I Spring

6 Years Later

" I 've been having visions."

Sol Sinclair stares back at his mentor, dead-eyed, a hollow hole blooming ‘round his ribcage. "Or, more so, I've been causing them."

"And what do you see?"

Androcles leans back into his wood chair.

The two of them sit in the middle of their quaint little Great Tomes things Sol had kept hidden deep inside his heart for decades. Sol fears the consequences of letting them consume him. He mustn't.

Will not. "No,"

Sol shakes his head with his fists firmly planted atop his knees. "They do not bother me. But I would rather they leave."

"Then I recommend you stop mixing that special potion of yours with your herbal tea before bed!"

Androcles shakes his finger at Sol. "It helps you find slumber, yes,"

the elderly man barks out a laugh, "however it is well known to help you find other things, too!"

Sol forces a smile. He scratches at the back of his head. "I'll consider it."

As Androcles rises to his feet, he dusts off his robes and huffs. He peers at Sol again with a smile. "Good night, Solange. I hope you don't mind it, if this old man leaves you to close up shop?"

Sol shakes his head. "Of course not, Androcles."

A numbing pang squeezes his chest, at the memory of his visions, now overlaid atop reality like a ghost he cannot gaze away from. "Good night."

Sol stares at the ceiling. The fatigue of hiding himself like dust to be swept under rugs weighs on him—tonight especially. He huffs, tired and oh so ready to retire in turn, but his eyes widen when he tilts his head toward the window again.

As far as he is aware, Sol has not taken a single thing tonight that could explain this.

And yet, here he is.

Bearing the broadest shoulders in the land as far as Sol is concerned, his short blond hair slicked back and framing aged but brave features—passing by the little potion shop, the man from Sol's slumber appears.

* * *

That morning Sol's pulse thrums in his ears. Sleep was difficult without his usual aid, but he could not bring himself to take that potion again. Not after what happened yesterday.

He must be losing his mind.

He dresses fast, then spends minutes staring at himself in the mirror—or rather, at the self he cannot see. If Sol tries hard enough, he can almost see him. The self from the visions . And not the vessel donning this ill-fitted haircut, this dress snipped and tailored for the woman he's always tried yet failed to be.

Androcles was right: those dreams stopped the moment he cut back on that potion. Now, Sol almost misses it. The nightmares make it difficult to dream, let alone remain long asleep. It is so early in the morning that the sun has barely risen in the sky. But he figures he will get a head start on his day.

He pushes away the image of the man from yesterday.

And the way that man would treat him as a lover in his mind.

It is all so preposterous.

Sol—who has never once taken a lover—being bent over like one of the measuring tools he uses on the daily for his concoctions? "Ridiculous,"

Sol echoes with a broken scoff. "As if that would happen to me."

That's right, Sol thinks to himself as he strides down wooden stairs into the middle of the shop. There is purpose in my giving up on love. Sol would much prefer not being loved at all, than to be loved as someone's woman. And there is the reason why he is living here, too, but he would rather keep forgetting. Just like he is certain he will forget the visions in due time.

He must have been seeing things yesterday. He believes that, yes, until he reaches the shop's transparent windowed-door. The man from his mind is standing right there, waving at him, dressed in a set of ridiculously expensive armor that was most certainly not purchased from Sol's blithe, pitiful town. "Hello! Sorry to intrude. I'm Yohan!"

Sol remains frozen in place. It's definitely him , no doubt about it.

But what does this mean for Sol? Sol's thoughts race. If those truly were visions, Sol cannot make sense of them. He blinks as he stares at the man who holds a polite smile and patiently waits on Sol—but Sol is still replaying a story in his mind, one that raises questions, a fate that has yet to occur. How does this man end up calling him Sol, exactly, when Sol has always kept this name to himself like an outlawed secret? Nobody knows. Nobody but him. Sol hasn't told a person, not even the Gods.

"Could you let me in?"

Yohan's voice is muffled behind the door. "Or, is it too early? I'm well able to come back, if that is best."

Sol's left brow twitches. He cannot comprehend why a soldier of Yohan's stature is being so courteous. It's a little suspicious, and Sol suddenly starts to wonder if those visions may have been ill omens and… not blessings.

He takes a deep breath. Calm yourself, Sol.

You will get that door. And you will not, for any good reason, end up in his Gods' damned bed.

The walk towards the door is agony.

