Three days. That's all it had taken for Azerin to feel something he'd almost forgotten existed—anticipation for tomorrow. Each morning, he found himself walking toward Marcus Thornfield's bookshop with a lightness in his step that surprised him. The work satisfied him in ways he hadn't expected: physical enough to quiet his restless hands, intellectual enough to engage a mind that had known centuries of cunning and strategy.
Marcus proved to be that rarest of employers—one who valued what a man could do over what he claimed to be. In a life built on deception and carefully constructed facades, such straightforward acceptance felt revolutionary.
But more than the work itself, the shop had become a sanctuary. Its thick stone walls muffled the chaos of the street beyond, creating a pocket of peace where time moved to the gentle rhythm of turning pages rather than the harsh urgency of commerce. When conversations with customers became too complex to navigate—when their easy humanity reminded him too sharply of what he'd never learned to be—he could retreat into the comforting ritual of cataloging and shelving.
This evening, the last customer had departed earlier than usual, leaving the shop wrapped in the golden quiet of approaching dusk. Marcus sat hunched over his ledger, his pen scratching with the careful precision of a man who understood the value of every copper coin. Azerin worked nearby, wrestling a section of history texts back into alphabetical order after a particularly enthusiastic browser had left chaos in his wake.
"Azer," Marcus said suddenly, and something in his voice made Azerin's hands still on the leather-bound spine he'd been examining.
Personal questions. They were landmines in a field he had to cross daily, each one carrying the potential to shatter the fragile normalcy he was building.
"Of course," he replied, proud of how steady his voice sounded.
"Where did you come from?" Marcus set down his pen and turned to face him fully. "Before here, I mean. It's not idle curiosity—you have the strangest relationship with knowledge I've ever encountered. You handle books like they're made of spun glass, but you read like someone seeing written words for the first time. You know things about history and languages that speak to real education, yet you're surprised by concepts any village child would take for granted."
The observation cut uncomfortably close to the truth. For all his careful attempts to blend in, to seem like nothing more than a drifter with an unremarkable past, his fundamental alienness kept showing through.
How do I explain centuries of accumulating knowledge as a weapon while never learning to love it? How do I say that I can read texts from the dawn of civilization but have never known the simple pleasure of a story told for joy alone?
"I had an unusual education," he said finally. "Very... focused. Practical matters took precedence over pleasure reading."
"Military family?"
If only it were that simple. "Something like that."
Marcus nodded with the satisfaction of a puzzle solver finding a piece that fit. "That explains it. I've known soldiers who came home with that same look—men who'd seen too much of the world's darkness and couldn't quite figure out how to live with everyday light anymore."
The characterization struck so close to the truth that Azerin felt his breath catch. Not entirely the truth—Marcus was thinking of human darkness, human war, human scale destruction. But the essence of it, the difficulty of reconciling what he'd been with what he was trying to become, rang perfectly clear.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's spent his life reading people as carefully as books," Marcus replied, his voice gentle. "But here's what I've learned, son—it doesn't matter where you've been. What matters is what you choose to do with where you are now."
The simple acceptance in those words was almost overwhelming. No demands for detailed explanations, no insistence on prying into wounds that were clearly still tender. Just acknowledgment of his worth based on present actions rather than mysterious past.
"I'm not sure I know how to do that," Azerin admitted before he could stop himself.
Marcus's smile transformed his entire face, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that spoke of decades spent finding joy in small kindnesses. "Well, that's what friends are for—helping each other figure out the difficult bits."
Friends. When had anyone last offered him that gift without expecting something in return? When had anyone suggested that uncertainty was acceptable, surmountable, something to be met with support rather than hidden in shame?
* * *
"I've been thinking about your living situation," Marcus continued, apparently unaware of the small earthquake his casual kindness had just triggered. "Anna mentioned you're staying at the inn, but that can't be sustainable on what I can afford to pay you."
It was true. Azerin had been trading stable work for a bed and meals, which was better than sleeping rough but hardly a long-term solution. "I'll manage something."
"Actually, I have a better idea." Marcus gestured toward the narrow staircase at the back of the shop. "There's a small apartment upstairs. Nothing grand—just a room with a bed, washbasin, and fireplace. Been empty since the last tenant moved to the coast about six months ago."
He paused, studying Azerin's face with the careful attention of someone making an offer that mattered. "If you're interested, you could stay there in exchange for opening the shop mornings and handling evening security. I'm getting too old to haul myself down here before dawn, and I worry about leaving all these books unguarded at night."
The offer was so generous, so trusting, it left Azerin momentarily speechless. A place to live. Honest work. The gradual construction of something that might, eventually, resemble a normal life. It was more than he'd dared hope for when he'd first stumbled into this town, hollow-eyed and desperate.
