《Tales from the Ashen Field》


 Tales from the Ashen Field – 1

    The battlefield stretched before him, a rotting curtain of death and ruin. Smoke danced on the light breeze, masking the stench of blood with the acrid smell of burnt wood. The scavenger stood at it edge, his shadow long against the dying light of the sun. Behind him, the world of the living ¡ªvillages, markets, the laughter of children¡ªfelt like another life entirely. Ahead lay his domain: the ashen field, where the dead whispered secrets that no one cared to hear. No one, except him.


    He moved slowly, his boots squelching in the mud. Around him, crows cawed and circled, impatient for their feast. He ignored them, focused instead on the task ahead. A knight¡¯s corpse lay slumped near the remnants of a shattered wagon. The man¡¯s armor was dented, the colors of his house lost beneath layers of blood and dirt.


    ¡°Hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± the scavenger muttered as he crouched beside the body. His voice was rough but felt natural. He was used to conversation with the dead. With steady hands, he unbuckled the knight¡¯s breastplate, feeling its weight as he lifted it free. Beneath, the man¡¯s chest had been caved in by a blow that should have ended his life instantly.


    Or so it should have.


    The moment his fingers brushed the knight¡¯s skin, the world blurred like ink spilled on canvas. Pain went through him, sudden and sharp, stealing his breath. When the haze cleared, he was standing in the knight¡¯s place. The roar of battle surrounded him, a loud sound of clashing steel and dying cries. He gripped a banner tightly in his hand, its golden eagle fluttering in the middle of the chaos.


    A sharp, searing pain exploded in his chest. He looked down to see the steel tip of a spear going through his ribs. He staggered, his strength fading, his legs shaking beneath him. The banner fell from his hand, crumpling into the blood-soaked dirt. The scavenger fell with it, the cold earth rising to meet him.


    The golden eagle stared back at him, its once-proud visage blurred by the haze of death. The scavenger didn¡¯t know the banner, but now he did ¡ªHouse Elgar. A proud lineage sworn to the King. Through the knight¡¯s memories, he learned more. The boy¡¯s name was Poyer, and his life unfurled before the scavenger¡¯s eyes like a tapestry frayed at the edges.


    The first memory came with a rush of warmth and innocence: a small boy clutching a wooden sword, his face was covered in joy as he swung it clumsily. ¡°Look, Mother! I¡¯m going to be a great knight like Father!¡± The woman¡¯s laughter was soft and kind, her hands gently guiding his to improve his grip. She was beautiful, with red hair that gleamed in the sunlight. ¡°A knight must also have a noble heart, Poyer,¡± she said. ¡°Bravery without kindness is just cruelty.¡±


    But the warmth faded in an instant, replaced by the icy chill of a later memory. Poyer stood in a dimly lit chamber, staring at his mother¡¯s pale, lifeless face. The illness had taken her quickly, leaving him with nothing but the echoes of her voice. His Father, General Rayk, had not shed a tear. ¡°Grief is a luxury for peasants,¡± he said, his voice cold as the stone walls around them. ¡°We are Elgars. We endure. We survive. We win.¡±


    Poyer tried to endure. He threw himself into training, hoping to fill the void with purpose. The scavenger felt the boy¡¯s pride when he finally bested his peers in swordplay, when he saw the glimmer of approval in Rayk¡¯s eyes. But it was never enough.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Another memory pushed the old one away, this one was stained with anger and frustration. Poyer stood before his father, his fists clenched. ¡°I don¡¯t want this!¡± he shouted. ¡°I want to study, to learn about the world beyond swords and battles.¡±


    Rayk¡¯s fury was enormous. ¡°No son of mine will dishonor our bloodline! Knighthood is your destiny, as it was mine, as it was your grandfather¡¯s. You are an Elgar, and Elgars do not stray from tradition!¡±


    The scavenger felt Poyer¡¯s helpless rage, the suffocating weight of expectation. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but the chains of duty held him trapped. His dreams of study, of exploring the histories and cultures of distant lands, disappeared under his father¡¯s iron will.


    The memories shifted again, softer this time. Poyer knelt before his king, his head bowed as the blade tapped his shoulder. His father¡¯s stern gaze watched from the crowd, celebrating his triumph. But there was something else ¡ªa flicker of pride, faint and fleeting. It was enough for Poyer to hold on to, even as the years turned that flicker to ash.


    The final memory came like a wave, pulling the scavenger into the heart of the battle. Poyer stood amidst the chaos, his father fighting beside him. Rayk shouted his commands. ¡°Hold the line! For the King!¡±


    Poyer wanted to say something ¡ªanything¡ªto his father. To ask if he¡¯d ever truly been proud of him, if he¡¯d ever loved him. But the words died in his throat as an arrow found its mark. Rayk fell, his body crumpling to the ground.


