The smell of damp wool and metallic fever-sweat filled the cramped interior of the hut.
Cassian wrung out the rag in the wooden bucket, his fingers were sore, stiff from all the squeezing.
He folded the cloth tightly and pressed it onto Manes' forehead. The old man's skin was scalding, a harsh, dry heat that felt less like an illness and more like a fire burning him out from the inside.
Manes let out a weak, raspy groan, his head twitching to the side, but he didn't wake. He hadn't opened his eyes since he hit the mud yesterday evening.
Cassian sat back on his heels, resting his forearms against his knees as he stared at the fragile, shriveled figure beneath the thin woolen blankets. He had spent the entire night hauling water, forcing drops of bitter herbal tea down the old man's throat, and praying—ironically enough—that the grumpy old man wouldn't die on him.
If Manes died, the swordsmanship died with him. And if the swordsmanship died, Cassian's leverage with Dea vanished into thin air. He couldn't afford to let this old man slip into the grave. Not yet.
Rising from the dirt floor, Cassian wiped his damp palms on his trousers and walked over to the small wooden table in the corner where the grimoire rested. He stared down at the red, leather-bound book. The indecipherable symbols seemed to mock him, shifting lazily under the dim morning light filtering through the windows.
Cassian picked up the heavy volume, pulled his chair up, then took a deep, steadying breath.
"Dea," he called out
Silence answered him at first, heavy and expectant, before her presence smoothed over his thoughts like cold glass.
"I'm listening, Cassian."
"I believe certain changes have to be made as per our previous agreement" he said, resting his hand flat over the cover of the grimoire.
"And what are these changes"
"Since you claim I'm not ready to learn everything in this book, then let's do this instead. You feed me the information in piecemeal. Just one thing per day."
"And what makes you think I'll agree to that?" her voice echoed, carrying a faint edge of amusement.
"Because the alternative is for us to sit around, wait, and hope the Archon's men don't track me down before I manage to finish learning the sword," Cassian replied sharply.
"Manes is bedridden. Training is stalled. We can't afford to waste time doing nothing while he recovers."
Dea sighed. It was the same long, slow breath she took whenever she was contemplating something she knew she couldn't completely shut down. The silence stretched between them for a few agonizing seconds until she finally gave ground.
"Fine."
Cassian shifted in his chair, a small spark of victory lighting in his chest.
"Okay. Let's start."
"The book is called the Grimoire of the Seven because it contains detailed information regarding seven distinct Marks."
Cassian rolled his eyes. "I actually have this information already. So maybe we can skip forward?"
"Or I can simply stop talking altogether," Dea countered instantly, her tone dry and icy. "So, will you let me speak, or will you keep interrupting?"
Cassian raised his hands in mock defeat, leaning back against the wooden frame of his chair. "Okay, okay. Proceed."
"These seven Marks were special,"Dea continued, her voice resonating with a subtle, ancient weight.
"They controlled divine energy far better than any standard Mark ever granted to mortals."
Cassian leaned in, his brows furrowing. "Why?"
"Because they possessed a unique trait,"
She said softly." They were considered the absolute pinnacle of Marks. Power in its rawest, most unadulterated form."
"Yes, but why?" Cassian pressed, his heart quickening. "What made their trait different from the rest of the others"
Dea paused, before responding
"That is all you get for today."
Cassian blinked, staring blankly at the far wall.
"You can't be serious."
"I am" she declared.
"Come on, did you see what I did today? Chopping wood, tending to a dying man, keeping vigil all night? Was none of that worthy of a little more?"
"You came to me with the idea of piecemeal information," Dea responded smoothly, not a shred of guilt in her tone. "I decide how much constitutes a piece."
"That doesn't seem fair at all."
"Really?" she hummed, if he could see her, Cassian was sure she was smirking
"It seems fair to me. But seeing as you were in fact tending to that old, dying man, I suppose you deserve more."
She'd seen reason
"They had a special constitution"
Cassian waited for her to say more, but it never came
"That's it?"
She didn't respond now.
Cassian let out a long, frustrated sigh, slumping back into his seat. There was no point in arguing with her.
It was infuriating, but as his frustration settled, he realized he just had to be happy that he had managed to convince her to open up at all.
Besides, the exchange hadn't been entirely fruitless. He had learned something genuinely new and critical.
They controlled divine energy better.
That single detail meant that in the long run, he held a distinct advantage over other Mark-bearers.
He didn't fully understand the underlying mechanics yet, but he was certain of one thing: superior control over divine energy was a massive leverage point. In a real battle, efficiency and raw output meant the difference between breaking through an enemy's guard or being gutted in the mud.
He possessed a fundamental strength, an edge over the Archon's elite squads.
He still didn't know why his Mark was stronger, but for now, that didn't diminish its value. It was the Mark granted to him by Korvus. The one single item of worth that useless, distant god had ever given him before abandoning him.
He would master its secrets, pull every last detail out of Dea, and use that very same divine energy to bring Korvus and the Archon crashing down. He would make them rue the day they left him for dead.
He wished Dea would tell him more right now. He wanted to skip the fluff and learn the practical applications immediately. But he knew he would have to be patient.
If he couldn't get the full picture today, he would make do with the scraps he had earned. She was going to tell him more tomorrow. And then the day after that. And the day after that. He would drag the truth out of her piece by piece, day by day, until she eventually arrived at the useful parts. The parts where he learned how to weave his divine energy into a lethal weapon, how to turn his Mark into a force of destruction, and precisely how he could use it to slit the Archon's throat.
All he had to do was endure.
Across the small room, Manes let out another violent, rattling cough that shook his frail frame. Cassian stood up, stepping back over to the bedside. He picked up the damp cloth, dipped it back into the icy water, and wrung it out once more.
He placed the cold rag over the old man's burning forehead, staring down at the person who held the other half of his survival in his trembling hands.
"You better wake up tomorrow, old man," Cassian muttered under his breath, sitting down on the chair beside the bed and resting his wooden practice sword across his knees. "We both have a lot of work to do."