Echoes of the Seed

A lone figure approached the modest gates of the small town, his footsteps crunching softly against the frost-covered path. The settlement wasn't grand—its weathered wooden fences stood more as a token of security than a genuine defense against the wilds beyond. The figure's approach caused the two guards stationed at the entrance to straighten, their easy posture giving way to a flicker of unease.

The young man had white hair, stark against the muted tones of winter. His stature was unremarkable, his height slight, and his features plain to the point of unsettling. His face bore no scars, no distinguishing marks, nothing to anchor him in memory. It wasn't his appearance that caught their attention, but the disquieting normalcy of it, so devoid of anything distinct that it felt unnatural.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, awkward and tense. The older of the two guards coughed into his hand, breaking the quiet.

"Evening," he began, his voice tinged with suspicion. "Not often we get travelers in these parts, especially this late in the season." He squinted at the figure. "What brings you here, stranger?"

The young man stopped just short of the gate, his pale eyes flickering toward the guards. His presence felt unhurried, yet deliberate.

"My name is Reed," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of detachment. "I heard from a traveler that there's a night festival tonight. I thought I'd see it for myself."

The younger guard, who had been quietly observing, tilted his head. "You're alone?"

Reed nodded once. "Just me."

The older guard glanced at his companion, then back at Reed. "You sure you're in the right place? Not much here to see. Small town, smaller festival. Few lights, some music, maybe a bit of ale if you're lucky."

Reed's expression didn't change. "It's enough."

The older guard scratched his beard, still unsure. "Well, I suppose we shouldn't turn away someone looking for a little fun." He gestured toward the gate. "The festival's in the town center. People are getting ready for the Sinking tomorrow—big day for us. Performances, music, maybe even a little dancing if the mood's right."

He hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And if you're the gambling type, the bar on the south end's where folks are placing bets on tomorrow's event. Not exactly official business, but—" He gave a conspiratorial wink. "—what the mayor doesn't know won't hurt him."

The younger guard shot his partner with a disapproving look. "Not everyone's here to toss coins on the Sinking, you know."

"Just trying to help," the older guard grumbled, then turned back to Reed. "You're free to enter, kid. But keep your nose clean. No trouble, you hear?"

Reed inclined his head slightly, stepping through the gate without another word. His figure melted into the bustle of the townsfolk preparing for the festivities, leaving the guards standing in his wake.

"Odd one, that," the younger guard muttered.

"Odd's putting it lightly," the older one replied with a shake of his head. "Didn't blink once during the whole conversation. Give me the shivers."

They stood there a moment longer, staring after the boy before resuming their post.

****

Reed pushed open the bar door and stepped inside. The room was still relatively empty, the early evening crowd yet to arrive. The air smelled of roasting meat and stale ale, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke from the hearth. A few patrons sat scattered across the room, their low murmurs blending with the occasional clink of glasses.

He made his way to a small table in the corner, his footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor. Sitting with his back to the wall, he positioned himself so he could see the entirety of the bar. His movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as if every action had been practiced a thousand times before.

Reach into his small bag, he pulled out a slim, well-worn book. The cover was faded, the title barely legible. He ran his fingers over the spine, hesitating for a moment before flipping it open.

Before he could begin reading, a young woman approached his table. She was slightly older than him, her dark blue hair tied up in a practical ponytail. A brown apron hung loosely over her plain dress, and her expression was one of mild impatience.

"You new around here?" she asked, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. "Tonight we're only serving roast chicken and mutton stew with bread."

Reed looked up, his pale eyes meeting hers. "I'll have the mutton stew with bread," he said, his voice calm but firm. "And a beer."

The waitress blinked, taken aback. "Sorry, we don't serve children alcohol."

Without a word, Reed reached into his shirt and pulled out a simple necklace. A small metal tag dangled from the chain, engraved with the image of a hound. He held it up for her to see, his expression unchanging.

The waitress's eyes widened slightly, and her demeanor shifted instantly. She straightened, her tone becoming more respectful. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were part of the war merchant group." She extended her palm, her voice now polite but businesslike. "It'll be seven copper."

Reed nodded, reaching into his bag to retrieve the coins. He placed them in her hand without a word, his movements smooth and unhurried.

The waitress glanced around the bar, as if checking to see if anyone had noticed the exchange, then gave him a small nod. "Your food will be out shortly." She turned and walked back toward the kitchen, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet room.

Reed watched her go, his gaze lingering for a moment before returning to his book. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page, his fingers tracing the lines of text.

The bar around him seemed to fade into the background, the low hum of activity nothing more than white noise.

***

After he was done eating and fully focused on his book, a familiar man approached his table. It was the old guard from the town entrance, his face ruddy from drink and his hand clutching a pint of beer. He slid into the seat across from Reed without waiting for an invitation.

"Honestly, I didn't expect to see you here," the old man said, his voice gruff but friendly. He took a swig of his beer, foam clinging to his mustache. "Figured you'd be off to the festival by now."

Reed looked up, his expression unreadable. "I'm where I need to be."

The old man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Fair enough. If you're here for the betting on tomorrow's Sinking, the way's down those stairs." He jerked his thumb toward a dimly lit staircase in the corner of the room. "Head down, and you'll see the choices."

Reed's gaze flicked toward the staircase, then back to the old man. "How many sinkers are there tomorrow?"

"Thirteen in total," the old man replied, his tone turning conspiratorial. "My bet's on that kid Casspian. Shitty Legacy Clan, but he's hired four goons to protect him. And get this—each of them's dangerous enough to survive the whole thing. Ridiculous, if you ask me."

Reed's fingers twitched slightly, as if he wanted to write something down, but he didn't open his book. Instead, he nodded slowly. "I'll keep that in mind."

The old man grinned, raising his pint. "Good luck with your bets, heh. I'm gonna head home before my missus gets mad at me." He gestured for Reed to cheers his glass, but Reed simply raised his own drink—a half-finished mug of water—in silent acknowledgment.

The old man laughed, downing the rest of his beer in one go. "You're a quiet one, aren't you? Well, suit yourself." He stood, swaying slightly, and gave Reed a mock salute before ambling toward the door.

Reed watched him go, his expression unchanged. Once the old man was out of sight, he returned to his book, flipping to a new page. His fingers traced over the names, lingering briefly on "Casspian Claud".

Once Reed saw that the old man left, he shoved the book back into his leather bag and headed downstairs into the betting room.