The afternoon sun was starting to dip behind the rooftops as Silas walked away from the merchant district. His satchel was full of Miller's finished ledgers. Tucked under his arm was a warm loaf of fresh bread wrapped in brown paper, just like he promised.
He was thinking about what to make for dinner when he heard loud, fast footsteps slapping against the stone street behind him.
"Silas! Silas!"
Silas turned. It was Leo, the cobbler's teenage son who lived a few houses down from him. The boy was sprinting, his face pale and sweating. He stopped in front of Silas, leaning over and gasping for air.
"Leo? What is it?" Silas asked, his stomach tightening.
"It's your house," Leo panted, his eyes wide with panic. "The watchmen are there. Someone said... you need to come right now."
Silas didn't ask any more questions. The look on the boy's face was enough. He gripped the strap of his satchel and ran.
He sprinted through the winding streets, his boots pounding against the pavement. When he turned the final corner onto his street, his breath caught in his throat. A large crowd of neighbors was blocking the road. They formed a thick half-circle in front of his house, whispering to each other and pointing.
"Move," Silas said, his voice hard. "Get out of the way!"
He shoved his shoulders between two tall men, ignoring their complaints, and broke through to the front of the crowd.
He stopped dead.
The heavy wooden door of his house was still shut tight, the deadbolt locked exactly how he had left it. But the large glass window—the expensive, real glass he had paid for with his first big accounting job—was completely shattered. Jagged pieces of glass covered the dirt and the stone steps.
Captain Vance, the head of the local City Watch, was standing near the front steps. Silas knew him well; he had helped Vance balance the watchhouse budget just last month. Vance was holding his cheap leather helmet under his arm, staring at the ground.
Vance looked up and saw Silas. The older man's face dropped. He quickly stepped forward and held out a thick, calloused hand.
"Silas, son, wait—" Vance started to say, his voice heavy.
Silas didn't hear the rest. He didn't feel Vance's hand on his chest trying to stop him. His eyes moved past the captain to the ground just beneath the broken window.
His mother was lying on the dirt.
She was on her side, one arm stretched out toward the street. A dark, thick pool of red was spreading out from under her chest, soaking into the dry earth and staining the hem of her faded dress. A few feet away, the straw broom she had been using earlier lay snapped in half.
Silas didn't scream. His brain simply stopped working.
The wrapped loaf of bread slipped from under his arm and fell into the dirt. His satchel slid off his shoulder, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The loud murmurs of the crowd behind him faded into total silence.
He took one slow, stiff step forward, his eyes locked on Clara's still hand.
"Mom?" he whispered.
Images hit him all at once. Not from his old life on Earth, but from this one.
Being six years old, hiding under a wooden table. The heavy, unsteady steps of his father and the sharp smell of cheap alcohol. Clara shaking in terror, her face pale, but still stepping in front of the table to block the large man's path. She had taken a brutal punch to the face that night, falling to the floor, just to keep him safe.
Then, the tough winter right after his father died. Clara's mind was already slipping. She was terrified of the outside world, jumping at every loud noise. But Silas had been sick, and their cupboards were empty. The image flashed in his mind—Clara standing by the front door, crying and gripping the handle until her knuckles turned white, before finally forcing herself to walk out into the crowded market. She had fought through her own panic attacks just to bring him back a hot bowl of soup.
Even when her mind was broken, even when she was trapped in her own nightmares, she had always protected him.
Silas blinked, and the flashes vanished.
The quiet street rushed back in. The smell of dry dirt and fresh blood filled his nose.
Clara wasn't standing by the door. She was lying on the ground. The faded dress she had smoothed out just a few hours ago was ruined. Her eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the stone steps, but there was no nervous energy left in them. There was nothing left at all.
Silas felt his legs give out. He hit the hard ground, dropping to his knees. He didn't feel the sharp pieces of broken glass that cut through his pants. He just stared at his mother's face.
Captain Vance placed a heavy hand on Silas's shoulder.
"Silas," Vance said softly. "You shouldn't be right here. Let my men cover her."
Silas didn't answer. He shrugged off the captain's hand. He crawled forward. The broken glass crunched under his knees, cutting through his pants, but he just felt cold.
