Blood and Burden

Before Amara could press him further, the door creaked open, and her mother stumbled in, her frail frame leaning heavily against the doorframe. Her eyes, clouded with illness but bright with recognition, locked onto Amara, and a weak smile broke across her face.

"Amara?" she croaked, her voice raspy and thin, like the sound of wind through dry reeds. She took a faltering step forward, her arms outstretched, and Amara was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room in two strides to catch her mother in a tight embrace. The older woman coughed, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to shake her entire body, but she clung to her daughter as if she were the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.

Nathanael rose from his seat, his movements smooth and deliberate, and offered a formal bow, one hand pressed to his chest. "Madam," he said, his tone respectful but devoid of unnecessary warmth. "I am Nathanael. Your daughter has been of great assistance to me during our journey. You should be proud of her."

Amara's mother blinked at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and gratitude, before nodding weakly. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Thank you for bringing her home."

Without another word, Nathanael reached for his bag, its leather worn but sturdy, and set it on the table with a soft thud. He unbuckled the straps with practiced ease and pulled out several parcels of preserved food—dried meats, hard cheeses, and sacks of grain—along with a small pouch that jingled faintly with the sound of coins. He pushed the bag toward Amara, his expression unreadable.

"This should last you at least six months," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Use it wisely."

Amara's eyes widened, and she shook her head vehemently. "I can't accept this," she protested, her voice rising. "This is too much. We'll manage on our own—"

"It's not for you," Nathanael interrupted, his voice cutting through her objections like a blade. "It's for the plan. You'll need to be strong if you're going to help me see this through. And your mother—" He glanced at the older woman, who had sunk into a chair, her breathing labored. "She'll need you at your best."

Amara opened her mouth to argue further, but the look in his eyes silenced her. There was something there—something hard and unyielding, but also something she couldn't quite name. Resignation, perhaps. Or maybe regret. She nodded reluctantly, her hands tightening around the edge of the table.

Nathanael straightened, his gaze sweeping the room once more before settling on Amara. "Get some rest," he said. "The day's almost done, and tomorrow will be… eventful. I'll be back soon."

He turned and strode toward the door, his boots echoing against the wooden floor. Amara hesitated for a moment before following him outside, the cool evening air brushing against her skin. She caught up to him just as he reached the gate, her voice low but insistent.

"Why aren't you taking me with you?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers. "I can help. I've been through worse."

Nathanael paused, his back to her, and let out a slow breath. "You have your mother to take care of," he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "This is something I need to do alone."

Amara's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded, her expression a mixture of frustration and understanding. "Good luck," she said simply, her voice carrying a note of hope that she didn't entirely feel.

Nathanael didn't respond. He stepped through the gate and into the dimly lit street, his figure quickly swallowed by the gathering shadows. As he walked, his gaze drifted upward to the sky, where the last remnants of daylight painted the clouds in hues of orange and gold. For a moment, he stopped, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.

"Why am I doing this?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. "I told myself I wouldn't get involved. Not again. And yet here I am, playing the hero." He shook his head, his expression darkening. "Stupid. So stupid."

But even as the words left his lips, he knew they were a lie. He had never been able to turn away from people in need, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. It was a flaw, perhaps, or maybe a curse—one that had cost him dearly in the past. And yet, here he was, walking straight into another mess, driven by something he couldn't quite name.

With a sigh, he squared his shoulders and continued down the road, his footsteps steady and deliberate. The mayor's manor loomed in the distance, its silhouette stark against the fading light.

*****

Nathanael approached with a measured stride, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his expression one of practiced indifference. The guards stationed at the gate—burly men clad in ill-fitting uniforms and armed with halberds that looked more ceremonial than functional—eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and disdain.

"Halt," one of them barked, stepping forward to block Nathanael's path. "State your business."

Nathanael stopped, his gaze flicking over the man with a cool detachment. "I'm here to see the mayor," he said, his tone calm but firm. "It's a matter of some importance."

The guard snorted, his lips curling into a sneer. "The mayor doesn't have time for the likes of you. Move along, or we'll move you ourselves."

Nathanael's smile was thin, almost imperceptible. "I think you'll find that the mayor will want to see me," he said, his voice carrying a hint of steel. "I'm from the duke's family."

For a moment, the guards stared at him in stunned silence. Then, as if on cue, they burst into laughter, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet of the evening. "The duke's family?" one of them wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Listen, kid, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. Now get out of here before we make you regret it."

Nathanael didn't flinch. "I'm not lying," he said, his voice steady. "I am Nathanael of House—"

The butt of a halberd slammed into his stomach before he could finish, driving the air from his lungs and sending him to his knees. He doubled over, gasping for breath, but the guards didn't give him a chance to recover. A second blow struck the back of his head, and the world went dark.

*****

When consciousness returned, it did so with the abruptness of a slap. Cold water splashed over him, shocking him awake with a gasp. He blinked, his vision blurred and his head pounding, as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mildew and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or rust. The floor beneath him was cold and unyielding, the rough stone biting into his skin.

He raised a hand to his head, wincing as his fingers brushed against a tender lump. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, revealing the iron bars that separated him from the figures standing on the other side. Two guards loomed over him, their faces twisted into cruel smirks, while a third stood a few paces back, holding an empty bucket.

"Welcome back, Your Grace," one of the guards sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Hope you enjoyed your nap."

Nathanael ignored him, his gaze sweeping the room. It was a cell, small and cramped, with walls of rough-hewn stone and a ceiling so low it seemed to press down on him. The only source of light came from a flickering torch mounted on the wall outside the bars, its flame casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, his movements slow and deliberate, and leaned back against the wall. His mind raced, piecing together what had happened and calculating his next move. The guards watched him with a mixture of amusement and contempt, clearly expecting him to beg or plead for his release.

Instead, Nathanael smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips that carried no warmth. "You've made a mistake," he said, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of menace. "A very big mistake."

The guards exchanged glances, their smirks faltering for a moment before they burst into laughter. "Oh, we're shaking in our boots," one of them jeered. "What are you going to do, Your Grace? Write us a strongly worded letter?"

Nathanael didn't respond. He simply leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, his expression one of quiet confidence. The guards' laughter died away, replaced by an uneasy silence. They shifted on their feet, their bravado wavering in the face of his composure.

"Let's go," one of them muttered, turning away. "He's not going anywhere."

The sound of their footsteps echoed down the hallway as they left, leaving Nathanael alone in the dim, oppressive silence of the cell.