    Poyer¡¯s rage burned bright, but it was short-lived. The scavenger felt the spear pierce his chest, felt his strength leave him. As he fell, he reached for his father, their fingers brushing briefly before darkness claimed them both.


    And then, silence.


    The scavenger blinked, his hands trembling as he returned to the present. The knight¡¯s body lay still before him, unmoving, but the scavenger felt his rage, his sorrow, and his final, desperate thought: I failed him.


    But there was more to it. A deeper reflection, a whispered regret that felt like it belonged to the father rather than the son. The scavenger hesitated before reaching out again ¡ªthis time, not to the son, but to the father.


    Rayk¡¯s skin was cold, but as his fingers brushed over the hardened surface, he felt a different shift. He didn¡¯t see the battlefield or hear the clash of swords; instead, he felt the crushing weight of responsibility ¡ªthe very thing that had kept General Rayk up at night, alone in his chambers. He saw through the older man¡¯s eyes, through the pain and loss that never showed on the surface.


    Rayk had wanted more for his son. But in his eyes, knighthood was more than just an honor ¡ªit was a legacy, a duty to uphold the family name. He¡¯d always felt that burden, a burden his father had passed down to him, and that Poyer was meant to carry as well. The joy Rayk felt when Poyer wielded his first sword was not just the happiness of a father proud of his son¡¯s accomplishments. It was the relief that the boy would follow his footsteps and save him from his own mistakes, from his own regrets.


    Rayk¡¯s thoughts rushed through the scavenger¡¯s mind as if they were his own. He saw the moment of tenderness¡ªthe late nights when his wife had passed away, and Rayk had cried alone in the darkness of his study, ashamed of his weakness. He had told himself that showing emotion was a sign of failure, that to be strong was to be unfeeling. But when Poyer had come to him, desperate to escape this path, Rayk had buried that guilt deep within, telling himself that he was doing the right thing for the boy. For his future.


    I wanted him to be strong, Rayk thought, his voice no longer harsh but heavy with sorrow. I wanted him to know that strength comes from discipline, from duty. But I never told him that I cried for him, for the path I forced him onto. That the greatest weakness I had was that I didn¡¯t allow him to dream.


    The scavenger pulled his hand back, shaken by the memories of Rayk. He had never been a father, never even entertained the thought of family, but he understood something in that moment. The heavy weight of legacy, the quiet pain of duty, and the silent plea of a father who had wanted more than to ensure his son¡¯s survival¡ªno matter the cost.


    The knight¡¯s body lay still before him, but the scavenger now saw it through both their eyes¡ªthe son who sought freedom, and the father who had shackled him with the very strength he had believed to be a virtue.


    He let out a heavy breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. ¡°Doesn¡¯t change much, does it?¡± he murmured, though the words felt hollow. But it wasn¡¯t the knight¡¯s pain he mourned now. It was the grief of two generations, locked in an endless struggle to protect and to love, yet never able to fully understand each other.


    He strapped the breastplate to his back and stood up. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the battlefield. Around him, the crows had begun their grim feast. The scavenger paid them no mind. There were more dead to strip while it was safe, and more stories waiting in the stillness of the battlefield.

 A Walk in New Boots - 2

    Rat''s feet felt strange as he entered the town gates. The leather boots, freshly looted from the dead knight, hugged his feet in a way his old ragged shoes never could. They weren''t just boots; they were a second skin, soft but firm. He flexed his toes inside them as he stepped onto the cobbletone road, feeling the smooth stone beneath his feet, where his feet had once ached against hard leather.


    The streets welcomed him back: the clang of a blacksmith''s hammer, the loud voice of a peddler hawking apples, the laughter of children running between wagons. But Rat''s eyes barely noticed the colors and bustle above ground. His gaze was fixed downward, to where his new boots made their first journey across the town.


    The cobblestones were uneven, worn smooth in places by generations of passing feet and carwheels. Between the stones, narrow cracks were filled with dirt, stray straw, and the occasional gleam of a copper coin long pressed into the stone. The boots felt the shift of each stone under him. His old shoes would''ve stumbled on this uneven path, the soles too thin to protect against the sharp jut of a stubborn cobblestone. But these boots, oh, they were different. They guided his steps as if the road itself were yielding to their authority.  Rat let a grin form at the end of his lips. ?Nice boots for a nobody,¡° he muttered to himself.


    He passed a puddle left by the morning rain, its surface moving on the soft breeze. His reflection wavered for a moment before his new boots stepped through it, removing the image. The leather didn''t soak up the water, something new for a change.


