The world snapped back into sharp, terrifying focus. The cheerful bargaining of a nearby fishmonger, the laughter of children chasing pigeons, the scent of hot pies—it all became a threatening buzz, the backdrop to their new, horrifying reality.
"By the Orisha," Jacqueline whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. Her earlier disappointment over the lack of poetry seemed like a foolish, childish luxury now.
Low's reaction was faster, honed by a lifetime of survival. She grabbed Jacqueline's arm and yanked her away from the notice board, pulling Zombiel with her. She pushed them into the narrow, shadowed alley between the scribe's stall and the weaver's shop, her eyes darting nervously over the crowd. The face of every villager now looked like a potential threat, their idle glances like accusations.
"Two thousand sovereigns," Low breathed, the number tasting like poison. "That's not 'looking for a lost kid' money. That's 'hunt them down and hang them high' money."
Jacqueline's voice trembled. "Two thousand—two thousand sovereigns? That's half a noble's ransom!"
"Keep your voice down," Low hissed, scanning the street. "Exactly. That means the King doesn't just want answers. He wants heads."
"The King…" Jacqueline said, her mind racing. "He knows. He knows we were in the Institute. He knows it was us."
Zombiel tilted his head slightly, his tone eerily calm. "They called him traitor. That means they believe it."
Jacqueline looked down at him. "Doesn't matter what they believe. Only what they'll do if they find us."
"He knows it was him," Low corrected, her voice a low, urgent hiss. She jabbed a thumb back towards the town square. "His name, his face. They're hunting him specifically. Which means they might as well be hunting us, too."
The aimless, heavy worry for Leonotis's grief evaporated, replaced by the cold, sharp clarity of immediate danger.
Low gave a short, bitter laugh. "Guess we're famous now.""Infamous," Jacqueline muttered."Not the worst title I've had," Low said, though her eyes were tight with fear.
"We need disguises. Now. And we leave tonight. We can't stay here."
Their mission changed in a heartbeat. They were no longer searching for a cure for sorrow; they were scavenging for survival.
They found what they were looking for at the edge of the market, a cluttered stall overflowing with cast-off clothing, run by a wizened old woman with eyes as cloudy as a winter sky. The stall smelled of mothballs and dust.
"Can't look like ourselves," Low muttered, rummaging through a pile of cloaks.
The old woman squinted at her. "You buying rags or hiding sins, girl?""Little of both," Low replied flatly."Then take something that won't remember your name," the crone said with a knowing grin.
Low pulled out a drab, grey garment, its hem frayed and its fabric stained with faded patches. It was ugly and coarse, but it would hide her distinctive golden werebear-fur shawl completely. "This'll do."
Jacqueline, understanding the grim necessity, found a dark green traveler's cloak with a deep cowl and a wide-brimmed, floppy hat that would cast her face in perpetual shadow.
She turned the fabric over in her hands, grimacing. "The fabric's… coarse.""Good," Low said. "Coarse doesn't get remembered."
It was a far cry from the ethereal grace she usually carried, but anonymity was now their most precious commodity.
For Zombiel, they found a simple, loose-fitting brown tunic, baggy enough to obscure his unnaturally rigid posture and make him look like any other peasant boy.
Zombiel frowned faintly. "If we change our clothes, will the King still know our faces?"Jacqueline sighed. "Let's hope he's not looking that closely."
As Low was haggling with the old woman, using the last of her coppers, Zombiel's hand, which had been drifting through a stack of old leather goods, fell upon a small, thick cloak. The fur was dense and surprisingly soft, patterned in familiar stripes of earthy brown, black, and white. He pulled it from the pile. It was a badger-fur coat, small enough for a boy, and remarkably well-kept. He held it up, his fiery eyes seeming to trace the patterns in the fur.
Low turned from her transaction. "What have you got there, Sparky?"
She stopped as she saw the coat. Jacqueline saw it too, and a flicker of a sad, ironic memory passed between them.
Jacqueline's voice was barely above a whisper. "Remember? We thought a dying badger's last sigh could breathe a soul back into him."
Low huffed softly. "We were idiots."
Jacqueline smiled faintly, her eyes glassy. "We were desperate."
Low's voice lowered. "Still are."
The badger. Their foolish, desperate quest for the "last sigh of a dying badger," a piece of folklore they'd chased in a ridiculous attempt to find Zombiel a soul. It felt like an echo from a different lifetime, from a more innocent journey before they had witnessed the horrors of the Institute and the tragedy of the dryad.
It felt like a sign.
Jacqueline looked at the coat, then at Low. Leonotis, curled up in the cold, dusty room, needed warmth. He needed something to fight the profound chill that had settled deep in his bones. This was more than a disguise. It was a shield. A comfort.
"We'll take that one as well," Jacqueline said to the old woman, her voice quiet but firm. She untied a small, hidden pouch from her own belt, a personal emergency stash she hadn't touched. She pulled out a few more coins, her own last reserve.
"All of it?" Low whispered, seeing her lay the coins on the counter."All of it," Jacqueline confirmed.
