests about profit margins, Bran grinned at Voss. "You know, I think I saw that flower seller you mentioned earlier. The one with the auburn hair near the fountain?"
"That's the one!" Voss exclaimed. "Isn't she magnificent?"
"Quite fetching," Bran agreed. "Though I'm more partial to the blonde who runs the tea shop on Merchant's Lane."
"Gentlemen," Canjiro interrupted mildly, "perhaps we could discuss something other than romantic prospects?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Bran laughed.
Affice lingered by the door as the others continued their banter.
"Jarik," he said quietly, waiting until the others were occupied with Voss's enthusiastic farewells. "I meant what I said about the Relics. They're not what they appear to be."
Jarik's brown eyes met his steadily. "And what do you think we think they are?"
"An opportunity," Affice said simply. "A way to something better than joke shops and reformed respectability. But they're not. They're a doorway into darkness that no one ever comes back from unchanged."
"You came back," Jarik pointed out.
Affice's hand moved to his neck, feeling the invisible weight of the leather pouch against his skin. "Did I? I'm not sure anyone really returns from carrying one of these things. I'm not sure I have."
Jarik stared at him for a long moment, his analytical mind clearly processing this admission. Finally, he nodded once, decisively. "Message received and understood."
"Good," Affice said. "Because I'd hate to lose friends to the same darkness that claimed so many others."
As they prepared to leave the shop, Jarik turned to address all three of them with his characteristic practicality. "One more thing before you go. Next Solisday is our grand opening. We'd like all three of you there—Affice, Bran, Canjiro. The shop won't feel properly opened without our friends present."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Bran said immediately, grinning. "Especially if that redhead with the dimples might be there."
"We'll be there," Canjiro confirmed with a slight nod.
Affice met Jarik's eyes and saw the unspoken understanding there—this was more than just a shop opening, it was a commitment to moving forward together. "Of course. We'll all be there."
As they stepped out into the street, Affice immediately pulled his hood back up, shielding his face from any passersby. The rain had intensified again, providing additional cover as they walked back through the winding streets of Aurelius Quarter, the mist turning to proper rain once again. Affice found himself lost in thought, keeping his head down and staying close to his friends. The easy camaraderie of the evening felt more precious now, shadowed by the knowledge that even his closest friends—good people, people he trusted—could still be tempted by promises of power.
The Wand of Ruin pressed against Affice's neck with every step, a constant reminder that some burdens could never be shared, some knowledge too dangerous to speak aloud. Behind them, the warm glow of shop windows faded into the grey evening, and ahead lay the familiar sanctuary of Thornwick Manor, where the fire would be warm and the tea would be hot and the questions, for a little while at least, could be kept at bay.
As they walked through the gathering dusk, Affice found himself oddly content despite the serious conversation about the Relics. Here, surrounded by his friends—Bran's cheerful commentary about the evening's romantic prospects, Voss's irrepressible enthusiasm for life's small joys, Jarik's steady practicality, and Canjiro's quiet presence—the weight of his burden felt slightly more bearable.
The rain continued to fall as they made their way back to Thornwick Manor, where the fire would be warm and the tea would be hot, and for tonight at least, the questions could wait. Sometimes, Affice reflected, the most important battles weren't fought with magical artifacts or grand gestures, but in these quiet moments of friendship that reminded him what was worth protecting.
Behind them, the lights of Aurelius Quarter flickered warmly through the evening mist, a testament to life continuing, healing, and finding reasons to hope again.