CHAPTER 408: INVISIBLE BLADES

Vincent/Vaelthor /Star~

The morning after our heartfelt talk under the old oak tree dawned bright and crisp, the kind of day where the sun filtered through the cottage windows like golden threads, weaving warmth into every corner. I sat at the rough-hewn wooden table, nursing a mug of herbal tea that Rayma—Dad—had brewed, its steam carrying hints of chamomile and mint. The scent mingled with the sizzle of eggs frying in the iron skillet, and for a moment, the lingering ache in my chest felt distant, like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Dad slid a plate in front of me, piled high with eggs, fresh bread slathered in butter, and slices of apple from the orchard out back. His amber eyes sparkled with that familiar kindness as he took his seat across from me. "Morning, Star. Sleep any better?"

I nodded, forcing a smile through the haze of last night’s tears. "A little. Thanks to you." I poked at the eggs with my fork, the yolk spilling out like liquid sunshine. "About what we talked about... digging into my past. You really think we can find answers?"

He leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxing as he sipped his own tea. "Absolutely, son. I’ve been thinking on it all night. That pain of yours—it’s like a thorn buried deep, and we’re going to pull it out. I’ll start today: ask around subtly, maybe send word to some old contacts. Travelers pass through the town with stories from afar. We’ll cure this, Star. You deserve a life without that shadow hanging over you."

His words wrapped around me like a promise, igniting a flicker of hope in my battered heart. "I don’t know how to thank you, Dad. It means everything."

He reached across the table, squeezing my hand with that steady grip of his. "No thanks needed. We’re family. Now eat up—those eggs won’t stay hot forever."

We finished breakfast in companionable silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant call of birds. But as the days slipped by—one blending into the next like leaves falling in autumn—Dad never brought it up again. No mentions of travelers, no tales scavenged from the market gossip. I caught myself watching him during our routines: chopping wood in the yard, his axe swinging with rhythmic precision; foraging in the woods, his voice low as he named the plants and their uses. Each time I opened my mouth to ask, the words died on my tongue. What if I was being a burden? He’d already given me so much—a home, a name, a father’s love. I didn’t want to push, to seem ungrateful. So I let it be, burying the questions alongside the pain that still gnawed at me in quiet moments.

A week later, the air had turned cooler, carrying the crisp bite of impending winter. I was out back, stacking firewood under the eaves of the cottage, when Dad called from the doorway. "Star! Come inside for a minute—we’ve got plans to discuss."

I wiped the sweat from my brow, the rough bark leaving faint scratches on my palms, and followed him in. The cottage smelled of fresh-baked pie—apple, from the look of the golden crust cooling on the windowsill. Dad was at the table, polishing an old lantern with a cloth, his movements deliberate and calm.

"What’s up, Dad?" I asked, sliding onto the bench opposite him.

He set the lantern down, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of excitement and mystery. "We’re having guests soon. Close friends of mine—haven’t seen them in ages. They’ll be here in a couple of days, so we need to prepare. Tidy up, stock the larder, that sort of thing."

Guests? The word sparked curiosity in me like a flint striking steel. I knew nothing of my own past, a blank slate etched only with fragments of sorrow, but Dad’s life before me was equally enigmatic. He was kind to everyone—the baker, the seamstress, even the stray cats that wandered by—but who were his true friends? People he trusted enough to invite into our sanctuary? "Who are they? Old adventuring buddies or something?"

He chuckled, that deep, rumbling sound that always eased the tension in my shoulders. "Something like that. You’ll like them, Star. They’re good folk, full of stories. But let’s focus on getting ready. What do you think we need?"

I leaned forward, my mind racing. "Well, the cottage is cozy, but if they’re special, we should make it welcoming. Maybe some nice silverware for the table—ours is a bit worn. And provisions: extra bread, cheese, wine. I could go into town today and pick up what we need."

His face lit up, pride shining in his eyes like the sun breaking through clouds. "That’s my boy. Thinking ahead like that—I’m impressed, Star. Shows real heart." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a wallet that was thick with cash. "Here, take this. Should cover everything."

I took the wallet, feeling the weight of the money in my palm, but we both knew the truth. "Dad, you know the townsfolk won’t take a single bill. As soon as they hear it’s for you—or me, your son—they’ll insist on giving it all for free. It’s like you’re their patron saint."

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound filling the room with warmth. "Ah, you’re right. It’s a curse, really. I’ve got more cash than I know what to do with—piling up like autumn leaves. Please, Star, I beg you: find a way to make them take it. Slip it into their pockets when they’re not looking, or tell them it’s for a good cause. Anything! Otherwise, I’ll have to start burying it in the yard like some miserly dragon."

I grinned, the humor lightening the ever-present weight in my chest. "Alright, alright. I’ll try my best. Maybe I’ll say it’s a donation to the town festival or something. But no promises—they’re stubborn when it comes to you."