He stopped beside her. He reached out with a shaky hand and touched her shoulder. She was still warm.
"Who?" Silas asked. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was flat and hollow.
Vance sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd of neighbors. "Go home!" he shouted, waving his hand. "All of you, clear the street!"
The crowd slowly started to shuffle away, whispering and keeping their heads down. Vance turned back to Silas. He crouched down, his leather armor creaking.
Before Vance could say another word, fast, heavy footsteps approached. Dr. Aris pushed his way past the last few neighbors. He carried his worn leather medical bag, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.
"Captain," Aris panted. He looked down and saw Silas, then Clara. His face fell.
The doctor dropped to his knees on the other side of Clara. He didn't seem to care about the broken glass cutting into his trousers. He reached out and placed two fingers against her neck. He waited a few seconds. Then, he let out a long, slow breath and lowered his hand.
"I'm sorry, Silas," the doctor said quietly. "She is gone."
Silas didn't blink. He just stared at his mother's face.
Dr. Aris looked closely at the massive, clean cut across her chest. Then he looked at the shattered window, the glass covering the outside steps, and the snapped broom lying in the dirt.
The doctor frowned. He had treated Clara for years. He knew her mind, and he knew her triggers. He connected the pieces.
"Captain," Aris said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The procession. Did the sound of the Royal Guard marching cause her to panic?"
Vance's head snapped up. "Aris. Shut your mouth."
"But the heavy boots, she must have thought—"
"I said shut up!" Vance hissed. He shot a hard, panicked look at Silas, then glared back at the doctor.
Aris froze. He looked at Vance's tight jaw, then at Silas sitting perfectly still on the ground. The doctor realized his mistake. He closed his mouth tightly and looked down at his lap.
Silas heard every word.
Silas kept his eyes on Clara's face. He reached out and carefully brushed a dirty strand of gray hair away from her cheek. His hand was completely steady. The shaking from earlier was gone.
He placed his palms flat on the dirt and pushed himself up. Small pieces of glass dug into his knees, but his expression didn't change. He stood up straight and looked down at the two older men.
"Who do I pay to move her?" Silas asked.
Captain Vance blinked. He stood up slowly, his armor clinking. He looked at Silas like he didn't recognize him.
"Silas, son..." Vance started, holding his hand out.
"Is it the city cart, or do I need to hire a private wagon?" Silas interrupted. His voice was flat. It sounded like he was asking about a shipment of flour.
Dr. Aris swallowed hard and got to his feet. He gripped the handle of his medical bag tight. "I can send for the undertaker from the second district, Silas. I will cover the fee. You don't need to worry about money right now."
"I have money," Silas said. He looked away from them and stared at his broken window. "Send the undertaker. Tell him I want a simple wooden box. I will dig the grave myself at the common cemetery tomorrow morning."
Vance rubbed the back of his neck. He looked miserable. "Silas, listen. We should talk about what just happened here. The guards—"
Silas shifted his eyes to Vance. The captain stopped talking instantly.
Silas's face was blank. There was no anger, no panic, and no tears. His eyes were completely empty.
"There is nothing to talk about, Captain," Silas said quietly. "My mother is dead. Please send the undertaker."
He turned his back on them. He walked over to the spot where he had dropped his things. He picked up his leather satchel and calmly brushed the dirt off the strap. He left the ruined loaf of bread on the ground. He stood by his broken front door and waited, and he did not look back at the body.
...
The moon sat high in the sky. Cold wind blew through the shattered glass of the front window, chilling the small living room.
Silas sat in the dark. He rested in his mother's wooden rocking chair. He hadn't lit a candle. He hadn't washed his hands or changed his clothes. The dried blood and dirt still stained the knees of his pants. He just stared at the empty fireplace.
Heavy footsteps stopped outside his house.
A fist pounded on the heavy wooden door. Silas didn't move. A second later, there was a sharp crack. The metal deadbolt broke from the outside. The door pushed open.
Two men walked into the house. They didn't ask to come in. They wore expensive blue coats with silver trim and carried steel swords at their hips. One of them held a small, glowing white stone in his palm to light up the dark room.