    The boots carried him into the busy market square, where the ground turned gritty beneath his feet. A thin layer of sand and ash covered the stone, remnants of spilled gods and the tread of countless wagons. Rat felt the shift underfoot, the subtle crunch of grit as the boots pressed it deeper into the shape of the stones.


    Just like the dead on the battlefield, the ground here told its own stories. Scattered peels of bruised fruit lay trampled and browning. A wet smear of something that Rat couldn''t recognize glistened under the sun. Rat paused to step over it, not wanting to step into it with his new boots. His old shoes would''ve soaked up the muck, clinging to it like a stray dog to scraps.


    The stalls around him spilled over with goods, their owners shouting over one another. ?Ripe pears! Sweet as a maiden''s kiss!¡° one woman yelled, while another argued loudly with a customer over the price of salt. Rat''s eyes locked at them briefly, but his focus returned to the ground as a wheelbarrow went past, its iron-rimmed wheel leaving a thin line in the dirt. The boots stepped carefuly aside, their agility surprising him.


    He imagined the female knight who''d worn these boots before him, moving confidently through a place like this. Perhaps the woman had been here once, her polished heels moving fast, her head held high. Did these boots remember that? Could they feel the difference in their new master, the way Rat''s feet felt the difference?


    The noise of the square faded behind him. In the alley the ground shifted again. The cobblestones disappeared, and damp earth embraced him,cool beneath the boots. A trail of muddy footprints led deeper into the shadows, their edges sharp and fresh. Rat''s steps followed them, his boots leaving their own imprint beside the others. He glanced down to see a broken shard of pottery sticking up from the dirt. His old shoes would¡¯ve snagged on it, tearing further, but the boots brushed past without a scratch. He grinned again, a small, private smile of satisfaction. ¡°Didn¡¯t think I¡¯d ever own anything this fine,¡± he murmured.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Rat pushed open an old wooden door at the end of the alley, its iron hinges creaking loudly making him wince. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, a single oil lamp casting long shadows across shelves filled with odds and ends: tarnished goblets, chipped daggers, tiny glass bottles filled with suspiciously dark liquids, etc. It smelled bad, like old leather, and like dried blood.


    Behind the cluttered counter stood a small man with a sharp nose and thin, gray hair that stuck out beneath a greasy cap. He was bent over a set of scales, squinting through big glasses that looked too big for his face. He didn¡¯t glance up as Rat entered, only mumbled, ¡°If it¡¯s stolen, don¡¯t tell me. If it¡¯s cursed, definitely don¡¯t tell me.¡±


    Rat chuckled softly, closing the door behind him. ¡°Always the same speech,¡± he thought to himself. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it, Kraal.¡±


    The man finally looked up, his blue eyes looked to Rat¡¯s boots before narrowing suspiciously. ¡°Those are new,¡± he said, pointing a bony finger. ¡°What poor lad did you nick those off of?¡±


    ¡°Knight,¡± Rat replied casually, stepping closer to the counter. ¡°Didn¡¯t need them where she was going.¡±


    Kraal snorted, the sound harsh and wet. ¡°War¡¯s a fine thing for folk like us. Brings all the shiny things out to the surface. What¡¯ve you got for me today?¡±


    Rat put down his pack, dropping it onto the counter with a heavy sound. Kraal¡¯s eyes lit up like a starving man before a banquet. Rat pulled the drawstring loose and began laying out his loot: a few dented helms, a handful of silver rings, and a longsword with a nicked blade. Kraal picked each item up with nimble fingers, turning them over, sniffing here and there as if he could smell their worth.


    ¡°Silver¡¯s decent,¡± Kraal muttered, weighing one of the rings in his palm. ¡°Helms are shite. Too dented. Can¡¯t sell them to anyone with a brain. The sword¡­¡± He trailed off, tapping the blade. ¡°Well, some idiot¡¯ll buy it.¡±


    Rat leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as he watched Kraal haggle with himself, muttering numbers under his breath. He¡¯d heard this routine a dozen times before and knew better than to interrupt.


    ¡°You know,¡± Kraal said suddenly, looking up, ¡°it¡¯s getting harder to sell battlefield scraps. Too many bodies, not enough buyers. Every fool with a stomach for death thinks they¡¯re a looter now.¡±


    Rat smirked. ¡°Then maybe you should¡¯ve taken up farming, Kraal.¡±


    The old man laughed, short and bitter. ¡°And let some lord take half my yield for taxes? No, thanks. I¡¯ll stick to the filth I know.¡± He pointed at Rat¡¯s pile of goods. ¡°Five coppers for the lot.¡±


    ¡°Five?¡± Rat looked surprised. ¡°That sword¡¯s worth three on its own!¡±


    ¡°It was,¡± Kraal said, wiggling his finger at the nicked blade. ¡°Before whoever owned it last used it to hack at rocks. Five¡¯s generous.¡±


    ¡°Seven,¡± Rat countered, narrowing his eyes.


