CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
Law 7page 56
GET OTHERS TO DO THE WORK FOR YOU, BUT ALWAYS TAKE THE CREDIT
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The following day, the pub was quiet; the kind of quiet that only rainy days seemed to bring.
Outside, the downpour fell in a relentless, droning rhythm. It drummed against the muddy streets and the roof of the Dead Bird with a ceaseless hiss. The sky, hued a heavy, oppressive grey, cast a pall over the decaying town, while the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and rotting leaves. Each droplet blurred the line between the earth and the sky, until the windows resembled a dripping painting of a world stained dreary.
There were long shadows draped across the worn wooden floor; it made the floorboards look darker, beneath his tattered boots.
Hadrian made his way to the bar and took the stool beside Zeno, before he nodded to Abe in greeting. Abe returned the nod with a grunt, as he reached for a glass and filled it with water. He slid it to Hadrian, with his gaze locked on Zeno.
The man under his scrutiny was gulping down his own glass of water with the kind of thirst that made Hadrian suspect he hadn’t stopped to breathe since he’d started drinking, “Morning,” Zeno said brightly, once he’d finished.
His cheerfulness was infectious, even if it did seem slightly out of place in the murky climate.
“I’ll be teaching you how to make wardstones today,” Zeno said, though his voice wavered, a slight tremor betraying the confidence he tried to project. Hadrian caught a fleeting shadow in Zeno's eyes, before it vanished behind the mask of his usual bravado.
Abe, who had been watching their exchange from his place behind the bar, sighed. He reached beneath the counter to retrieve two tall glasses and a bottle filled with a thick, brown liquid. The substance oozed as he poured it into the highballs, Hadrian grimaced.
“You boys are gonna be needing your strength,” Abe grunted, his voice carrying the weight of a demand. The scent that wafted up was earthy and bitter, it clung to the back of Hadrian’s throat before he’d even taken a sip.
Zeno’s face twisted into a scowl as he eyed the glasses, “Oh no,” he groaned.
“Drink up,” Abe commanded, sliding the glasses toward them.
Zeno shook his head whilst he leaned away from the bar counter, as if the concoction might leap out and force itself down his throat, “Don’t do it, Harry,” he warned.
“It’s Hadrian,” Hadrian corrected, automatically.
“Merlin, Zeno,” Abe snapped, “for once can you shut up and put up?”
“I will never put up with this!” Zeno shot back, folding his arms across his chest.
Hadrian’s eyes flickered between the two, the glass still untouched before him, “What is it?” he asked.
Abe rolled his eyes as he met Hadrian’s gaze, “It’s nutrients - it’ll help keep you on your feet.”
Zeno scoffed, “It’s barbaric, is what it is.”
“Then don’t drink it and deal with the consequences!” Abe barked, his patience snapping like a taut string, “Fuck!”
Hadrian took a deep breath, before he held his nose and downed the liquid. It was as bad as he’d feared - thick and bitter; it clung to his throat and settled heavily in his stomach, sending a sluggish warmth through him.
Zeno gagged dramatically beside him, “I’m gonna be sick…”
“Not in my pub, you’re not,” Abe growled, reaching for a rag, “Now get out, the both of ‘ya!”
Abe threw the rag at Zeno, who ducked with a laugh, the tension breaking as he sprinted for the door, “I’ve got a fucking headache,” Abe muttered under his breath as Hadrian lifted himself up to follow Zeno.
He trailed Zeno, who was striding, his earlier reluctance melting away into a familiar liveliness, out of the bar. He turned to Hadrian with a smirk as they walked, “First day of the daily grind, Harry! Don’t worry, it only gets worse from here.”
Hadrian could only manage a weak smile in return.
The narrow corridor they descended was dimly lit, the old wooden walls absorbing what little light managed to slip through the cracks in the ageing timber above. The scent of rain clung to the air, mingling with the damp, musty smell that seemed to permeate every inch of the pub.
Zeno walked ahead, his steps light.
“So… how much experience do you have with runes?” he asked, glancing back at Hadrian with a raised brow.
Hadrian met Zeno’s gaze with a shrug, “More than most, I’d say.”
Zeno grinned, “Oh, great! So that means I don’t have to go into the gory details of what’ll happen if you carve them wrong?”
Hadrian laughed, the sound echoing softly off the wooden walls, “No, I’m - err - I’m intimately aware.”
Zeno’s smile softened, and he gave Hadrian a sidelong look, “Well, lucky for us, the runes Abe has us using are quite simple. Technically speaking, you’ll be fine - it’s the exhaustion that’ll be the problem.”
They reached a door at the end of the corridor: Zeno pushed it open, and the room beyond greeted them with a mildewed breath of stale air.
The space was small, was the first thing Hadrian picked up on.
A long, worn table stretched across the centre, its surface was cluttered with burnt-out candles and a few haphazardly scattered books. Cobwebs clung to the corners, their delicate threads shimmering faintly in the cold light that seeped through the small, grimy window.
The second thing Hadrian picked up on was the small sack, sat on the table alongside the candles and book. It was the same one that Zeno had retrieved from the Exchange the day before.
Hadrian’s eyes swept over the room: it held the sense of time having stood still, “Exhaustion?” he asked, stepping further inside.
Zeno moved to the table, his hands brushing aside books and parchment as he made space for Hadrian, “Well, the outsiders make their wardstones sparsely, a few at a time, but we make them in bulk. It’s tiring, and… I guess there’s only so much magic the Scribe can take before it becomes too much for us.”
Hadrian’s gaze settled on Zeno, a frown creasing his brow, “What d’you mean?”
Zeno’s tone became more subdued as he continued to clear the table, “If we had wands, we’d be able to imbue a small portion of our magic into the stones and be done with it. It’d still be tiring - don’t get me wrong - because we’re not given the necessary time to recover, but we’re not just feeding the stones here…”
He sighed, “It’s the Scribes,” Zeno explained, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would give his words more power, “They’re made with Goblin Metal. It absorbs that which makes it stronger.”
Hadrian shifted uncomfortably, as the phrase bounced around his head, stirring up memories that were best left buried.
Zeno caught the look on Hadrian’s face and met it with a serious expression, “It absorbs our magic, as much as it can, to make itself stronger.” He paused, then rolled his eyes, “Supposed to be our punishment, since making a dozen wardstones a week ‘ain’t enough!”