Try as Sol may to resist him, up close, Yohan is as handsome as the man from his dreams. As Sol nears, the intensity of Yohan's gaze has his legs weak. Seeing his dream lover in person is doing things to his loins that he'd rather not admit. What a sad little existence he lives. Sol has become a touch-starved fool whose heart would cling to anyone fitting his ideal; this is what he gets for abstaining, he supposes, the flashbacks from the visions certainly aren't helping either. But, there is fear in his heart, too. And it quickly quiets his yearning.

Sol reaches for the door.

On the other side of the entrance, the thin line by their feet that separates them both, Yohan places a hand over his heart then sighs in relief. "Thank you."

He stares at Sol for a moment in his silence, his eyes widening—Sol assumes this is because the man expected to find Androcles, and not a young woman running his shop.

But it matters little to him. Sol motions for Yohan to enter. "Come in?"

"Ah,"

Yohan blinks. "Yes—of course."

The more Sol interacts with Yohan, the more he wonders if he is mistaken. The man from his dreams was gentle yet domineering. Yohan is… Sol squints as he observes the traveling soldier enter his mentor's shop with an awkward step. A bit of a dork.

Sol leans against the counter, wood creaks. "So, what brings someone like you here?"

He doesn't mean to spit his words like venom, but he is wary. Yohan works for a nobleman no doubt, considering his attire—soldiers of his caliber rarely have use for magic. His mere presence here is an odd sight. A bad omen.

Yohan brings a fist to his lips, he clears his throat. "The King requests your aid."

His eyes meet Sol's. "More specifically, my aid and yours—together."

"Me?"

Sol points to himself in disbelief. "I… think there's been a mistake, I'm not Androcles."

"I'm searching for Solange."

Sol's lips tighten. Ah, but of course, he would call me that.

I don't know what I expected.

Sol ignores the sudden tightness in his chest, he takes a deep breath. "And what services can I offer His Majesty?"

Sol figures he will get this over with quick.

Once Yohan leaves, Sol will reflect on his foolishness. And on the fact that he actually believed in things shown to him by odd side-effects he incurred from that potion. For a few moments, he will perish from shame. And finally, then, will he be free to forget it all.

He will never see Yohan again.

* * *

"Yohan wants me to journey with him to craft a cure for his beloved King,"

Sol tells his mentor, as he crushes his own set of herbs beneath his stone pestle, they break and crackle in the mortar.

"Why not go?"

Sol's hands freeze at Androcles's words. "I-I can't do that!"

Sol motions to the shop, the world around them. "The shop would fall into ruin!"

Androcles places a hand against Sol's shoulder. "Solange, this shop has stood for many years, and will stand for many more centuries to come. Besides,"

he barks out a laugh, "you've made so many potions since you first arrived, I would need at least a few months to burn through them all!"

He walks away, toward the old staircase leading to their bedrooms. "Think about it, yes? Not every apothecary is met with the rare opportunity to travel the lands like this—let alone to service a King. You may not get another chance like this again, Solange."

The sound of that woman's name is like knives to Sol's ears.

Sol merely nods and thanks his mentor. As he works through the night, Yohan's face weighs on his mind, just like the weight of Yohan's sweat clad body was pressed into Sol's back when he dreamed. At the prospect of the journey, excitement courses through his veins. And dread. The visions were fun, but far from Sol's reality, and now that they are aligning with the present Sol cannot help but be afraid. Yohan is here, in his village.

Yohan could touch him.

Yohan could harm him.

* * *

Sol doesn't think he'll ever get used to sleeping without the aid of that potion, it is proving quite difficult to last on four hours of slumber each day, but he refuses to succumb to his urge of taking it once more.

At least, not when Yohan is still around. He wouldn't be able to look the man in the eye, if he were to dream of fucking him every night. "Hello again,"

Sol only greets Yohan because it is the right thing to do, and definitely not because he wondered if he would see him today.

"Good morning!"

Yohan's greeting is the liveliest Sol has ever heard from someone this early in the day. He mildly regrets speaking up, and prays Androcles will be here soon to take over when it comes to their conversation, until Sol remembers his mentor has gone to the markets for the morning.

Sol stares up at Yohan. At the way Yohan towers over him, his shadow darkening Sol's figure as it bleeds onto the counter. The two of them are alone. Sol doesn't think when he steps back once, on instinct, then brings his arms close to his chest. His lower lip quivers. "What brings you here?"

