Chapter 3: Already Over?

Vaste woke before dawn.

A habit built over years—Guild-approved requests posted at sunrise, and for a solo adventurer like her, a good job early meant fewer headaches later. She didn't need to take a new one today, but her body pulled her out of light sleep anyway.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, listening to the breathing from the next bed.

Glaze was asleep on the other cot.

"I'm going back to the inn. You should go."

"What's an inn?"

"A place you pay to stay."

"Can I stay with you?"

"No."

Last night, after lying down, Glaze had tossed and turned endlessly. Vaste, with her sharp hearing, barely slept through the first half of the night—she'd seriously considered throwing the restless girl out.

"Is this girl with you?"

"No." / "Yes."

But now Glaze lay curled on her side, white hair spread across the pillow, breathing slow and shallow. Her face showed nothing—not peace exactly, more like a blankness that seemed innate. As if even in sleep, she didn't know what to dream.

Vaste rose quietly, tied her hair back, pulled on her coat, and pushed the door open. The floorboards creaked under her feet. At the top of the stairs, she stopped by the window, checking her left arm in the grey morning light. The potion from last night had done its work—the wound was scabbed, a few days from healed. She flexed her fingers, confirmed the tendons were intact, then leaned against the wall and watched the sky brighten.

She didn't understand why this strange girl was so stubborn about following her. But who knew what upsetting a mage—one who looked so young but fought so fiercely—would bring? When the innkeeper had asked whether she wanted a double room, she'd paid an extra seventy percent just to avoid complications, and made it clear to Glaze: one night only.

Today she had things to do. Restock potions, resupply gear, sharpen her blade. Her savings could last a while, but with another mouth to feed, expenses had jumped. Last night's meal had cost nearly double—the white-haired girl wanted to taste everything, even if it was just coarse tavern fare.

Footsteps behind her.

Bare feet on wood—soft, light echoes. Vaste glanced back. Glaze stood at the bedside, rubbing her eyes, white hair tangled, clothes wrinkled and still dusted with the grey dirt from yesterday's ruins.

"Morning," Glaze said.

"..."

"What are you looking at?"

"The wound."

Glaze stepped closer, peered at Vaste's arm. Her gaze lingered a moment—assessing in her own way—then she looked up. "Will it scar?"

"No."

"I see."

She came to stand beside Vaste, also looking out the window. Morning light caught her face, and those grey-blue eyes went almost transparent. She watched the smoke rising from distant rooftops for a while, then spoke suddenly. "It's quiet here."

"Mornings are like this."

"It's different from where I lived." Glaze's tone was almost to herself. "My home was quiet too, but that quiet was empty. This quiet has things in it."

Vaste glanced at her.

She wasn't sure what "things" meant, and she didn't ask. The girl had a strange way of speaking—ordinary words that somehow felt like they were hiding a logic Vaste didn't follow.

"Breakfast downstairs," Vaste said, turning toward the door. "Eat, then you leave."

Glaze turned to look at her.

From an angle Vaste couldn't see, something flickered in her eyes—a faint glint, like a plan forming.

---

Breakfast was the inn's standard fare—dark bread, a small dish of salted butter, watery oatmeal, and a mug of barley tea so weak it barely had flavor. For a cheap inn chosen to avoid attention, it was decent enough.

The common room already had a few early risers. Two miners hunched over their porridge in a corner. A balding man flipped through some papers. By the window, a table of young adventurers in leather armor had already cleaned their plates and were idly tapping spoons against the table's edge.

Vaste picked a seat against the wall, back to the plaster, facing the door. Glaze sat opposite, bit into the black bread, chewed slowly—then stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"Hard," Glaze said. "And sour."

"Dip it in the soup."

Glaze looked down at her oatmeal, hesitated, then broke the bread into pieces and dropped them in. She watched it soften, scooped some up, and tasted. Her expression didn't change much, but her chewing speed picked up.

Vaste looked away and drank her tea. It was lukewarm, with a faint metallic taste from the kettle.

Glaze finished the bread and started on the oatmeal. Midway, she stopped and stared at the notice board behind Vaste. Yellowed wanted posters were pinned there—the top one showed a rough sketch of a scar-faced man, the bounty written larger than the others.

"What's that?"

"Wanted poster."

"Why do they draw faces on paper and stick them up?"

"Bounty." Vaste set down her cup. "Catch that person, get paid."

"Oh." Glaze thought about it. "Have you caught one?"

"Sometimes."

"What did that one do?"

"Doesn't matter. Nothing good, probably."

Glaze tilted her head but didn't press. She finished her oatmeal, set the bowl down, and scanned the room. Her gaze landed back on Vaste.

"Where are we going?"

"I told you to leave."

"What are you going to do?" Glaze pressed.

"Where and what," Glaze murmured to herself, "should probably be one question."

Vaste gave her a look. The girl had a strange fixation on linguistic precision—like yesterday, when she'd said "Why didn't you help her?" instead of "Aren't you worried?" She didn't ask questions to ask them. She asked them to calibrate her understanding.

"The market," Vaste said, standing. "Shopping."

---

Norvic's market radiated from the square, spreading along two main streets. As a border town near the City of Dead and the Ashen Range, it had goods you didn't see elsewhere—relics scavenged from ruins, rare ores brought down by dwarven miners, occasionally textiles and spices from the imperial interior.

Vaste's first stop was the smithy. Hert's forge was north of the market, its fire burning hotter than most, the iron-anvil sign above the door blackened by years of smoke. She handed over her cleaver, explained the edge angle and the nicks, and the old dwarf grunted his acknowledgment, raising three fingers—three hours.

From the smithy, she headed along the main street toward the apothecary. Morning shoppers were thick now—carters with vegetables, miners leading mules, tavern hands carrying empty jugs, all jostling through the narrow lanes.

Glaze walked two paces behind, her head constantly turning.

At first she just watched. The neatly stacked root vegetables at the greengrocer's. The entire side of pork hanging from the butcher's hook. The colorful cloth bundles at the spice stall and the brass scales the vendor kept polishing.

Then she stopped.

At a pottery stall. She crouched down and stared at a small glazed jar for so long that the stall owner started giving her odd looks. She didn't seem to notice.

Time to lose her.

While Glaze was absorbed in her study of the jar, Vaste slipped into the crowd and moved quickly away.

She walked a good distance, checked her surroundings—no sign of the white hair. Good. She didn't need to understand it. Getting tangled with inexplicable people never led anywhere good—at least that's what she told herself.

She came out of the apothecary four gold coins lighter. In exchange: three vials of green liquid in a pouch. Basic herb-based potions, nothing that could heal flesh on the spot, but enough for post-job wound care.

Walking back on the cobblestones, Vaste tallied recent income and expenses. She never spent money where it wasn't needed. She earned well, but she'd rather buy a good weapon than eat at a fancy restaurant.

One last stop: the Guild. Report yesterday's job, collect the bounty for the three Rottenbone Riders. One of which wasn't even killed by her—she recalled the girl's magic, her mind half-elsewhere as she pushed open the Guild door.

"You're in my way."

A familiar voice, right in front of her.