He let out another sigh, the tension swallowing the room easing slightly as he forced out a chipper tone, “But hey,” he continued, “I’ve been doing this a while now, and although they are Death’s work, the drinks Abe gave us will help keep us going - I just like to see his face when I complain.”
The attempt at humour was enough to draw a soft laugh from Hadrian.
“Come, sit,” Zeno urged, pulling out a chair at the table and gesturing for Hadrian to join him.
Hadrian moved to the table. The chair creaked as he sat down opposite Zeno. Sat down, the room felt smaller, almost suffocating. Zeno pulled a book toward himself, his fingers trailing over the faded cover before he began flicking through the frangible pages. The soft rustle of paper was the only sound to fill the silence, aside from the distant patter of rain against the small window.
When Zeno found the page he was looking for, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He flipped the book around and slid it across the table for Hadrian to see, “Here, basic rune enchantments,” he said, his tone light, “Nothing too complicated, so you’ll pick it up quick.”
Hadrian leaned forward, his eyes scanning the delicate script and drawings on the page.
The runes really were simple, as Zeno had said.
With a practised motion, Zeno reached for the sack on the table, his hand disappearing into its depths before emerging with two stones. He passed one to Hadrian almost reluctantly.
Hadrian quickly put two and two together: Zeno had collected stones from The Exchange the day prior. He wondered how deep the sack sunk, how many stones the Death Eaters gave out to the people of the Bloodlands.
“So, it’s pretty simple really,” Zeno began, his tone light but edged. He quickly retrieved his Scribe and held it up. Hadrian watched as its sharp point glinted under the dull light, “The Scribe is sharper than it looks, and all you need to do is carve those runes into that stone, as precisely and perfectly as you can.”
Hadrian nodded, the stone becoming heavy in his hand, “Right, I’ve got it.”
Zeno paused, his eyes locking onto Hadrian’s, “And - look - I don’t know if you ever made a wardstone on the outside, but this… it’s not gonna feel the same.”
Hadrian’s gaze flickered with a hint of unease, but he said nothing, merely tightening his grasp on the stone.
“If it gets too much, take a break,” Zeno continued, his voice softening, “First time’s always the hardest, right?”
Hadrian nodded again, before he glanced down at the open book in front of him.
The rune patterns that stared back from the worn pages were familiar.
He traced them with his eyes: Thurisaz, Algiz, Uruz.
The Runes of Defence, of Protection, of Strength.
These were runes he could carve in his sleep, runes that were burned into his skin.
They were runes from before, runes that tapped at the edges of his memory.
He sighed as he pulled his own Scribe from his pocket, the tool resting comfortably in his hand as he twirled it between his fingers. Hadrian hovered the tip of the Scribe over the stone for a moment… before he pressed it against the hard surface.
As the Scribe made contact, the engravings along its length came to life and began to glow faintly.
The sensation was immediate: Hadrian felt a sharp pull deep within his chest, as if an invisible thread had wrapped around his heart and tugged.
The runes on the Scribe gleamed brighter, intensifying until it began to drip a glowing liquid, white in colour. The droplets trickled onto the stone and seeped into the grooves he had carved.
Pain came next.
Each incision sent a jolt of sharp pain through him. It radiated from his chest outward, making his vision blur and the room spin.
It was a pain that was more than physical; it was a deep, resonant ache that thundered through him, echoing the screams of protest that came from his magical core.
Hadrian’s breathing quickly grew ragged as his focus narrowed to the stone before him.
His name was being called from somewhere beyond the haze, sounding as if it were being shouted from what seemed like a great distance, the syllables distorted and faint.
But Hadrian could barely register it; not through the pain, nor the screaming, or through the physical feeling of his magical core being sliced.
The last drop of glowing white sunk into the stone, and Hadrian gasped like a man surfacing after being held underwater for too long.
His hands trembled, as the Scribe slipped from between his fingers.
It clattered onto the table.
“Ha-”
Hadrian jumped at the sudden, clear tone of Zeno’s voice and turned, abruptly, in his seat to face the young man, who was kneeling beside him with his hand clasped around his arm. Still dazed, Hadrian squeezed Zeno’s hand, desperately.
His eyes widened:
He lingers by the lake's edge, green lining his robes - sigil of snakes.
There, he gazes upon beauty: she knees, her face tilted towards the dying sky, eyes closed as if lost in a dream.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Donned in blue, the house of Ravens, framed with starlight hair, so pale it seemed woven from moonbeams.
It cascades down her back akin to water.
“Listening,” she breathes and her eyes flutter open, revealing a blue so deep it nearly blurs into violet.
The wind whispers - only she will listen.
“Harry!”
“Fuck…” Hadrian breathed, the word escaping with a shuddering exhale as his vision returned to him and his hand dropped from Zeno’s.
Zeno nodded, his expression grim, “I know,” he said, under the pretence that he understood how Hadrian felt. He didn’t, he never would, “But you’ll get used to it, I promise. Just… breaks, remember?”
Hadrian stared down at the stone, the aftershocks of pain still rippling through his body. His chest felt hollow, his thoughts were restless. He needed-
Focus
“Okay?” Zeno asked.
He nodded, slowly.
Hadrian’s hand, seemingly of its own accord, drifted up to his neck, his fingers brushing against the skin there, “Focus…” he whispered to himself.
“You do that a lot, d’you know that?”
Hadrian blinked, his hand freezing in place, “I—what?”
“That,” Zeno repeated, gesturing vaguely towards Hadrian’s hand. “You reach for your neck. I’ve noticed you doing it.”
Hadrian looked down, surprised to find his fingers curled around his throat, his skin warm beneath the touch. There was no familiar coolness, no reassuring weight of metal resting against his chest, “Oh… erm,” he stammered, dropping his hand as if it had been burnt, “I had a necklace, and I-”
His voice trailed off, the words catching in his throat. He could still feel the phantom presence of it, the way the chain would press against his skin, the ring hanging from it resting just above his heart. He’d never taken it off, not since he’d found it in a locked cabinet along with photographs of himself, “I never took it off,” he finished quietly, his gaze falling to the worn wood of the table, “It’s a habit.”
“Ah, right,” Zeno said, as he nodded. He released himself from his crouch and sat on the edge of the table, next to Hadrian, “Yeah, they strip you of almost everything when you enter here.”