"Have I done something wrong?"

Sol's eye twitches. Ah. Straight to the point, I see. And here Sol hoped he'd been discreet enough for Yohan to disregard his discomfort. "I'm still considering the offer."

Yohan shifts on his feet, he squints when he stares at Sol. "That isn't what I'm referring to. Have I made you uncomfortable, Solange?"

This time, it is Sol's head that disappears into his shoulders, whilst he cringes at the name. "Not really."

Sol tugs on one of his braids and looks away. "I merely get jittery in the mornings, it has nothing to do with you."

Yohan observes him in silence for a moment, he seems to be thinking about something; though what that thing is, Sol hasn't a clue. Eventually, Yohan clears his throat. "Well, as long as I didn't scare you…"

You didn't , Sol wants to say.

It was a man from the past who scared me—who still scares me today.

"Anyway."

Sol's shoulders tense. He rests his hands flat against the counter then stares at them in a vacant, wide-eyed way. "What is your reason for taking me? Can't I simply make the antidote here?"

Yohan shakes his head. "I wish it were that simple, but I need someone like you to identify the ingredients properly. Certain roots growing in the area look similar in size and shape, but are poisonous when picked."

"And His Majesty trusts a stranger to do this over an apothecary from his own royal court?"

A long, exasperated sigh escapes Yohan's lips. "If you must know…"

He pinches at the bridge of his nose and hunches over slightly; it is the first time Sol has ever seen any form of slack in his body. "The royal apothecary was executed last month for cheating on His Majesty's daughter, after being caught in a passionate affair."

Unease grows inside Sol's gut as he wonders what the King may do to him, should he be dissatisfied with his services.

It seems Yohan notices. "A moment."

Yohan raises his palm between them.

Sol holds himself back from flinching, though, his shoulders tense regardless.

Yohan raises a brow briefly, then backs away from Sol as his arm drops to his side again, he clears his throat. "I am aware His Majesty may reign with a cruel hand, but rested assured, I will not let any harm come to you, should you accept our offer."

"…And what's your relationship with the King?"

Sol asks Yohan with a gulp. Because he would like to know, it still is not quite clear.

"That is—"

Yohan scratches at his cheek, and Sol notices a shift in his posture. Something about his tone— about him —is off. "His Majesty begged me to marry into his family, you see! But I declined. Out of guilt, and in hopes of finding forgiveness, I aid His Majesty every now and then…"

Sol hums. "And he let you live?"

"Oh, yes, of course. You see…"

As Yohan continues to provide him with an obviously fabricated explanation, Sol tunes out his words. He furrows his brows then squints to take in the sight of the darkness that follows in the man's shadow, pulsing. It grows, a fog that threatens to engulf Yohan like a serpent coiled around his body. When Sol blinks, the strange vision has disappeared, but its presence remains, lingering. He can feel it on the man. On Yohan.

Yohan, the liar, Sol thinks, before parting his lips again. "And if you see them through the fog— run, "

Sol repeats the legend like an old, soft-spoken song. "Handsome creatures hiding ancient secrets behind the faces of angels, Knights that bring only Death, Harbingers Of Malice: the old King's Cursed Riders."

Yohan's face pales, and that is when Sol realizes he was right. "You came here not because I was most convenient, but because you thought I wouldn't know, didn't you, Harbinger Of Malice? "

Sol's throat tightens into a nervous knot. To think this was the creature he'd been seeing in his dreams…

Yohan freezes. "Does your mentor also—"

"No, he does not know."

Sol shakes his head then points to his ears, the way his elven heritage has shaped him. "It is my gift alone to be able to smell the reek of a curse on you."

At the words, the knight cringes. " Reek? Am I stinking up your store?"

It is interesting, seeing his features scrunched up like this, Yohan had looked so seemingly perfect before: it was hard to believe he was real.

But he is.

"Your curse doesn't smell horrid."

Sol waves Yohan's concerns away; it is true, those who have sought him out for help before may have smelled like rot or worse. But Yohan… "The scent is akin to freshly burnt wood. So, not bad. But noticeable."

A moth dives into the light, the lantern hung high about their heads. There is a sizzle, and then, a pop.

Yohan hooks an arm around the back of his neck. "I suppose it will be hard to convince you now."

He lets out an awkward laugh. "Still, I didn't summon my steed on purpose and walked all the way here on foot. I must say, your talent surprised me."