They pooled the last of their money for the coat. It was an impractical, sentimental purchase in a moment that demanded cold practicality. But as Low folded the soft fur into her pack, it felt like the most important thing they had bought all day.
They moved through the back alleys, cloaked in their new, drab disguises and the heavy weight of their discovery.
As they neared the inn, Jacqueline hesitated. "What if he doesn't want to wake up?"Low didn't stop walking. "Then we drag him out anyway."Zombiel looked ahead, his eyes faintly glowing. "He will wake. The oak said so."They both looked at him, uncertain whether to believe or fear that.
When they slipped back into the inn room, it was as if they had never left. The air was still and close, and the lump on the corner cot remained motionless. The only change was the slant of the evening light, now a deep orange, casting a long shadow from the oak sapling on the windowsill.
Low set the cloth-wrapped bundle on a small, rickety table. The rich, savory scent of the meat pies unfurled into the room, a warm, living aroma in the cold, dusty space. From the cot, there was a slight, almost imperceptible shift, and the faintest twitch of a nose from beneath the blanket. It was the first sign of life they had seen from him in hours.
It wasn't enough.
Low walked over to the cot, her face grim. She held out the wanted poster, the parchment trembling slightly in her hand. "Leonotis," she said, her voice serious, stripped of its usual sarcasm. "You need to see this."
She hesitated. "There's no easy way to say this."Jacqueline folded her arms tightly. "Then say it fast."
She placed the poster on the thin blanket. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, as if moving a great weight, Leonotis uncurled. He pushed the blanket away, his face pale and tear-streaked in the dim light, his eyes hollowed out with grief.
His gaze fell upon the parchment. He stared at the crude drawing of his own face, at his name written in stark, black ink, at the chilling words: Crimes Against the Crown.
The world, which had shrunk to the size of his own suffocating sorrow, suddenly rushed back in.
Leonotis's lips moved soundlessly. "Crimes against the Crown…"
Low's voice was flat. "Means they'll hang you if they find you."He gave a broken laugh, half a sob. "Maybe they should."Jacqueline stepped closer. "Don't you dare."
The sterile white of the Institute, the King's cold voice, the screams of the guards—it was all real. It wasn't just a tragedy he had witnessed; it was a crime he had committed.
The grief was still a physical weight in his chest, but now, a new feeling pushed up against it: the cold, sharp shock of fear. His pain was no longer a private world he could hide in; it was a public declaration, a death sentence nailed to a post.
"They're hunting you," Jacqueline said softly, stepping forward as he stared, dumbfounded, at the poster. "They know it was you. Which means they'll probably have descriptions of all of us. We have to leave. Tonight. We can't look like ourselves."
As she spoke, Low unfolded the thick, soft cloak they had bought. She held it out to him. It was a small coat of brown-and-white striped badger fur.
"Here," Low said, her voice gruff. "It's cold out. You need this."
Leonotis looked from the poster to the coat, his mind struggling to connect the two disparate things. His fingers reached out tentatively and sank into the soft, dense fur. It was warm.
Low tried to sound casual. "Don't make it weird. It's just a coat."Jacqueline smiled faintly. "It's never just anything with us."A soft, hoarse chuckle escaped Leonotis's throat.
He looked up from the coat to the faces of his friends, truly seeing them for the first time all day. He saw Low, holding out the coat with a fierce, protective scowl that couldn't quite hide the worry in her eyes. He saw Jacqueline, her usual reserve replaced by a deep, quiet compassion. He saw Zombiel, standing silently behind them, his own fiery eyes reflecting a steady, unwavering presence.
Zombiel said softly, "The badger lives to keep you warm. That's its purpose now."
This coat—this absurd, comforting, ridiculously soft badger coat—was their answer to his pain. They couldn't fix what had happened. They couldn't bring the dryad back. But they could offer this. A tangible piece of warmth. A shield against the cold. It was the most eloquent thing they could have said, and they had said it without a single poetic word. It was tangible proof that he was not, in fact, alone.
A single, hot tear escaped and traced a clean path through the grime on his cheek. It was not a tear of ragged despair, but one of a deep, aching, and profoundly grateful sorrow.
He pulled the heavy coat on. It was a little too big, but it felt like a hug. The warmth seeped through his thin shirt, a comforting weight on his shaking shoulders. He looked at the warm bundle on the table, then back at Low. She picked up one of the meat pies and held it out to him.
For a long moment, he just looked at it. The grief was still there, a hard, unmoving stone in his heart. He glanced at the oak sapling, a permanent, living testament to his failure. But sitting beside that failure now was the loyalty of his friends. The warmth of the badger fur. The cold, sharp urgency of survival.
Slowly, deliberately, Leonotis reached out and took the pie. He raised it to his lips and took a bite. The flaky crust and rich, savory filling were an explosion of flavor in his tasteless world. It was the taste of life.
Low smiled faintly. "There you go. One bite at a time."Jacqueline added softly, "And one step."Leonotis looked at them both, then murmured almost to himself, "One breath."
It was the taste of life. And as he chewed, he made a choice. He would carry the grief. He would care for the tree. But he would not let the silence win. He was ready to move.