Hadrian glanced up, meeting Zeno’s eyes. They were dull and downcast. Zeno quickly averted his gaze, his hand absently fiddling with the hems of his sleeve.
“I had this… ring,” Zeno admitted, though quietly and almost to himself, “Real important to me. Something that reminded me of my life then, you know? And… yeah, it’s gone now.”
His life then - Hadrian noted.
The wind whispers…
Hadrian sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, his head falling into his hands. The exhaustion he felt running through his veins was bone-deep. It made his breathing feel laboured, his eyes feel heavy.
He knew, however, that such a feeling wasn’t going to disappear with a night's sleep.
He theorised that it would only become worse with time.
"So," Hadrian began, his voice rough, "is this what’s happened to the people out there? This... exhaustion?"
Zeno sighed, running a hand through the dishevelled locks of hair that had fallen from the bun on his head, before he buried his face into his palms.
"No, they-" Zeno’s voice faltered. Hadrian watched as he took a deep breath, as if he was steeling himself, "Do you know what Atro is?"
Hadrian shook his head, confusion knitting his brow.
"Come on. I did say you should take breaks, didn’t I?" Zeno chuckled, shortly, as he rose to his feet, "Just don’t let Abe see you."
Hadrian pushed himself up; the movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness through his head.
He followed Zeno through the narrow, wooden corridors of the pub. Their footsteps echoed softly against the worn floorboards as they walked with feather-light steps. As they descended, the walls seemed to close in, the air grew colder, the shadows longer. They reached a small, forgotten room tucked away at the back. The door creaked as Zeno pushed it open. Hadrian winced as it did.
The room was cramped and cluttered, the scent of damp wood and rotting vegetables hung in the air. Shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty candles and wooden containers, while barrels of Abe’s cheap beer crowded the floor. There was a sharp chill to the space that had Hadrian closing his arms around himself, as his breath materialised as a cloud in front of him.
Zeno led them to the corner farthest from the door, the one where the shadows were deepest, before he crouched down beside a nondescript wooden box.
Hadrian followed suit; lowering himself to the cold, stone floor. He shuddered as Zeno opened the box with a soft click.
Inside, nestled in a bed of tattered cloth, were small vials of a glowing red liquid. The substance moved like it was alive, as if it were breathing. It swirled within the glass with a strange vibrancy, casting an eerie, crimson light on their faces.
Zeno’s voice was barely above a whisper as he met Hadrian’s gaze, "This… is Atroculofen, or otherwise known around here as Atro."
Hadrian’s breath caught in his throat: the red glow reflecting in Zeno’s eyes was akin to the red irises of another, but so very different, too - wrong, almost. He looked away, returning his gaze to the box, as an unsettling shiver ran through him.
"It’s a drug, Harry," Zeno continued, "A really shitty, really powerful drug. That’s what’s happened to them. Abe doesn’t allow it in the pub. Throws people out if he sees ‘em with it.”
Before Hadrian could form a response, the door behind them slammed open. Abe stood in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted against the low light from the hallway.
"What are you - Zeno!" Abe growled. In a few swift strides, he crossed the room and snatched the box from Zeno’s hands, "What did I tell you?" He glared at both of them, his chest heaving with barely restrained rage, “I told you to stay away from this shit!”
Zeno tried to speak, but Abe cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I don’t want to hear it. Both of you, up."
They scrambled to their feet, as Abe shook his head, "By the Gods- what were you thinking," Abe muttered, more to himself than to them. His eyes burned as he threw his gaze toward both himself and Zeno, "Get your asses in the bar - Now."
They moved with haste out of the storage room: Hadrian didn’t pull away as Zeno gripped his arm as they walked.
The pub was shadowed, the remains of rain clung to the cracked windows. A few patrons sat nursing their large glasses of beer, seemingly lost in their own despair. Zeno and Hadrian slipped inside quietly, making their way to a small table tucked away into the farthest corner, where the flickering candlelight barely reached.
Zeno’s eyes darted around the room, and as they sat, he shot Hadrian a nervous look.
Hadrian averted his gaze from Zeno as a man at the bar called out for another drink, his voice hoarse and frayed. Abe, entering the bar with a frown, grunted in response.
Hadrian’s eyes followed the man at the bar as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small stone - it was dull and glowed faintly. He passed it to Abe, who took it without a word and slipped it into a small sack attached to his belt. Hadrian brows furrowed as Abe pulled a pint of lager and gave it to the man.
He had given Abe a wardstone.
… and Abe had taken it as payment, as if it were common coin.
Hadrian’s thought process was abruptly ceased as Zeno hit his bicep. Abe stood before them, his face set in hard lines, his glare sweeping over them both, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation - again!”
Zeno opened his mouth, but Abe silenced him with a single, sharp look, “No, right now - right now your mouth remains closed.”
Zeno’s mouth snapped shut. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. Abe turned his attention to Hadrian, “I’ll say the same to you as I did to him,” Abe said, “Stay away from that shit - understand?”
Hadrian met Abe’s gaze as his mind whirled with questions. For a moment, he considered nodding, just to get out from under the man's regard. But curiosity had always been his worst trait - it gnawed at him, refusing to be silenced. He tilted his head, “What does it do?”
Zeno started to speak, the words tumbling out of him before he could stop himself. “It’s a-”
“Closed!” Abe’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. He shot the blonde a glare that could have curdled milk, before he turned back to Hadrian, his voice dropping to a whisper, “You don’t need to know what it does to stay away from it.”
“It’s a pain relief!” Zeno whisper-shouted, despite Abe’s warnings.
Abe snapped his head back to Zeno, his eyes blazing with fury, but Zeno pressed on as his hand grabbed Hadrian’s arm, “It’s supposed to be euphoric,” Zeno muttered, “It gets rid of the pain caused by creating wardstones.”
Abe’s face twisted into a sneer, “But it’s extremely dangerous.”
Zeno pointed at Abe as an enthusiastic smile lit up his face, “Yes!” He shouted, before he threw his palm over his mouth. Zeno took a deep breath as he faced Hadrian, “…and addictive.”
Hadrian’s brows furrowed, “How?” he asked.
“It creates a temporary flare in your magical core and makes the transfer to the stone easier because you’re being drained at your strongest.”
Abe’s voice was a growl, “Which sounds fucking brilliant at face value.”