He sighs. "I regret losing you here."

Sol stares down to his fingernails, rested flat against the wood counter. "It wouldn't be hard…"

he whispers.

And Yohan perks up. "Pardon?"

Sol brings his fists together in a silent prayer. "It wouldn't be hard to convince me."

You already have, he leaves these words unsaid as another customer waltzes into the shop. An almost-too-perfect interruption.

Yohan appears to have questions, but he is out the door as fast as he'd come, once Sol begins to attend to the newcomer. That doesn't matter, however, for Sol knows the knight will return tomorrow. He can sense it in the air.

That night, Sol curls in on himself atop his old mattress and dreams of adventure, foreign lands. He does so the night after that, too, until another week passes.

Sol rouses before the sun illuminates the sky in its usual golden glow. Something inside him tussles about. He grasps at the dark seaweed green fabric that hangs off the spine of his chair; he wraps his cape around his shoulders, slips into his boots. Sol's silhouette vaguely eclipses the flowerbeds nearby as he walks out, following fate to the outskirts of his village. Crows fly above-head, chasing invisible paths in the air. Sol thinks, that he wants to do it, too.

I want to leave.

He parts his lips. His eyes widen as peach light finally appears and breaks over his village, soft clouds reflect against his pupils. The call for adventure is tapping at his door. "I have to leave,"

he mumbles. He's never felt so sure of anything in his life.

I have to go.

* * *

Androcles released him from his duties as fast as a sneeze.

Sol feels as hollow, as he does ready to be filled with the world. Its new sights are slowly opening up to him already. Traveling by foot during such a journey is an interesting change of pace; the sunlight's warmth drapes over his back like a comforting cocoon, and Sol observes the Featherlaine from afar as he and Yohan retreat further away from civilization, they vanish deeper into the mountainside.

This past week bubbles in his mind, alongside the rising breeze that raises his heart in a soft, gentle sway. From telling Yohan he would think it through, having Androcles convince him to go , then seeing Yohan who would visit him every day in case Sol had any questions about their quest… what a strange turn of events Sol's life has suddenly taken.

"Something troubling you?"

It is Yohan's voice.

"I'm not used to this."

Sol falls silent whilst he crushes another pile of rocks, dirt beneath his boots as he strides forward. He yearns to be back home already, coddled up next to a warm fireplace creating trinkets, potions for the villagers. Though that life was suffocating, it suddenly feels as though he is breathing too much, feeling too much; part of him wants to run back to the familiar. Yet here, where the mountainside air tastes good and the white bellflowers dance softly in the spring, Sol can only bring himself to stay.

"You don't travel a lot?"

Sol's eyebrow twitches. "I…"

As much as he craved this adventure, he had also planned to stay away from Yohan. There was no need for them to become anything more than a mere business transaction— an apothecary serving a knight, yes, that is what they should be.

"Solange?"

Sol gulps. He steals a peek at Yohan. Yohan who is dangerous yet charming. Yohan, whom he can't seem to get out of his mind. "No, not really."

Sol grabs at his elbow and squeezes. "At least, I travel less than you."

He tries to will away the visions from his head, the sweet words Yohan would whisper to him in his wildest dreams, the way Yohan would run his hands down the curve of Sol's spine.

If Sol were to lose his body to this man, it would only cause him heartache.

"Ah?"

Yohan forces out a laugh. "Just how many legends of me have you heard, exactly? I'm a little embarrassed now."

He clearly isn't.

Sol squints. "You've no need for modesty, here. No one is watching."

He pauses. "But…my parents used to tell me tales of the Harbingers in hopes of getting me inside by sundown."

Indeed, Sol loved to practice magic once darkness fell, he misses those fields from his childhood sometimes. But that life is one that is long lost now.

"You're watching."

Yohan's voice fills the air between them again. "Isn't that enough?"

He is looking at Sol now—into his eyes—and Sol's chest tightens with the idea that Yohan is truly looking at him. Not right through him.

His mind briefly invokes the idea of them together, again, but that fire is smothered before it can even burn. Sol knows they would eventually part ways, and he would rather not test these reckless waters, where riptides are sure to swirl under their surface.

The numbness of his current life is more manageable, let alone predictable, in comparison to the cold whiplash of loneliness. The gaping hole that would come after experiencing great warmth.

After experiencing love.

Sol knows he would feel it.