They stopped when they saw Silas sitting in the corner.
The taller man stepped forward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat cloth pouch. He tossed it onto the wooden table. It landed with a quiet clink.
"You are the son," the tall man said. It wasn't a question. "Her Highness, the Princess, sends her regrets."
Silas didn't blink. He looked from the small pouch to the man's face.
"There was a misunderstanding this afternoon," the man continued, his voice bored. "When the royal procession passed, a woman broke a window and lunged toward the street holding a wooden weapon."
The broom.
"The Knight Captain acted to protect the Princess. He thought she was an assassin," the man said. He pointed at the small pouch on the table. "Her Highness is generous. That is your compensation for the mistake. This matter is now officially closed."
Silas did not say a word. He just stared at the men with cold, empty eyes.
The shorter man shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable in the quiet house. "Let's go. We did the job," he muttered.
The tall man nodded. They turned around, walked out the broken door, and stepped back into the street. They didn't bother trying to shut it behind them.
The two men walked away from the house, heading back toward the richer merchant district. The street was empty and quiet.
Once they were a few blocks away, the tall man let out a short laugh. He reached inside his heavy blue coat and pulled out a thick velvet bag. He tossed it in his hand. It made a loud, heavy sound of shifting gold coins.
"Did you see the look on his face?" the tall man said, smiling. "Like a dead fish."
The shorter man looked nervously down the street. "If the Princess finds out we kept the royal compensation, she will take our heads. She ordered us to give him two hundred gold pieces."
"She wanted to give two hundred gold pieces for a dirty commoner," the tall man scoffed. He tied the heavy bag to his belt. "It is a complete waste of money. I gave him five silver coins. That is more than enough for a peasant."
"Still," the shorter man said. "It is a big risk."
The tall man slapped his partner on the back. "Stop worrying. The Princess leaves for the inner territory tomorrow morning. That boy is an ant. He will never even get a glimpse of Her Highness, let alone speak to her to complain. We are perfectly safe."
They turned the corner, talking about what they were going to buy first.
...
Silas listened until the heavy footsteps completely faded down the street. The house was silent again, except for the cold wind pushing the broken door back and forth.
He slowly stood up from the rocking chair. His joints were stiff from sitting so long. He walked over to the wooden table and picked up the small cloth pouch. It felt very light in his hand.
He untied the thin string at the top. He turned the pouch upside down and let the contents fall into his palm.
They made a soft clinking sound. He held his hand near the pale moonlight coming through the shattered window.
He used his thumb to move the metal pieces apart. He counted them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Five silver coins.
In the Corvin market, five silver coins bought a sturdy pair of winter boots. It paid for two weeks of standard groceries.
He stared at the silver for a long time. Just looking at the exact value they had calculated for his mother's life.
He carefully slid the five coins back into the cloth pouch. He pulled the string tight and put the pouch deep into his front pocket.
He turned his head and looked out the broken window. He stared past the dirt street, looking toward the sky.
"The Knight Captain," Silas said to the empty room. His voice was quiet and completely flat. "The Princess."
...
Morning
The ground at the common cemetery was hard. Silas dug the grave himself in the early morning light. He lowered the simple wooden box into the dirt, packed the earth flat with his shovel, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked away.
By mid-morning, the main street of Corvin was packed. The royal procession was moving out after a brief stop for fresh horses and supplies. Silas stood near the back of the crowd, half-hidden behind a tall merchant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
A young man rode at the very front on a massive gray horse. He wore bright, polished silver armor.
"That is the Knight Captain," a young woman whispered to her friend. "So handsome. The youngest to ever lead the guard."
Silas watched the man ride past.
Behind the captain rolled a black wooden carriage with gold trim. Through the clear glass window, Silas saw a young woman with pale skin and bright golden hair pinned up tightly. The Princess.
Silas locked his eyes on her profile. Every number, every ledger, and every rational thought in his head collapsed into a single, sharp point of absolute hatred.
Inside the carriage, the Princess suddenly gasped. Her hand flew to her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. She leaned forward, her breath catching as a sudden, suffocating weight pressed down on her lungs. She looked frantically out the window into the sea of peasants, her eyes wide with sudden panic.