Zeno nodded slowly, “Yes, but it’s actually really bad for you. It slowly breaks you down - physically, emotionally, magically,” he listed, “That’s what’s happened to the people out there. They’re addicts.”
“And you would’ve been too if I’d left you on the streets for Shackles,” Abe spat, “Should’ve fucking left you there.”
Zeno’s glower was fierce, but he didn’t argue with the older man. The silence between them was thick and charged: Hadrian watched them with narrowed eyes.
“Shackles?” Hadrian questioned, his voice breaking the silence.
Zeno looked away from Abe, and answered with a tight jaw, “He’s the one that distributes Atro. Well, it’s the DA that distributes it, but he’s the one in charge of them all.”
“The DA?” Hadrian followed up.
“The Deadlands Accord,” Abe interjected, “Or the name for the people who sign the Merlin-damned thing.”
Zeno’s voice grew quieter, “It’s an agreement - Shackles gives you a shit tonne of Atro if you carve wardstones for him. But the trouble is, all they’re getting is Atro. No food, no clothes, nothing, because they’ve got nothing to give to The Exchange or the stalls in return for it. But they’re all so addicted to the stuff that it doesn’t trouble them.”
“And now they’re out there rotting on the streets because they were stupid enough to get involved with him.”
Zeno gritted his teeth, “Many of them don’t have any other choice,” he argued.
The laugh that exited Abe’s lips was sharp and bitter, “Mhm, just like you don’t when I say: both of you get back to the workshop and don’t let me see you touching that shit again.”
Zeno huffed, as a storm of irritation clouded his face, “Fine,” he grumbled, grabbing Hadrian’s arm and pulling him to his feet, “Let’s go before the old man blows a gasket.”
They threaded their way through the pub, Zeno’s voice a low rumble of complaints, “Honestly, the way he talks to us… like we’re children! I’ve been around here long enough to know the score. He acts like he’s the only one who knows anything.”
“I can hear you, Zeno!”
Zeno barely glanced back, as he shouted over his shoulder, “I know!”
His grip on Hadrian’s arm tightened as he led them away, through the narrow corridors, where the echoes of the pub waned into the background, replaced by the heavy hush of the workshop.
Zeno dropped into a chair with a theatrical sigh, before he looked Hadrian, who lingered in the doorway, in the eye, “Malaclaw bite…” he said, whilst he picked up his Scribe. He shook his head, as he pointed the end of the carving tool at his neck, “Right here - it has to be. This week has been awful.”
Hadrian dropped into the chair opposite Zeno with an exhale, “Brilliant.”
And with that, time began to lose its shape…
The days melded together: the world outside the workshop blurred into insignificance, and Hadrian found himself floating adrift, caught between the pull of his heavy exhaustion and the relentless march of days that seemed to offer no respite.
Each morning, after a cup of shitty water, they returned to the workshop, and the hours bled into one another like watercolours left in the rain. The wardstones demanded: they stole from them more with each passing day, until they barely had the energy to crawl to bed.
More than once Abe had found them, in the early hours of the morning, slumped over the table, Scribe’s still in hand, asleep. He never woke them - he knew better than to.
Zeno hadn’t lied.
The exhaustion, it was poisonous.
Hadrian felt it in his bones: the hollowing of his core, the slicing that felt literal, as if there were a blade to his soul that slashed at him, leaving only pieces.
His hands, once steady, had begun to tremble. His reflection in the dusty window grew gaunt, as his cheeks concaved and his eyes sunk deeper into their sockets. There were new shadows around his eyes, too, deeper than before and heavy with the weight of sleepless nights and the gnawing hunger that never left him. His body thinned, worn down by the endless drain, his clothes hung looser on his frame.
And during his active poisoning, he felt the harrowing absence of his necklace.
That small, familiar weight against his chest - it had become a phantom ache.
He reached for it often, yearning to feel the delicate silver of the ring that hung from the untarnished chain, but bare skin was the only thing to greet him.
In the quietude of the night, when sleep evaded him, he could almost feel its weight…
…Hadrian awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the window.
He blinked, the haze of sleep clinging to him as he tried to shake off the lingering remnants of a dream that tumbled through his fingers like sand.
It was Sunday.
He’d been in the Bloodlands for a week.
It felt like years.
“Harry! You awake?” Zeno whispered.
Hadrian nodded slowly, the movement sending a dull throb through his temple, “Yeah…” he murmured, though his voice still carried the heaviness of sleep.
He barely had time to move before Zeno had jumped onto his bed with an energy that bordered on insanity, “Good,” Zeno grinned, “C’mon, get up! We don’t have all day!” He finished, as he started to shake Hadrian where he lay.
“Okay, okay!” Hadrian replied, pushing Zeno off of him.
The man giggled as he fell to the floor.
Hadrian found himself moving without thinking, slipping into the worn clothes that had become a second skin. Exhaustion clung to him: a weight that threatened to drag him under, but Zeno’s energy was… contagious.
Zeno busied himself by the mirror, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt and the scarf around his neck. There was a wide smile on his face. Hadrian’s brows drew together.
“Since when did you become the morning person?” Hadrian muttered.
“It’s Sunday,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
“…o-kay?” Hadrian dragged out.
Zeno’s grin widened, “You’ll see.”
Hadrian followed Zeno down the narrow stairs, the wooden steps creaking underfoot. The pub was quiet in its morning lull: the period before the regulars shuffled in for their first drink.
Abe was behind the bar, his sharp eyes caught them as they approached. The grizzled man had his usual scowl in place, but Hadrian thought he detected a flicker of something else - something honey-clad.
“Eager to get to the Exchange, are we?” Abe’s voice was rough, but not unkind.
Zeno hurried to the bar, his movements filled with an unfamiliar restlessness. From his pocket, he pulled out a small, weathered burlap sack, the contents inside clinking softly as he set it on the counter. Hadrian knew the sound immediately - the sack held wardstones.
Hadrian ran his fingers across the jagged edges of his own full sack, that he’d attached to his side with string that he’d found at the bottom of their cupboard.
With deliberate care, Zeno untied the bag and tipped a few of the stones onto the counter. They glowed faintly, a warm blue that resembled the colour of a bluebell.
“The majority cover your rent,” Abe grunted, answering Hadrian’s unasked questions, “Keeps you here another week, and maybe keeps you fed if you’re lucky.”
Hadrian nodded faintly as he glanced at Zeno, who was sorting through the stones he had emptied onto the countertop.