"You barely know me," he pointed out, his voice rougher than he intended. "How can you be sure I won't rob you blind and disappear in the night?"
Marcus chuckled, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "Son, I've watched you handle first-edition manuscripts like they were made of butterfly wings. A man who treats books with that kind of reverence isn't going to steal them. Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "if you were planning to rob me, you'd have done it already instead of spending three days alphabetizing my poetry section."
The logic was sound, but it was the underlying faith that left Azerin reeling. This man was offering trust based on observation of character rather than proof of credentials. He was making himself vulnerable to someone he knew almost nothing about, simply because he chose to believe in the possibility of goodness.
When did I last inspire trust instead of fear? When did anyone look at me and see potential for good rather than threat?
"I would be honored," Azerin managed, having to clear his throat before the words would come properly. "Thank you."
* * *
The apartment was small and layered with months of dust, but it was solidly built and filled with the warm golden light of evening. Windows looked out over the town's main street, and a stone fireplace promised warmth against the approaching winter. More importantly, it was quiet, private, and surrounded by thousands of books—a sanctuary within a sanctuary.
"The bed needs fresh linens, and you'll want to air the place out thoroughly," Marcus said, throwing open windows to let in the evening breeze. "But I think you'll find it comfortable enough. There's a kitchen downstairs behind the main shop—nothing fancy, but adequate for a bachelor's needs."
Azerin walked slowly around the space, trailing his fingers along surfaces where dust had gathered in soft drifts. The room wasn't large—perhaps twelve feet square—but after weeks of sleeping in barns and caves, it felt palatial. More than that, it felt like something he hadn't experienced in longer than he could remember: a place that might become his.
"The furniture is basic but serviceable," Marcus continued, gesturing toward a simple wooden bed frame, small table with two chairs, and a wardrobe that had seen better decades but remained solid. "Previous tenant left it all behind when he moved. Said he was starting fresh and didn't want to be weighed down by old things."
Starting fresh. Not weighed down by old things. If only it were that simple.
"It's perfect," Azerin said quietly. "More than I expected."
Marcus smiled, the expression lighting up his weathered features. "Good. Then it's settled. You can move in tonight if you'd like—no point paying for another night at the inn when you have a perfectly good bed waiting here."
After Marcus left with promises to return in the morning with fresh linens and supplies, Azerin stood alone in the center of his new home and simply breathed. The silence here was different from the wilderness—not the heavy quiet of isolation, but the peaceful hush of sanctuary. Below him, he could hear the gentle settling sounds of the bookshop adjusting to the cooling air, thousands of pages and bindings whispering their ancient conversations.
He moved to the window and looked out over the town as twilight deepened toward true darkness. Lanterns bloomed like golden flowers in windows across the street, small squares of warmth against the gathering shadows. Behind those illuminated panes, he could see fragments of ordinary life: a woman stirring something over a fire, a man settling into a chair with his evening pipe, children being shepherded toward beds with the universal reluctance of the young.
Simple lives. Peaceful lives. Lives with a meaning he was only beginning to understand.
The memory surfaced without warning—one of the recovered ones, sharpened by Elara's curse into painful clarity. A village much like this one, perhaps two hundred years ago. He had arrived at twilight, just as darkness was falling, and by dawn there had been nothing left but ash and screams echoing in survivors' memories. He couldn't even remember why he had destroyed it. Some slight, some refusal to pay tribute? Or simply because he could, because his power demanded constant demonstration through violence?
His hands gripped the windowsill until his knuckles went white. The nausea that accompanied these memories was becoming familiar, but no less intense. His newly mortal body seemed determined to punish him for his past, even though his mind had once been content with it.
I could have had this. At any point in the last thousand years, I could have chosen peace over conquest, community over dominion. I was too proud, too angry, too convinced of my own superiority to see what I was destroying.
A soft knock at the door startled him from his dark reverie. He turned to find Anna standing in the doorway with a basket over one arm and Emma peeking out from behind her skirts.
"I hope we're not intruding," Anna said, her smile warm though her eyes assessed him with the practiced attention of someone skilled at reading emotional weather. "Marcus mentioned you were moving in, and I thought you might need some essentials."
She stepped into the room with the easy confidence of someone extending community boundaries to include him. From her basket, she produced a loaf of bread still warm from baking, a small jar of honey, cheese wrapped in clean cloth, and a bundle of herbs tied with string.
"It's not much, but it'll see you through your first night," she said, arranging the items on his small table. "Emma insisted on bringing you something special."
The little girl darted forward, clutching a small wooden carving with the solemnity of a priestess bearing a sacred offering. It was a rough but charming representation of a chicken, clearly whittled by inexpert but loving hands.