    ¡°Six and a loaf of bread,¡± Kraal said.


    ¡°Deal,¡± Rat accepted defeat, knowing he wouldn¡¯t win. Kraal swept the items into a sack, tossing six coins and a stale-looking loaf onto the counter in exchange.


    As Rat reached for the bread, Kraal¡¯s eyes caught onto something around his neck. He froze, his sharp nose twitching. ¡°Hold on,¡± he said, leaning closer. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    Rat¡¯s hand instinctively moved to the silver chain beneath his tunic, his fingers curling around it, protecting it. ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Nothing my arse. Let me see.¡±


    Rat hesitated, but Kraal was already moving around the counter, his bony fingers grasping at the chain.


    Rat batted his hand away, but not before the pendant slipped free, catching the dim light. It was small, elegant, a teardrop of polished obsidian framed by delicate silver filigree. It didn¡¯t match anything else Rat owned¡ªtoo refined, too expensive.


    Kraal whistled. ¡°Well, well. That¡¯s a beauty. Where¡¯d you get it?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Rat said, tucking it back under his tunic.


    ¡°Matters to me,¡± Kraal said. ¡°Rat, you¡¯ve got no business wearing something like that. Let me take it off your hands. I¡¯ll give you twenty coppers.¡±


    Rat shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not for sale.¡±


    ¡°Fifty, then,¡± Kraal said, his eyes gleaming. ¡°You could eat for a month on fifty coppers.¡±


    ¡°I said no.¡± Rat¡¯s voice was firm.


    Kraal raised his hands in mock surrender, but the hunger in his eyes hadn¡¯t faded. ¡°Suit yourself. Just seems a shame for something so fine to hand around your neck.¡±


    Rat ignored him, pulling his pack onto his shoulder. ¡°Thanks for the bread, Kraal.¡±


    As he stepped outside, the cool air hit his face, and the noise of the alley swallowed him again. Rat¡¯s hand went to the pendant, his fingers tracing its smooth surface through the fabric of his tunic. He thought of the knight on the field, her body still warm when he¡¯d pulled the chain from her neck. Her skin had been soft, unmarred by the callouses of labor or the scars of war. It had unsettled him, how human she¡¯d seemed in death.


    He shook the thought away and focused on the boots carrying him forward, one step at a time.

 The Secret Place Beneath - 3

    Rat rolled the pendant between his fingers as he leaned against a cold stone wall in a deserted corner of the town. The silver chain felt alive somehow, like it had a heartbeat faintly beating in time with his own. His mind wandered back to the night before, to the moment when he had pulled it from the knight''s neck, his hand brushing her skin.


    He had looted hundreds of bodies before, but this time, it had been different. The second his fingers grazed her flesh, he''d felt a shock, a burning sensation that moved fast up his arm and nearly made him drop the necklace. Then the visions began.


    The fire crackled in front of him, its light flickering across the ground. Rat sat frozen, his legs folded beneath him, as though some unseen, mysterious force pinned him there. Across the flames sat the knight, or what was left of her.


    Her armor was gone, leaving her in a blood-stained tunic, but the right side of her face was unrecognizable. Bone poked from the exposed half of her skull, tendons hung in frayed ribbons, and one eye stared lifelessly from its ruined socket. The other eye, however, was alive, burning into him with an intensity that made him shiver. Strands of her blonde hair, covered in blood and mud, clung to her scalp, and her lips-split and dark with dried blood-curved into a bad try of a smile.


    ?You took it,¡° she said, her voice dry, like a whisper that carried the weight of the grave. The flames danced in her good eyes, moving around.


    Rat tried to speak, to say that he''s sorry, to make an excuse, but his mouth wouldn''t work. His fingers still gripped the necklace tightly, as if his life depended on it.


    ?Good,¡° the knight continued, leaning forward, her ruined flesh shifted and stretched. ?I need you to have it.¡°


    The words confused him, but he couldn''t ask for clarification. He could feel the air around him thickening, pressing down on his chest.


    ?I died,¡° she said, the firelight flickering shadows across her broken face. ?But my story isn''t done.¡°


    Visions flared before Rat''s eyes, as though he was looking through a fogged glass. He saw a small, stone manor in a valley of green, a younger version of the knight standing at its gates, and an even smaller child standing by her.  Her armor gleamed as she hugged the child-her sister, perhaps?- who clung to her as if she would never let go.


    The image shattered, replaced by the chaos of a battlefield. The knight charged forward, her sword moving fast through the air, the small obsidian gleaming at her throat. Blood splattered across her face, and her lips curled in pain. The knight fell to her knees, the darkness embracing her.