“But, you can keep one each,” Abe said, his tone softer, “Go to The Exchange, get what you want, but don’t take all day. And remember, keep your heads down when you’re there, you hear?”
“I hear, I hear!” Zeno was practically vibrating with excitement. He slipped his chosen wardstone into his pocket, before he gave Hadrian a wide smile. It dropped, however, when he saw Hadrian’s empty hands, “What are you waiting for? Come on, Harry, we’ve got things to do!”
Hadrian nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed, before he peered inside his bag and sifted through the stones he’d carved that week.
Each one felt different - some cooler, some heavier, some sharp, some smooth, but strangely, they all seemed to resonate deep within him.
…as if they recognised him.
Finally, his hand settled on one: it was the stone he had laboured over with the most care. It was small, its surface littered with tiny, intricate runes that glowed a strong, bright white, “This one…” he whispered.
Instantly, Zeno snatched his small sack of stones from between his fingers and flung it onto the bar, toward Abe, “Be back later!” He laughed, before he took Hadrian by the hand and hurled him into a run, toward the pub's entrance.
Zeno flung the door open and Hadrian had to squint as the blaze of the sun snatched his eyes.
…he relaxed them a beat later, and was met with colour.
The early Sunday morning had transformed the town square into a feverish dream, far removed from the desolate hush it had worn during the week.
The dirt streets, usually thick with shadows, now thrummed with the bustle of movement and sound. Wooden stalls, battered and barely standing, lined the paths. They erupted with strange trinkets - glinting shards of metal, cracked pieces of stained glass melded into vials, and worn leather pouches filled with who-knows-what. Faded banners, frayed at the edges, danced in the cool morning breeze, their colours fighting valiantly against the grime that coated every wall and person.
The air was thick with scents: old meat hanging from hooks, the musty dampness of wood, and a sickly sweet decay that clung to the back of the throat. Voices tangled in the air, a blend of haggling, laughter, and the occasional cry of delight. The crowd was a living beast, it shifted and undulated, its core beating in time with the frantic energy that cloaked the square.
Small children darted through the crowd like wild sprites, their clothes nothing but brown rags that fluttered as they ran. They raced with makeshift kites, cobbled together from scraps of cloth and string, their laughter high and free… innocent.
The children were oblivious to the bite of the Outside world, they were not yet old enough to understand how oppressed they were, nor how sharp that bite could be when it finally latched onto skin and bone. It was with mellow eyes that Hadrian watched as they danced in their ragged joy, their kites soaring like tattered dreams against the pale sky.
Hadrian and Zeno weaved through them, trying to avoid their hurried steps whilst their laughter intertwined with their own rushed breaths.
The blonde’s grip on Hadrian’s hand turned tighter as he pulled him deeper into the swirling heart of the town. The stalls, the colours, the smells - they blurred into a vivid, fevered rush and for a moment, the weight of the past week lifted, replaced by a heady gust of life that entered his lungs like a healing agent.
Zeno slowed them as the tall exterior of The Exchange came into view, “All the stalls, back there-” Hadrian began, as he tried to catch his breath, “They’re selling things?”
“Cheap stuff, to be honest, but it’s the only thing some people ‘round here can afford.”
“Afford?” He asked. Hadrian hadn’t imagined that people of the Bloodlands were allowed to accumulate knuts or sickles, nor able, given their conditions.
Zeno laughed, the sound bright and carefree, as he skipped ahead a few paces and turned to walk backwards, facing Hadrian, “Our stones aren’t just a wardstone for the outsiders, Harry. Here, they’re as good as gold.”
Hadrian’s brows furrowed.
"See, we don’t deal in coin here; stone is our currency," Zeno explained, “Sunday is the day of rest, that’s why the streets are so packed and why all the stalls are up. Everyone will craft all week to trade their stones the coming Sunday. Most folks look for essentials - food, clothing, things to get them through another week. But since Abe takes care of that for us, we get to choose something small for ourselves.”
He paused, glancing at the ramshackle stalls lining the streets behind Hadrian, "The stuff you see in the stalls - it’s cheap, and a lot of it’s junk because the stones they used to pay for their wares weren’t weighty, but sometimes you can find something worthwhile.”
Zeno smiled, as his eyes panned back to Hadrian, “But, lucky for us, we don’t have to rummage through their stuff for hours on end to find something good! People who have stones that are worth their weight head straight for The Exchange. You get the real goods there - stuff from the Outside. You give them a stone, and they’ll give you something of equal worth in return. Just - be smart about it. The Goblins won’t cheat you, but they’ll only give you what they believe is fair. Don’t make the mistake of asking for something that doesn’t match the stone’s worth. Trust me on that."
Momentarily, the interactions between Abe and the bar patrons penetrated the forefront of Hadrian’s mind. He understood now, after Zeno’s explanations, that Abe had been accepting wardstones as a form of payment. The handover of stone in exchange for a drink was akin to gold on the outside. Hadrian also quickly came to the realisation that he, too, was paying Abe in stone - just as he’d said. All of his work crafting wardstones that week was payment; one that Abe used to restock his shelves and feed his two workers.
He came back to with a hushed, “Ah!”
The world slowly sharpened around him as he and Zeno continued their way toward the Exchange, the music and booms of laughter fading as they neared.
When they reached the crystal doors, Hadrian was shortly taken aback: the Exchange was fuller than the last time he’d seen it. Bodies were pressed close together, the long queues to the Goblins winding like serpents through the dim space. The chamber was thick with murmured voices and the distant, metallic tang of magic that clung to his skin.
“Busy today, huh!” Zeno murmured, before he sighed, “Graknar’s fair - although he’s a right bastard. Come on, we’ll go to him.”
Hadrian’s stomach churned as he caught sight of the goblin that had completed his Scribe binding ritual. He forced himself to breathe through the rising anxiety that clawed at his throat as the memory of the stone snakes began to hiss in his ears.
Focus…
Zeno took hold of his hand with a small, soft smile. Hadrian could hear the question dripping from his lips without him having to open them, ‘Okay?’
Hadrian nodded and squeezed his hand, before dropping it, as they stepped into the line that led to Graknar. The queue inched forward slowly, but each step gave Hadrian time to take in his surroundings.