Part of him already does, after having those dreams.

And he loathes it.

"I am surprised you aren't afraid of me."

"I was never afraid of you,"

Sol blurts in a moment of weakness, his pupils round and dilated as he fiddles with his backpack's arms. "I kept praying you would take me,"

he admits, in a nonchalant whisper, because it is true. Anything was better than growing up a woman in that town. "But you never came."

Yohan falls silent, then raises a brow at Sol for a moment. "That is…"

He nods to himself, "certainly new."

The knight clears his throat. "Most young women fear me—you are the first who hasn't run."

As he stares up to the sky, he asks Sol, after a moment, "Whatever happened? For you to wish such things…"

And Sol clutches at fabric that covers his chest, as his heart tightens alongside his throat. He thinks of the past. His parents. The people he no longer talks to. "My mother thought it best if I were raised amongst human kin."

He shrugs then averts his gaze to the scenery. "I can't say I blame her—the elvenfolk hate half-bloods like me. Oh."

Sol pauses as he looks to Yohan, who seems dispirited by the story. "Don't worry."

Sol tilts his head then shows him a practiced smile. "Even when my mother abandoned us, my father quickly found another woman to love."

It was never the same though , Sol cannot help but think, before he bites at his lower lip; there is an odd, trickle of pain somewhere deep inside him.

"I think,"

Sol sighs, "in a certain sense, I felt as though a Rider would understand me better than my own kin."

He turns to Yohan then laughs. "Perhaps, you do! Who knows."

"Who knows, indeed…"

the knight echoes as he takes a moment to collect himself. Yohan eventually shows Sol a polite smile, a curt nod. "I am grateful for your good graces, regardless. It remains rare to find anyone with faith in my kind."

Sol shrugs his backpack back onto his shoulder before it has a chance at slipping away. "I haven't been of much use to you, yet. Thank me once I have brewed that cure."

It is difficult to avoid falling into a comfortable banter with Yohan, he feels too familiar. Perhaps, Sol thinks as he laughs at one of Yohan's jokes, I worry for nothing.

Perhaps, Sol thinks to himself, we will only be good comrades for the rest of the journey.

Perhaps, the more sensual parts of those visions are not accurate.

Still, there is no denying the two get along. And Sol pauses for a moment. Young woman… he thinks back to the part in his dreams where Yohan seemingly accepted him without much ado. W ould it be so wrong to tell him?

After all, it is not like they would ever see each other again after this trip. As much as this may be a grand adventure to Sol, this is likely just another casual errand for Yohan to tick off his mundane list of things to do, to keep his beloved Kingdom safe. There will be no reason for him to stay in Sol's dull old town after having completed his quest.

Sol shuts his eyes, and blurts his thoughts before he can stop himself. "The life of Harbinger… must be stressful."

Yohan laughs, it is genuine this time. "Sometimes. But, it isn't all terrible."

Sol hears the tension and sorrow riddled between the cusp of Yohan's words, the silent yet real meaning behind his statement, but it is mostly terrible.

He lingers on the thought, until he blinks and realizes what he has just done. Did I just say that out loud— "Oh, Gods… I'm so sorry."

Sol holds his breath as he blushes, scorching red to his ears. "I didn't mean to say that out loud."

"It's quite all right."

Yohan smiles at him. "We can talk. We've a long journey ahead, after all—might as well fill it with some interesting conversation,"

he says, and all the tension that had once sewn Sol's shoulders together unfurls.

He exhales again. And immediately understands what the Sol from his visions had seen in this man. There is something gentle, protective , about everything Yohan does. It makes Sol feel… safe.

But Sol shakes the thought away. He must be losing his mind from all this walking. He stares at the ground as Yohan tells him stories from being one of the Old King's Cursed Riders. It is odd to be hearing these accounts from a Rider's point of view, for once, and not the tales weaved together by bystanders who merely witnessed their passing in a town or a forest fight.

But after tales of his adventures, there comes a moment when the man grows silent. Yohan's lips thin into a bitter line. He tells Sol, that as the King's sword, he is always expected to be strong. "Whenever someone from the court speaks to me, too, it is always in hopes of being in the King's good graces."

He kicks at a rock on the dirt road. "As if they are talking to his pet,"

Yohan spits; and Sol wonders how many times he has told this story.