    ?Find her,¡° she said, her good eye fixing onto Rat. ?Find my sister. The pendant belongs to her.¡°


    Rat''s tongue finally began moving again. ?W-why me?¡° he asked, his voice trembling. ?I''m no one. Just a rat who picks at the scraps of the dead.¡°Stolen novel; please report.


    Her head tilted, for a moment she looked more like a corpse than human. ?Because you touched me,¡° she said simply. ?You saw me. Now, you carry my story.¡°


    The fire flared suddenly, the flames roaring higher and brighter, swallowing her form until she was nothing but a silhouette. The air around him grew hotter, suffocating, and Rat shut his eyes against the blinding light. When he opened them, the fire was gone, and he was back on the battlefield, his hand holding the necklace, the knight''s lifeless body was before him.


    ?Find her sister,¡° he muttered to himself, his voice low and skeptical. ?Sure. Like that''ll go well.¡°


    But even as he tried to dismiss the knight¡¯s words, a part of him¡ªthe part that had lived on scraps and survived by instinct¡ªknew he wouldn¡¯t be able to ignore them.


    Rat slid the necklace back under his tunic and slipped into the sewers through a hidden hatch, one of many scattered across the city that only he seemed to know about. The stench hit him immediately. Rot, dampness, shit, and decay. But it didn¡¯t bother him anymore. He had lived with it for too long. The darkness swallowed him as he closed the hatch, the faint light of the alley disappearing behind the false wall.


    The sewers were a maze of tunnels, twisting and turning beneath the city like a serpent''s spine. Water dripped from above, its steady plink echoing off the slimy stone walls. Rat moved fast, because he spent a lifetime navigating these passages. He didn¡¯t need a torch; every crack, every turn was etched into his memory.


    This was his world¡ªa hidden place where no one could find him. When he was a boy, chased by angry merchants or cutthroat bandits, the sewers were his safe place. He would slip into the darkness, disappearing into its labyrinthine depths while his pursuers cursed and stumbled behind him.


    Rat¡¯s secret sanctuary lay at the end of a narrow, twisting passage that most would overlook. To reach it, he had to squeeze through a gap in the wall, his body twisting sideways to fit through the narrow space. Beyond it, the tunnel widened into a small chamber carved into the stone.


    The chamber was barely tall enough for him to stand upright, its ceiling low and arched. It smelled of mildew and stagnant water, but to Rat, it was home. A pile of blankets sat in one corner, patched and frayed but warm enough to keep the cold at bay. A few scattered items¡ªan old wooden bowl, a chipped flask, a small pouch of salt¡ªrested neatly along the walls.


    It was dry, at least, even when the sewers flooded after heavy rains. Rat had spent countless nights here, curled up beneath his blankets while the city above carried on, oblivious to his existence.


    But this place wasn¡¯t just a refuge. It was the last place he had seen his mother alive.


    The memory came back to him, unwelcomed. He had been a boy, maybe nine or ten, huddled in the corner while his mother lay on the ground. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow and uneven. Fever had taken her, and there was nothing Rat could do but sit and hold her hand.


    She had whispered to him, her voice barely audible over the drip of water from the ceiling. He couldn¡¯t remember her words anymore, just the way her hand had gone limp in his. He had stayed with her all night, too afraid to leave, too numb to cry.


    Rat shook his head, forcing the memory to go away. He crouched down by his blankets, rummaging through the small stash of belongings he kept here. He pulled on an extra layer of clothing¡ªa patched woolen tunic¡ªand tightened his belt. Winter had come, and the sewers were colder than usual.


    He didn¡¯t know where to start. The knight¡¯s words echoed in his mind¡ªFind my sister. It seemed impossible, like a cruel joke played on him by a dead woman. But something about the necklace, about the way her half-ruined face had stared at him through the flames, made it feel less like a choice and more like a duty.


    Rat tucked the necklace back into his tunic and grabbed his knife¡ªa crude but reliable blade he¡¯d found on the battlefield years ago. He strapped it to his belt, checked his boots, and adjusted his jacket.


    As he prepared to leave, he glanced around the chamber one last time. This place had been his refuge, his home, his graveyard of memories. Now, it felt like it was urging him onward, pushing him back into the world above.


    With a deep breath, Rat ducked into the tunnel, his steps quick and silent. The hunt was beginning, and the sewers carried him toward the unknown.

 House Always Wins - 4

    The winter wind sliced through the air like a sword, cutting Rat''s exposed skin as he moved across the field. The snow covered the floor in uneven drifts, stained red and brown where the earth swallowed the violence of men. The sky above was dull, gray, heavy with the promise of more snow.


