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Chills ripple down my spine.
“Henry!” The woman slaps him, but while his cheek reddens, he doesn’t blink or otherwise react.
Conversations die as people shift to gawk, and a customer knocks over a stool with a clatter that shatters the silence. “He’s got the Hushing Sickness! Look at him—”
What in Terro’s name is the Hushing Sickness? The man’s skin appears waxy, worse than when he first walked in, but the shitty ale he guzzled could be the culprit.
His mouth, though…it’s still gaping open, exposing the dark maw of his throat. And has he blinked yet? I don’t think so. I’ve encountered a lot of uncanny sights in my life, but this one prickles the hairs on my arms.
The crowd recoils, some forming signs of the gods to ward off evil spirits. To blend in, I copy their gestures and rise from my stool.
“Get him out!” The middle-aged tavern keeper charges out from behind the bar, her face flushed as she snaps her towel. “Get him out before it spreads—”
“It can’t be. It’s not!” The woman with the dirty nails grabs Henry’s arm and shakes him. “He was just talking to me. He was fine…”
What the fuck are they on about? I watch but scoot away from the action, unwilling to get caught up in whatever this is.
The two men at the table haul Henry up by his arms. His head bobs to one side as they drag him from his chair toward the door. His mouth never closes, as if he’s stuck in a perpetually silent scream.
The patrons part for them, people climbing on the furniture to avoid their path. No one pays any mind to the sobbing woman trailing behind the two patrons, still insisting that Henry’s not sick even as they toss him out the door.
With the show over, everyone reclaims their abandoned seats to hunch over their drinks and speak in low murmurs. A few mutter about calling the Graywatch, and someone hisses, “If you do that, they’ll take us all.”
Eventually, normal conversation and gambling resume, but I can’t seem to banish the uneasy knots in my stomach.
What in the three hells is happening in Meridia?
Chapter Three
Esme
Edgehallow after dark is a different beast.
I tug my hood up against the chilly spring breeze, wrinkling my nose at the reek of rancid mud and rotting garbage. By daylight, the bustling border town attempts to feign respectability, but after sunset, sensible citizens bolt their doors and remain inside, while the thieves and cutthroats come out.
Buildings sag in on themselves, slanting toward the dirt road like uneven teeth. The painted walls, once merry and pastel, have faded to a dull gray-white, matching the air of exhaustion that hangs over the town.
Hunching my shoulders, I make myself smaller and melt into the shadows.
Just another traveler passing through. Nothing to see here.
As I traverse the dirt road, I cast my mind out, listening to the earth and the animals that walk upon it.
Normally, I would use my magical abilities to check on the health and well-being of the land, but if I focus, they’ll allow me to slip unseen through town.
An image of the man from the tavern floats into my mind anyway. His obvious strength and easy confidence. The lazy grin.
And those eyes.
They were such a piercing blue that when our gazes met, I had to look away. His intensity unsettling me, as though he could peer into my soul and uncover all my secrets.
Dangerous. My original reaction to his appearance, and the word that still fits him best.
I’d do well to steer clear.
With a shake of my head, I dash the image of him away.
The city is falling apart due to neglect and oversight, and the citizens are starting to give up hope. A cluster of men huddles near a closed shopfront, their voices low and angry. Three people congregate in the alley to my left, two standing, one sitting, all worn out like a faded painting. A dog noses through trash near the well, thoughts clouded by hunger and need.