He clapped me on the shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring. "That’s the spirit. Be safe out there, son. And hurry back—we’ve got pie to eat."

With the wallet tucked into my pocket, I set off down the winding path toward town, the forest alive around me. Leaves crunched underfoot, a symphony of reds and golds carpeting the ground, and the air hummed with the distant buzz of activity. The walk was invigorating, the cool breeze tugging at my cloak, carrying scents of pine and earth. For a moment, the pain in my heart receded, replaced by a budding excitement. Guests meant stories, connections—maybe even hints about Dad’s past that could unlock my own.

The town emerged from the trees like a hidden gem: stone houses with thatched roofs huddled around a bustling market square, colorful awnings flapping in the wind like flags of welcome. Vendors shouted their wares—fresh produce, handmade crafts, the sizzle of meat on grills—and the air was thick with the aroma of spices, baked goods, and woodsmoke. As I stepped into the fray, heads turned, smiles blooming like flowers in spring.

"Star! Rayma’s boy!" called the old baker from his stall, his flour-dusted apron straining over his belly. "What brings you to market today?"

I waved, weaving through the crowd. "Just picking up a few things for Dad. We’ve got company coming."

Whispers rippled outward—"Rayma’s hosting?" "Anything for him!"—and suddenly, offers poured in. But before I could dive into bargaining, two figures approached, mirroring each other like reflections in a pond. Twins, both with tousled brown hair, freckled faces, and grins that screamed mischief. Milo and Kyle—I’d seen them around before, always together, always laughing.

"Hey, Star!" Milo said, elbowing his brother. "Haven’t seen you in town much. Need a hand?"

Kyle nodded enthusiastically, his eyes twinkling. "Yeah, we’re pros at this market. Know all the best stuffs. What’re you after?"

I hesitated, then smiled. Their energy was infectious, a welcome distraction. "Silverware, mostly—nice stuff for guests. And provisions: bread, cheese, maybe some wine. Dad gave me money, but you know how it is..."

Milo snorted. "With Rayma? Everything’s free. But come on, we’ll show you around. Start with old Widow Hargrove—she’s got the finest cutlery."

We plunged into the market together, the twins chattering like magpies. Milo pointed out a stall with gleaming apples. "Try one—best in the county. Kyle here once ate ten in a row and regretted it for days."

Kyle shoved him playfully. "Lies! It was eight, and I was fine. Star, ignore him. He’s the one who tripped over his own feet last festival."

I laughed, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "You two are a riot. How long have you known Dad?"

"Forever," Milo said, grabbing a basket from a vendor who waved off payment with a wink. "Rayma’s like the town’s guardian angel. Helped our pa fix the roof after a storm—wouldn’t take a thing in return."

Kyle added, "Yeah, and he’s got stories that could fill a book. Ever hear the one about the wandering minstrel and the enchanted forest? Bet he’d tell it better."

We moved from stall to stall, loading up on goods. The seamstress pressed a set of polished silver forks and knives into my hands—"For Rayma, no charge!"—and I slipped coins into her tip jar when she wasn’t looking, honoring Dad’s plea. The baker loaded us with loaves, still warm and crusty, and the cheesemonger added wedges of sharp cheddar and creamy goat’s milk variety. Wine came next, a robust red from the vintner’s best stock.

As we haggled—mostly failing, thanks to Dad’s reputation—the twins kept the mood light. "Star, you swing an axe like Rayma yet?" Milo teased, mimicking a chop that nearly toppled a display of pottery.

"Better than you, probably," I shot back, dodging Kyle’s mock punch. "Last time I saw you two, you were losing at horseshoes to kids half your age."

Kyle clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch! Low blow, Star. But fair. Hey, let’s grab those spices over there—your guests’ll love ’em."

We were midway through the spice vendor’s array—jars of cinnamon, nutmeg, and exotic peppers assaulting my senses—when it hit. A sharp, searing pain lanced through my wrists, as if invisible blades were slicing deep into the flesh. I gasped, dropping the jar I’d been holding; it shattered on the cobblestones with a crash that echoed like thunder in my ears. No blood, no wound—just agony, raw and unrelenting, pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong.

"Star? You alright?" Milo’s voice cut through the haze, his hand on my shoulder.

I clutched my arms to my chest, vision blurring. "It... it hurts. Like something’s cutting me."

Kyle’s face paled. "What? Where? There’s nothing there!"

The pain spread, igniting in my heart like a firestorm. That familiar wrenching sorrow surged, amplified a thousandfold—loss, betrayal, a void swallowing me whole. My knees buckled, strength ebbing away as weakness flooded my limbs. The market spun: colors bleeding together, voices distorting into a distant roar.

"Hold on, Star!" Milo shouted, catching me as I swayed. "Kyle, get help!"

But the darkness closed in, relentless and absolute. My last thought was of Dad, his promise unfulfilled, as the world faded to black.