    Rat shivered, pulling his patched coat tighter around him as he tried to move fast through the aftermath of the battle. The day lasts shorter, the wild animals come sooner. He doesn''t have much time left. His breath was visible. The visible puffs rising like ghostly figures into the cold air. The ground beneath his boots was terrible to walk on-frozen mud with patches of ice that cracked with each cautious step.


    The dead lay scattered like broken toys, their armor dulled and their bodies twisted in unnatural poses. Some were half-buried in the snow, their faces turned towards the sky in silent screams. Others had been stripped of anything useful, their belongings claimed by those who had come before Rat. Today, once again, he was late because of his search for the unknown sister of the female knight.


    But he didn''t mind, he was patient. Always patient.


    Rat crouched by a fallen soldier, his gloved hands moving fast. The man''s armor was dented and bloodied, the tunic beneath torn to shreds. Rat tugged at the leather pouch hanging from the soldier''s belt, something inside it was jingling softly. Coins, perhaps, or maybe a few trinkets. He pocketed it without a second thought.


    A faint sound caught his attention-the whisper of the wind through shattered helmets, the creak of a corpse shifting under the weight of ice. Rat ignored it, focusing instead on the next body.


    This one was younger, barely a man, his pale face half-hidden beneath a tangle of frostbitten hair. His hands were curler around something, fingers stiff and frozen in place. Rat kneeled down to get a closer look.


    The dead man held a pair of dice.


    They were carved from bone, their surfaces worn smooth from use. One lay in his palm, the other caught between his fingers. Rat''s mouth released another ghost as he reached out, his gloved hand trembling slightly. He froze for a moment, he wanted to know the story behind the pair of dice. Rat took off his glove, and while grabbing the dice, he touched the man''s skin. It was freezing.


    The moment Rat''s bare fingers touched the man''s frozen skin, a jolt like lightning shot through him. His breath slowed down, and the field around him seemed to vanish. Rat was no longer kneeling in the frozen aftermath of a battle; he was somewhere else entirely.


    He stood in a dimly lit tavern, the scent of stale ale and desperation filled his nostrils. The clatter of dice echoed off wooden walls, punctuated by jeers and laughter. The man was there, alive and vibrant, but hollow in a way that Rat could feel in his own chest.


    The young man leaned over a crude table, his eyes wide and wild. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands trembled as they hovered over the dice. A small pile of coins sat before him, pitiful compared to the stacks of wealth his opponents had.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Come on, come on,¡± the gambler whispered, pleading.


    He rolled the dice, and they tumbled across the table. The room held its breath.


    Snake eyes.


    The gambler¡¯s face fell, and the crowd erupted in mocking laughter. Someone clapped him on the back, hard enough to make him stumble.


    ¡°Better luck next time, boy,¡± an old man laughed, taking the rest of the man¡¯s coin.


    But there was no next time. Not for him.


    The vision shifted, blurring into another scene. The gambler sat hunched over a small hearth, his mother¡¯s tired face barely visible in the weak flicker of firelight.


    ¡°You promised,¡± she said, her voice heavy with disappointment. She clutched a tattered scarf around her shoulders, her hands frail and knotted from years of hard work.


    ¡°I know,¡± the gambler said, his voice barely audible. ¡°I¡¯ll make it right, Ma. I swear.¡±


    But the scarf on her shoulders was gone a week later, sold for a handful of coins.


    Another shift, faster this time. The gambler was running through a narrow alley, his breath ragged and desperate. A man shouted behind him, his voice laced with fury.


    ¡°Thief! Get back here!¡±


    The gambler clutched a small purse to his chest, his legs burning as he sprinted. But the shadows swallowed him, and the next time Rat saw him, the gambler was sitting alone in a makeshift camp.


    The dice were in his hand, his only remaining possession. He rolled them over and over, as if hoping they might finally bring him the fortune they had always denied.


    The final shift came with a sharp, icy clarity. The gambler stood in a line of soldiers, his armor ill-fitting and his face pale with fear.


    ¡°This is it,¡± he murmured, clutching the dice in one hand and a crude sword in the other. ¡°This is where it turns around.¡±


    But the god of luck had abandoned him long ago.


    Rat blinked, the vision shattering like glass. He was back on the battlefield, the cold biting into his exposed skin. He stared at the dice in his hand, their smooth surfaces gleaming faintly in the weak winter light.


    ¡°Guess it didn¡¯t turn around after all,¡± he muttered, pulling his glove back on.


    He straightened and glanced at the field around him, the dead lying silent and still. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its voice sharp and mournful.