"It's Henrietta," Emma announced. "So you don't forget about her. Papa made it, but I told him exactly what she looked like."
Azerin knelt to accept the gift, bringing himself to the child's eye level. The wooden chicken was imperfect—uneven proportions, slightly lopsided stance—but it radiated the care with which it had been made. More than that, it represented something he had never experienced: a gift given without expectation of return, offered simply as a gesture of connection.
"Thank you, Emma," he said softly. "I will treasure it."
Emma beamed at him, then surprised him completely by throwing her small arms around his neck in an enthusiastic hug. "You're sad sometimes," she whispered against his shoulder, her child's perception cutting straight through his careful composure. "But Mama says new places make people sad until they're not new anymore."
When did I last hold a child who wasn't terrified? When did I last receive affection freely given rather than coerced through power?
He remained very still, afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment. Anna watched them with an expression that held both amusement and something deeper—approval, perhaps, or recognition of something she had hoped to see.
After Emma released him and scampered back to her mother's side, Anna fixed him with a look that was both kind and piercing. "The town can seem overwhelming when you're new. Everyone wants to know everyone's business, and privacy is more suggestion than rule. But underneath all the nosiness, there's genuine care. We look after our own here."
Our own. As if he could ever truly be that. As if they would accept him if they knew what he was, what he had done.
"I'm learning that," he managed. "Everyone has been... unexpectedly kind."
"Good. And if you need anything—truly, anything at all—my door is three houses down from the square, the one with blue shutters. Don't hesitate to knock, even if it seems trivial. That's what neighbors do."
* * *
After they left, Azerin stood in the center of his new room holding Emma's wooden chicken and feeling emotions he had no framework to process. The simplicity of their kindness was somehow more overwhelming than any grand gesture could have been. They expected nothing from him except basic human decency in return. No tribute, no subjugation, no acknowledgment of superior power. Just the ordinary reciprocity of neighbors.
He set the carving carefully beside the food Anna had brought, then began the practical work of making the space livable. The physical tasks were grounding—sweeping away accumulated dust, wiping down surfaces, arranging his few belongings in the old wardrobe. He owned so little after weeks of wandering: the clothes on his back, one spare shirt and trousers Anna had helped him acquire, and the small collection of items he'd gathered during his time in the wilderness.
As true night settled over the town and its sounds faded to the gentle rhythms of sleep, Azerin lit the lamp Marcus had left for him and settled at the small table with his simple meal. The bread was still faintly warm, the cheese sharp and satisfying, the honey golden and sweet. His body accepted the food with something approaching gratitude, an organism learning to trust that sustenance would be available.
He ate slowly, savoring each bite with an attention that felt almost ceremonial. This wasn't stolen food or charity grudgingly accepted. This was nourishment shared by neighbors, an acknowledgment that he was becoming—however tentatively—part of something larger than himself.
When he finished eating, he retrieved the healer's journal Marcus had lent him and carried it to the bed. The mattress was thin but clean, and when he lay down, he found himself looking up at wooden beams that bore the marks of age and craftsmanship. Someone had built this room with care, shaped these timbers and fitted them together with skill and intention. There was history here, layers of human endeavor and habitation.
He opened the journal carefully, mindful of its fragile binding, and began to read by lamplight:
'The healer must remember that every patient fights battles you cannot see. The wound in the flesh may be simple to treat, but the wounds of the heart and spirit require different medicines. Sometimes the best healing comes not from herbs or poultices, but from the simple act of bearing witness to another's pain without judgment.'
The words struck him with unexpected force. How many wounds had he inflicted that went far deeper than the physical? How many hearts had he broken, spirits he had crushed, simply because he could? How many of those wounds were still festering, passed down through generations as trauma and fear?
I can never heal what I've broken. The scope of the damage is too vast, too ancient. But perhaps...
He thought of Emma's easy affection, Marcus's trust, Anna's neighborly kindness. Perhaps healing didn't always mean fixing what was broken. Perhaps sometimes it meant building something new, something good, something that added to the world rather than taking from it.
Is that what you wanted me to learn, Elara? That redemption isn't about erasing the past but about choosing a different future?
Outside his window, an owl called through the darkness, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the gentle sounds of night settling into itself. Azerin closed the journal carefully, extinguished the lamp, and lay in the darkness of his new home.
For the first time since the curse took hold, he fell asleep not to nightmares of past victims, but to the peaceful silence of a town that had begun—however tentatively—to accept him as one of their own.
And in his dreams, he saw no blood or screams or faces of the dead.
He dreamed of books and bread and a small wooden chicken, and of the impossible possibility that perhaps monsters could learn to be human after all.