If today is the first, because of how the words come tumbling out of Yohan like an unrehearsed plea. It started with a short tale of how Yohan saved a village, and now they are here. "I cannot remember the last time I ever had someone I could call a proper friend. How dehumanizing it is, truly, they expect much of me. Too much. Yet time and again, I must live up to their expectations. And I do! Because failure would—"

Yohan's lips remain parted as he pauses then looks around, wide-eyed and aghast, as if having woken from a long dream.

The knight clears his throat with a fist to his lips. "Failure would not be… desirable. Nobody wants to do a subpar job!"

Sol has a feeling this is not what Yohan meant in the slightest, but he chooses to ignore the obvious lie; the knight seems to be reliving enough complicated memories as it is.

They walk in silence, side by side, for a moment. Until Sol tells him, "I'm sorry."

Even though it would be temporary, he starts wishing he could be a friend to Yohan. "I wish there were some way to relieve you of those duties, if only by a little."

But Sol reminds himself wishes do not matter in the face of fate. He and the knight are destined to be mere ripples in each other's lives, nothing more, nothing less.

"Indeed, I agree."

Yohan raises a strong fist to the sky. "Which is precisely why I've planned to retire this year. Tell me, Solange,"

Yohan glimpses past his own pauldrons until their eyes meet again, his palm opens up to catch a morning cloud. "Do you feel as though your village would be an appropriate place to do so?"

In a nearby puddle, a dewdrop falls and creates a small ripple.

Sol blinks, slow, in disbelief. He can barely register the sting of being called Solange again as he stares, pale-faced at Yohan. Yohan, the Old King's Cursed Rider. Yohan, the Harbinger of Malice who… "What?"

Sol scratches at the back of his head and forces a smile. "Ah, I think I'm growing weary! I'm hallucinating! Hearing strange, strange things!"

Yohan tilts his head in an oddly innocent manner. "Strange things?"

"Oh, yes."

Sol flutters his eyelashes in a daze. "You won't believe what I misheard! For a second, I believed you wanted to retire in my village—"

"That's correct, I do."

The baffled yelp that escapes Sol echoes across the mountainside. "But why! "

Sol grasps at the air around him. "It is so…"

He sighs. "Ordinary?"

Surely someone of Yohan's status could afford… more.

Yohan shrugs. "I don't know. It seems… nice. Quaint. There is everything you need to live peacefully: healers, mages, bakers—and nature!—are all just a walk away. Not to mention, there aren't many townsfolk who know my face, since Featherlaine remains far enough from the King's palace and the tales which surround it. And I'm already accustomed and familiar with it, now that I've stayed for a few days!"

Though he was doubting the knight's claims before, the fond smile that takes Yohan's lips when he stares out into the distance—at the silhouette of Sol's village, makes Sol think he is serious.

Around them, the wind rises. And Yohan asks him, "What's not to like?"

Sol rearranges his leather backpack. "But wouldn't it be boring?"

They both set off again. "Do you not wish to think this through a tad more, instead of rushing to pick any old town?"

Their footsteps crunch across dirt paths. "Who says I am rushing?"

Yohan walks ahead of him, until all Sol can see is the back of his head. "It may seem ordinary to you, but after traveling for so long… being still, in one place, would feel new to me."

Sol hums. "‘Suppose I can't argue with that."

Behind them, the village disappears farther and farther away. The idea of being so distant from home is oddly exhilarating to Sol, yet frightening all the same. Sol fears the lack of routine, born from this teeming illusion of freedom, may introduce leniency in his life—the type that causes men to take reckless decisions. Find regret. And make too many a mistake.

"And you?"

Sol frowns at Yohan's question. "Me?"

The knight nods. "What will you do after this?"

"What I always have."

Sol strides past Yohan in turn, he dares not face him as he stares down to his boots, squashing bronze dirt in a hurry.

He doesn't want to think. Not about this freedom, nor his deepest desires.

Sol isn't like Yohan. He can't just walk away tomorrow—if he were known to a single person in his village as Sol and not Solange, it would take a mere one man overhearing, until everyone in Featherlaine would know. And if most of the villagers disapproved, then Sol is certain all the townsfolk would side with them, from fear of being ostracized. That's how it works, in little places like these.

Yes, having time to think—to puncture and peek into one's own heart—is a dangerous thing , Sol thinks.

Because he finds himself wanting.

Wanting more.

"I'll return to the shop,"

Sol huffs. "I'll help my mentor. And I'll sell some Gods damned potions."