    Rat walked on, his boots crunching through the icy crust of the battlefield. It wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d seen someone¡¯s life play out like that¡ªclear, raw, and uninvited. He¡¯d touched enough bodies to know the stories they carried didn¡¯t always end with peace. The gambler''s tale was just another in a long line of sad, broken lives that reached him too late.


    Gamblers always lose. The thought came unbidden, sharp as the winter wind. Whether it¡¯s dice or life itself, the odds never favor the desperate. He felt a flicker of pity for the boy¡¯s mother, though. She didn¡¯t deserve the burden of her son¡¯s mistakes. Most didn¡¯t. What good is working your fingers to the bone if your child still rolls the dice and bets everything you¡¯ve scraped together? Did she even know he was dead? Did she wait by the window every evening, straining to hear his voice? Or had she already given up, knowing luck never ran in their family?


    Rat¡¯s lips tightened. He didn¡¯t want to think about it. He¡¯d wasted too much time before¡ªletting the stories of strangers settle in his mind like unwelcome guests, haunting him with questions that had no answers.


    They died, and then he learned their stories. What use was that? He couldn¡¯t warn them. He couldn¡¯t stop their foolishness or make them pick another path. By the time the echoes reached him, it was already too late. The gambler would still have rolled the dice. The knight would still have drawn her sword. The stories didn¡¯t change anything, and neither could Rat.


    He shook his head sharply, trying to push the thoughts aside. The world didn¡¯t stop for a dead man¡¯s regrets. If he lingered on them, he¡¯d freeze before he made it back to the sewers. And then who would be left to deliver the knight¡¯s necklace? No one, that¡¯s who. At least now, for the first time ever, he had a chance to do something good for the dead.


    With a sigh, he adjusted his coat and pressed on, focusing on the next body ahead.

 The Obsidian Thread - 5

    Ever since that day when he escaped with his mother, Rat''s dreams were never peaceful. The cold darkness of his sewer hideaway faded, replaced by the dim glow of a campfire. The flames licked at the darkness around him, casting shadows that moved unnaturally, too alive for the lifeless wood they burned.


    Across the fire, she sat. The female knight. Her once-proud armor was tarnished, split open where her mortal wounds had ended her life. Half of her face was gone, exposing raw muscle and pale bone, yet her remaining eye carried more life than in most men. Her lips, torn, moved strange.


    ¡°Three days,¡± she said, her voice low like the wind that moved through hollow trees.


    ¡°Three days, Rat. Why haven¡¯t you found her yet?¡±


    Rat shifted uncomfortably. The ground beneath him felt solid and yet not, like sand slipping beneath his feet. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze.


    ¡°I tried,¡± he said. "I¡¯ve been looking, I swear. I asked around, I poked through places¡ªhell, I even risked a trip into the town archives. But I don¡¯t know her name. I don¡¯t know where you lived. What am I supposed to do, walk up to every stranger and ask if they¡¯re your bloody sister?"


    The knight didn¡¯t move.


    ¡°You were clever enough to find my necklace,¡± she said. ¡°Clever enough to find your way out of every trap and beating life has thrown at you. But now you falter?¡±


    Rat felt a spike of guilt. He pulled his knees up to his chest, the firelight dancing in his reflective eyes. "It¡¯s not like that. I¡¯m not faltering, I just..." He trailed off, gripping the necklace tightly in his hand.


    Her gaze softened, but only just. "She¡¯s all I have left, Rat. My sister. You saw me. You saw what I was. I need you to take care of her."


    "Why me?" Rat asked, his voice low. "Why did you pick me, of all people?"


    "Because you see what others cannot," she said. "And because you carry the dead, even when you think you don¡¯t."


    The fire between them crackled, the flames casting long, skeletal shadows all around them.


    "I¡¯ll try again," Rat murmured, more to himself than to her. "But I can¡¯t promise anything."


    "You have to," the knight said, her voice firm. "Promise me."


    Rat hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. I promise."


    The knight¡¯s figure began to blur, her edges dissolving into the flickering light of the fire. "Find her," she said, her voice echoing as if from a great distance. "Don¡¯t waste time."


    The fire died suddenly, plunging him into darkness. Rat jolted awake in his hidden sewer room, the cold air biting at his face. The necklace felt like ice against his skin.


    He sat there in the dim light, staring at the cracked wall ahead of him. "Don¡¯t waste time," he muttered to himself, her words a ghostly echo in his mind. But the frustration bubbled beneath his skin.


    "Easy for you to say," he growled softly, his breath visible in the cold. "You¡¯re dead. You don¡¯t have to figure out where to start."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Rat sat in his sewer hideout, knees drawn to his chest, chewing on a stale crust of bread. The damp walls echoed with the distant drip of water, a sound he had long grown numb to. The female knight¡¯s words lingered in his mind like a sour taste, her sharp gaze cutting deeper than her accusations.