The dark-robed figures of Death Eaters were the thing to catch his attention. They were scattered like shadows along the walls, at least a dozen of them on either side of him. They stood watchful, hiding behind bronze-tinted masks and Dark Mark sigils that hung from their necks - Third Rank Death Eaters, Hadrian concluded, the lowest of the ranks.
His gaze continued to drift, scanning the masked faces around him until he found a pair of cold, grey eyes fixed on him from across the room.
A Death Eater, who wore no mask, with shoulder-length black hair stood with his arms crossed upon a raised platform. His wand lay comfortably in his palm, its tip facing the ceiling. It was an attack position, one that was heavily suggestive. As Hadrian’s eyes met his, the man’s expression darkened, and his eyes narrowed.
He looked familiar, in a distant dream sort of way.
He thinks he remembers a different name - He, the Belted star, wears a similar face, but they could not be more different. Perhaps that is the curse of the brightest star - the inability to fade into the dark.
Hadrian quickly looked away, his heart thumping in his chest as he focused on the marble floor beneath him.
Focus…
“Forward,” came from before him. Hadrian raised his head in surprise, realising that he’d been stuck in his head for the entire length of the queue. He chanced a look in Zeno’s direction before he shuffled forward with the other in tow.
Graknar sat diligently behind his elevated desk, his sneer barely hidden beneath his sharp features. The podium loomed above them, casting a shadow that seemed to press down on their shoulders. The goblin's eyes gleamed with a cold type of amusement as they approached.
“Well, well, back again, Xenophilius,” Graknar drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “What do you have for me.”
Zeno, looking slightly uncomfortable under the Goblin’s gaze, pulled a wardstone from his sack and placed it carefully on the podium.
Graknar’s thin fingers took hold of the stone and lifted it toward his sharp eyes. For a moment, he turned the glowing stone this way and that, evaluating every rune etched into its surface with diligence. Then, he placed the stone onto a set of golden scales. The wardstone’s glow amplified, shifting to a deep, azure blue that seemed to pulse softly, as the scale tipped in favor of it.
“Sufficient,” Graknar’s mean grin widened as he looked to Zeno, “And in return?”
Zeno’s response was quick and practised, “Same as usual.”
Graknar’s grin didn’t falter; if anything, it grew more hostile, “Very well.”
The goblin was silent for a moment, as he dipped a feather quill into a dark ink well, and scribbled on the open page of a thick, leather-bound ledger atop the podium.
Graknar returned the quill to its holder before he pulled the large lever located beside the golden scales. As it was dropped and locked into place, the podium responded with a subtle, mechanical whir. Hadrian watched as the podium's face split open like two interlocking puzzle pieces and slid apart with a smooth, metallic groan. The opening exposed a small, shadowed alcove that remained empty for a beat, before a flash of magical disturbance rippled through the air.
Almost as if it were summoned to the space, Hadrian was surprised to see a solitary snowdrop flower, now nestled inside the hollow space, with delicate, slightly water-doused, petals.
Zeno reached out with reverent hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he carefully cradled the flower. He held it to his chest, gently, so as to not disrupt the fragile beauty of the bloom. Hadrian witnessed the minute smile that graced his face, before a voice broke through their quiet.
“And you?”
Hadrian snapped his gaze toward the Goblin, who had proceeded to push the lever back to its original place, and closed up the alcove Zeno had received his reward from. Hadrian falted for a second too long, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone he’d chosen back at The Bird. Carefully, he stepped forward and placed it on the dais.
Like clockwork, Graknar took the stone between his fingers and examined it, before he placed it onto the scales. However, as the scales dipped, heavily in favour of his electrically glowing stone, the goblin raised a hairless brow and peered down at him.
A beat passed before the creature drawled out, “Sufficient…”
Hadrian released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in.
“And… in return?”
“…crusted bread,” Hadrian blurted out before he’d given himself a chance to think.
He very blatantly ignored the look Zeno directed at him.
Graknar’s expression remained impassive as he nodded at Hadrian and picked up his quill to write a few notes in the large tomb he’d scrawled in before. Hadrian didn’t advert his gaze from the Goblin, not even when the creature moved to push down the golden lever for a second time. For a moment, just before the podium shifted to reveal its hidden alcove, Hadrian pondered whether his choice had been a poor one.
Crusted bread?! He thought to himself, mentally facepalming, Of all things!
But it had been a choice that he could no longer take back, not when it lay in brown paper before him, ready for the taking.
Hadrian hesitated before he reached into the small nook. From beneath its brown wrapping, Hadrian could make out every bump and ridge of the warm, crusted surface of the bread. It was a rough but invitingly familiar thing that carried a rich, loamy scent, laced with a delicate note of rosemary. The warmth of it radiated through his skin; he couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped his lips as he held the rare comfort close.
“Onward!” Graknar’s voice cut through the air, sharp and loud enough to elicit a jump from Zeno. Hadrian quickly nudged him forward.
As they made for the exit, Hadrian glanced back, unable to resist the pull of his curiosity. His eyes were quick in locating the black-haired Death Eater once more, who was standing as a dark sentinel atop of the crowds. Their eyes met - green and grey - and for a fleeting second, Hadrian felt a deep blow of disappointment.
For grey was not red, nor familiar like the warmth of the bread between his fingers.
Hastily, he looked away.
They vacated the Exchange with hurried steps, striding out into the crisp winter air. The cold breeze bit at his cheeks, but there was a soft glow to the day. With the sun hanging high in the pale, cloudy sky, only slithers of warmth pierced through the thin veil of winter, painting everything in muted gold and casting long, delicate shadows across the foot-trodden ground.
In the distance, hidden between the wooden structures and echoes of famine, Hadrian could hear the faint sound of laughter and music, coming from the town square. Zeno’s voice broke through their brief, shared silence, his tone a touch awkward, “Hey, so… uh, will you be alright getting back to The Bird on your own? There’s something I need to take care of.”
Hadrian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Zeno hadn’t left him on his own, willingly, since he’d woken in the Bloodlands a week ago. Hadrian’s eyes narrowed slightly; “Yeah,” he declared, though confusion threaded his voice, “I’ll be fine. You- go do what you need to.”
Zeno nodded, as a flicker of something that looked akin to excitement burst in his eyes, “Alright, I’ll be back later!”
And with that, Zeno took off into a run, vanishing down a narrow alley that wound away from the square, leaving Hadrian alone. He hesitated for a moment, before he clutched the warm loaf of bread closer to his chest and began to walk.