    ¡°Find her,¡± he muttered to himself, breaking the silence. His voice sounded small in the vast emptiness of the tunnels. ¡°Don¡¯t waste time.¡±


    But where to start? He pressed his palm to his forehead, the necklace dangling from his neck as if it carried all the weight of the world.


    He needed a thread, something to pull at. A lead. Anything. His mind raced, sifting through fragments of what he¡¯d seen in the knight¡¯s blurred memories: the crackling fire, the faint outlines of a small house, the texture of fabric¡ªa blanket, maybe? It was little to go on, but it was more than nothing.


    His gaze drifted to the pouch of coins he¡¯d taken from the battlefield the day before. Money. It wasn¡¯t much, but it might be enough to grease a few palms. The archives were a dead end, but rumors and loose tongues? Those he could work with.


    He stood abruptly, shoving the bread into his coat pocket. ¡°Start with the drinkers,¡± he said to himself. ¡°Always starts there.¡±


    The taverns. Rat knew them well¡ªnot as a customer but as a shadow. Drunks loved to talk, and the keepers loved their coin. If the knight had family, someone must¡¯ve known her before she donned armor and marched to her death.


    He slipped out of his hideout, the hidden wall sliding closed behind him with a low groan. The sewers were dark, the faint light of his lantern casting shadows that twisted and danced with each step. His boots made soft splashes against the damp floor, the sound muffled as he moved with ease.


    The world above was cold and gray when he emerged, the wind cutting through his coat. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the necklace tucked securely beneath his shirt.


    The first tavern he went to was a shithole. The filthy building called The Spotted Hound, with its wooden sign swinging on rusty chains, welcomed him with the stink of sour ale and sweat even before he opened the door.


    Inside, it actually felt nice, compared to the bitter cold outside. A fire roared in the heart, casting a flickering glow over the wooden tables and the crowd of drinkers who sat all over the place.


    Rat scanned the room quickly, his sharp eyes picking out potential targets. A group of older men near the fire caught his attention¡ªtheir worn clothes and faded scars marked them as veterans, men who might¡¯ve fought alongside the knight.


    He approached the barkeep first, sliding a coin across the counter. The man, thick-necked and sour-faced, raised an eyebrow but took the coin without comment.


    ¡°Looking for someone,¡± Rat said quietly. ¡°A knight. Woman. Fair hair. Don¡¯t know her name, but she might¡¯ve had family around here.¡±


    The barkeep grunted, wiping a filthy rag over the counter. ¡°Lot of folks passed through here before the battle. You¡¯ll need to be more specific.¡±


    Rat clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling. He slipped another coin onto the counter. ¡°Think harder.¡±


    The barkeep¡¯s eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Rat. ¡°Ask old Jasper,¡± he said, nodding towards the group by the fire. ¡°He¡¯s got a memory like a steel trap¡ªwhen he¡¯s not too deep in his cups.¡±


    Rat nodded and made his way to the group. Jasper was easy to pick out¡ªa wiry man with a thick gray beard and sharp eyes.


    He looked up as Rat approached, his hand resting on the mug of ale in front of him.


    ¡°Who¡¯re you, then?¡± Jasper asked, his tone gruff.


    ¡°Just a guy looking for answers,¡± Rat said, pulling a chair close. ¡°About a knight who fought in the last battle. Fair-haired woman, might¡¯ve had family around here.¡±


    Jasper leaned back, his gaze narrowing. ¡°Fair-haired knight, huh? That¡¯s not much to go on.¡±


    ¡°She had a necklace,¡± Rat said, hesitating before describing it. ¡°Obsidian. Looked like it belonged to someone important.¡±


    Jasper¡¯s eyes widened slightly, and he exchanged a glance with the man beside him. ¡°I might know something,¡± he said slowly. ¡°But my memory¡¯s a bit foggy.¡±


    Rat reached into his pocket, pulling out the pouch of coins and placing it on the table. ¡°Maybe this¡¯ll clear it up.¡±


    Jasper grinned, his teeth yellow and uneven. ¡°Now you¡¯re speaking my language.¡±


    The old man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°There was a family¡ªmight¡¯ve been her kin. Had a place out near the eastern woods. Small farmstead, nothing fancy.¡±


    Rat¡¯s heart quickened. A thread, finally. He stood, sliding a few more coins onto the table. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me yet,¡± Jasper called after him as Rat made his way to the door. ¡°Eastern woods are a dangerous place, lad. Especially for someone like you.¡±


    Rat didn¡¯t respond, his mind already racing. He had a direction now, a place to start. For the first time, it didn¡¯t feel impossible.