The chaos of the market was quick to surround him as he made it to the town centre. The stalls were more crowded than they had been when he’d passed through not an hour prior; a mass of hands were greedily outstretched as haggles were made over trinkets and tattered goods.
Hadrian, overwhelmed by the throngs of people, stuck to the perimeters of the makeshift streets. He walked with his shoulder to the shop fronts that were usually dark and boarded up during the week, but were now open and thriving.
Through the grimy windows of Medicinals & Remedies, an apothecary perhaps, Hadrian spied rows of jars and vials as well as people with hunched backs and hands to their mouths, as if they had been coughing a moment earlier.
The Bakery caught Hadrian’s attention next. The tiny building, neighbouring the apothecary, carried the intense scent of smoke and charred dough, as if they were baking their goods on open flames, which, given the place with which the bakery was located, they probably were.
Hadrian paused, briefly.
There, located at the end of the row, was a small, tucked-away shop: The Oracle was painted in weathered, gold letters on a sign that hung precariously above the dull purple building. The shop’s windows were dark and obscuring, yet its name alone seemed to ignite a hum within Hadrian’s bones, something familiar but not in equal measure.
So very absorbed in his thoughts, in the strangeness of the little shop, Hadrian didn’t notice the figure approaching him until they collided.
The impact jolted him, and he stumbled back, quickly muttering a small apology. As he looked up, his eyes fell on the person’s face, or rather, the lack of it. A dark hood concealed their features, casting a resonant shadow where their eyes should have been.
“I’m sorry,” the stranger murmured, their voice soft and smooth, melodic almost. It carried a warmth that was profoundly out of place. Before Hadrian could respond, the person scurried away, their cloak billowing behind them.
As they passed, a few loose strands of hair slipped out from under their hood.
It caught the light with a flash of orange.
Hadrian shook his head as he clutched his bread tighter, and resumed his walk. The Bird was a few streets away and, if he was lucky, he’d get there before the morning rush.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Twilight had settled over the Bloodlands: a stifling veil of dark purple and orange, one that had dimmed the echoes of Sunday’s fleeting revelry.
The streets that had once been alive with chaotic explosions of colour and spirited hums of barter, lay unnervingly still under the fallen night. Silence clung to the narrow alleyways, broken only by the occasional groan of Winter wind or the distant creak of warped wood.
Hadrian sat perched on the rooftop of the pub, its weather-beaten, wooden tiles cracked and sagging, threatening to give way beneath his weight.
Above him, the stars blinked in and out of sight, hiding here and there behind a cloak of clouds. Their shine was weak against the darkness that stretched wide and endless, beyond even the boundaries of the small town below.
Thus, the moon was his only source of light, albeit dull and distant.
It cast the town in a faint, ashen glow that barely kissed the jagged outlines of the poorly made buildings, their wooden structures leaning like weary, skeletal bones.
Far from him, he spotted the insignia of red shackles painted on a metal building that overlooked the dinky town, what with its pronounced height. It was a mark that meant something to the people below, he had deduced. The symbol of a man who bargained with the weakest of the Bloodlands - or so Zeno had claimed.
Shackles - oh, how Hadrian wanted to lay his eyes upon the man that held such a reputation.
He supposed he had always been unduly curious.
In his hands, he held the bread he’d retrieved early that day. Its warmth was unwavering, untouched by the chill that had settled over the Bloodlands. Hadrian hadn’t eaten a single bite, preferring instead to feel the steady thrum of its magical warmth through the wrapping he had yet to undo.
Hadrian sighed, allowing his muscles to briefly relax.
Exhaustion was heavy set in his bones. It was a weariness that no amount of sleep could shake. He’d been in the Bloodlands a week, and it felt as though the place itself was slowly pulling him under. Usually, Zeno was there to haul him up when his head didn’t breach the surface, when the storm inside his mind and surrounding him threatened to swallow him, but Zeno had yet to return. Instinctively, Hadrian had climbed up onto the roof, perhaps to find him, maybe to feel higher than the worry that chewed at him when he was in their shared room… alone.
Tired and strung out as he was, his mind began to unpremeditatedly wander and for the first time since he’d arrived, he allowed himself to think…
…his chest quickly tightened as a name fluttered into his thoughts: Marlene.
Was she okay? He thought, Had she made it to the safe house?
The memory of her gnawed at him.
The Bloodlands were cut off from the outside world in many ways, but surely… surely, if something had gone wrong, if Marlene hadn’t made it, he would feel it. Deep down, he would know… wouldn’t he?
A nagging doubt lingered at the edges of his mind, threatening to consume him. He could see her face, that night, when he had been taken. How her eyes had turned glassy, her body slack as his curse had taken hold.
Hadrian took a shaky breath: was she still fighting out there, in the world he had left behind in order to save her, or had the shadows claimed her too?
Would she forgive him?
Would she understand?
The brief intermission, between his thoughts of Marlene and his will to rid his mind of Arthur’s face painted with betrayal - of traitor! of how could you! - allowed a new series of thoughts to rapidly enter the forefront of his mind.
The Bloodlands were cut off from the outside world… and yet they were open and exposed. To Hadrian, the place felt akin to a wound that had been allowed to fester. The magic seized and hidden within the rickety walls of the poorly made town was both old and new, yet wild and unbound.
Why had they been left unwarded? He thought to himself, Why were there no barriers, like the ones that shielded the rest of the outside world?
Why would a place of confinement have no walls?
It didn’t make sense.
Something was being... allowed.
Crimson flashed in his mind - a shade so deep, so violent, it burned.
Hadrian inhaled sharply, “Fuck off…”
…but it was a vermilion that lingered: embers for eyes that burned in the dark corners of his mind, impossible to extinguish. No matter how many times Hadrian had tried to forget, they always found their way back to him - slowly, deliberately, as if they had never truly left, no matter how much he willed them to.
He could almost feel the weight of his gaze upon him, heavy and consuming, whispering at him - Look at me. There was a heat to it, not the warmth of a fire but something more intense, more destructive - like the pull of gravity toward the sun, a force that could either burn or sustain, depending on how close he dared to draw.
It was a gaze that held power so absolute it was almost beautiful, in the way that a storm could be beautiful, in its promised devastation. Eyes that framed the face of the Unholy, a man who held the ungodly power to raise kingdoms or raze them to the ground.
The thought sent a shiver through him.
Beautiful.
The word felt wrong, but so unpleasantly true.
Hadrian exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold night air, before his gaze fell on the distant, flickering lights below. The image of his crimson eyes was still there, in his mind, watching, waiting… always waiting.
And for a moment - a brief, maddening moment - Hadrian wondered what it would be like to stand in his presence again, to feel the weight of those eyes on him, to know, just for a heartbeat, what it was like to-
He swallowed hard, as a violent rage surged through him.
Hadrian’s breath hitched, his fingers curling tighter around the loaf of bread between his fingers.
A growl rumbled low in his throat, raw and frustrated, and before he knew it, his arm was raised and ready to hurl the bread into the darkness, to rid himself of the unbearable weight of crimson-
-a crow landed beside him with a soft flutter of wings.
It stood there, silent and still, its sharp eyes locked onto him.
His anger, which had been boiling seconds before, faltered as he stared at the bird.
Hadrian’s breath escaped in a long sigh, as tension drained from his body.
He lowered the bread, and tore off a small piece.
Holding it out to the crow, Hadrian watched as it hopped closer, its beady eyes never leaving him. It pecked at the morsel, quietly and for a moment, the two of them shared the hush of the falling dusk.
His gaze drifted to the sky, toward the full moon, and as the moonlight bathed his face, his eyes fluttered shut…
The room was dim, the shallow curtains drawn tight against the night, sealing the small space in a hush of shadows. The only light came from the faint glow of the full moon; it slipped through the cracks in the old fabric, casting thin, pale streaks across his unblemished face, carved from youth. The air was thick with the scent of dust and age - he crept in a room that had held onto too many moments, too many secrets.
Clutched in his hands was old dog plush that was freshly sewn.
The stitches were uneven and jagged, a clumsy attempt at repair, but still, they held. Magic had done the work - magic that had set his childhood friend’s eyes alight as he’d focused entirely on knitting together every last piece of the once-destroyed teddy.
It had been quiet then, just the sound of fabric being pulled back together, the thread binding where hands couldn’t.
…and it had been the first time the little boy had seen joy on the others face.
The little boy padded across the cold, wooden floor, his bare feet whispering against the boards, until he reached the bed opposite his own. At the foot of it, stood a trunk - large, scuffed and dented, its edges worn down by years of use.
Old and used - the only thing he could afford - besides the newly scribed initials that had been carved deeply into the lid: T. M. R.
It was a trunk that was locked and ready to be hauled to Kings Cross Station early the next morning.
“Tom,” the little boy whispered, his voice trembling. The boy in the bed stirred but didn’t wake.
He tugged at the blanket, “Tom…”
Slowly, Tom rolled over, his sharp features softened by sleep but not by warmth. His dark, sleep-swept hair fell messily over his brow, and even in the low light, his hickory eyes glowed. There was a glimmer of annoyance, but it was muted.
“What is it?” Tom’s replied, his voice heavy with slumber.
The little boy hesitated, clutching the dog closer to his chest, eyes wide and brimmed with tears, "What’ll I do when you go to school?" he sniffed.
Tom exhaled, a sound that fell somewhere between a sigh and silence.
He pushed himself up slightly, to rest on his elbow, his face unreadable under the dark conditions. He didn’t reach out to the younger boy, didn’t soften with a comforting smile.
He was no Mother - nor did he hold the love of one.
…but his voice, when it came, was quieter and tempered.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, clipped but gentle, “You’re not a baby. You don’t need me anymore.”
“But I do! I’m not big and strong like you-” the little boy’s voice cracked, the tears finally spilling over. He rubbed at his eyes as a sob broke free from his lips, “I don’t wan’ you to leave me here - please don’t leave…”
Tom watched him, his unreadable gaze lingering.
He said nothing for a while, as though weighing whether to say anything at all. Then, with a long sigh, he shifted the blanket and patted the space beside him, “Just for tonight.”
Eagerly, the little boy climbed into the narrow bed, trembling. The blanket was warm, and the scent of Tom’s sheets wrapped around him comforted him for a moment. Tom turned his back after a beat, the weight of his body shifting the bed with a quiet huff.
He shared no words, gave no assurances.
There was only the sound of their shared breaths in the stillness of the room.
For a while, the little boy lay in the silence, his tears soaking Tom’s pillow, clinging to his dog plush as he wished he could Tom.
After a long moment, he tugged at the blanket again, this time softer, "Will you miss me?"
Tom huffed, before he turned onto his back and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, "No," he said, the word coming out almost too easily.
It sat there between them; that no, like a stone dropped in still water.
He felt his heart sink, but he didn’t move away. He waited, a child’s hope clinging to the possibility that Tom might say or do something - anything - else.
But no further words exited Tom’s lips, nor did Tom’s gaze leave the ceiling.
However, after a moment, his hand moved - perhaps without thinking, without looking - to fall gently on the little boy’s small fingers. The touch was light, and distant, but there was a weight to it that stopped the little boy's tears and filled his eyes with wonder.
Tom’s fingers curled slightly around his, almost imperceptibly, like a promise he wouldn’t - not ever - give voice to. His gaze stayed locked on the ceiling, staring at something only he could see, something far away, something that couldn’t be reached by the little boy - no matter how much he would grow, no matter how much he would try, in the years to come.
The little boy nestled in closer, his voice a whisper, fragile and small, “Okay.”
Hadrian blinked against the night's cold and biting ice.
Disorientated, he turned his head to the side, searching for the bird that had landed beside him not a moment prior.
The crow was gone, and in its place was a single feather.
With trembling hands, Hadrian reached out and plucked the feather from the rooftop. It was weak between his fingertips, and smelled faintly of spoil. The edges of the remainder of the crow was scorched, as if it had been tugged through fire. Under the pale glow of the distant moon, the feather looked dead.
Hadrian’s brows furrowed as he looked toward the sky, in search of the anomalous crow that had accompanied him, but found only the vast expanse of night. Turning to the bread on his lap, his breath quickly caught in his throat.
The loaf that lay on his lap was rotten.
Suddenly, a bright light flared at the edge of his vision.
Hadrian squinted and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the intense glow: the feather slipped from between his fingers and quietly drifted to the ground below.
Slowly, he dropped his hand and turned his head to the right…
Harry…
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Keep an eye on the Vulture - while you are hard at work, he is circling above. Do not fight him, join him.