The questions swirled in Elian's head, more exhausting than the weight of the sword. Every secret felt like another pound of steel.
Suddenly, the floorboard in the hallway groaned.
Elian's heart leaped and he raised his head, knowing what that meant.
His father was climbing up the stairs.
He frantically began wrapping the sword back in its oily shroud, his hands slick and clumsy. He shoved it back into the wardrobe just as the shadow of his father flickered under the door.
At this time, Elian had no idea that the 'riffraff' his father had thrown out were already circling the village.
He didn't know that the peace of the tavern was already down in ash. All he knew was that the weight in his hands just a while ago strangely felt like it belonged there, and the fear of being caught in his gut felt like a betrayal.
The floorboard outside the study groaned—a long, slow protest under his father's weight. Elian's hands, slick with the metallic-smelling oil from the blade's shroud, fumbled with the wooden latch of the wardrobe.
'Move. Move!' He slid the curtain shut just as the door handle turned.
Elian scrambled to the small desk, grabbing a stray piece of parchment and a charcoal stick just as Thorne stepped inside.
The room seemed to shrink. Thorne's presence always did that—he didn't just occupy space; he dominated it.
He stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim orange glow of the tavern's candle fire. His eyes, those fierce, unreadable pits of amber, swept the room.
They lingered on the curtain of the wardrobe for a moment too long.
He narrowed his eyes. He was no fool. He knew what the boy, who never came up to his study before, was doing here, but he felt no need to call him out for it.
"Ledgers are on the top shelf, boy," Thorne said, his voice grinding on Elian's conscience. "Not on the desk."
"I... I just wanted to see if the roof leak reached the papers, Da," Elian lied. His pulse was a drum in his ears, and he was certain his father could hear it. He felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his spine. 'Does he know? Can he smell the oil on my palms?'
Thorne didn't move. He looked at Elian—really looked at him—with a heavy, mourning sort of gaze.
"A man who looks for trouble usually finds it, Elian. And a man who finds it rarely likes the taste." He said and Elian gulped.
"I wasn't looking for trouble, Da." Elian said, his voice gaining a sudden, sharp edge of defiance. "I was looking for something."
"What? Some sort of truth?" Thorne asked and Elian's heart gained some sort of confidence, feeling his father understood his countering thoughts.
"Those men in the platinum—"
"Are gone," Thorne snapped, interrupting him before he could even get the sentences out. "And they are to be forgotten. Go to the yard." He walked into the room, his large frame looming over Elian. "You've been sluggish with the woodchopping. I want fifty logs split before you sleep."
Elian did not complain, he did not try to defend himself but thought this was good. It was better this than having to go through an interrogation where he wasn't allowed to speak.
As he stepped out, his eyes lingered towards the wardrobe for a second and then he shut them.
'I want to feel that feeling again.'
The night air was crisp, but it did nothing to cool the heat in Elian's blood. He stood in the center of the yard, the heavy wood-axe in his hand. But he wasn't thinking about firewood.
He looked around to make sure his father wasn't watching, and then he dropped the axe. He reached into the hollow of a nearby oak—where he had hidden a long branch.
For whatever reason he hid it there, he could not recall, but right now, it seemed about the same length as the sword he held earlier.
The grit was wrong, the weight was wrong and everything else seemed so wrong, but the length was right.
'I don't know what that feeling was but it keeps nagging at me, whispering in my ear to swing.'
But he couldn't even lift the sword earlier, talk more of swinging it.
That was why he wanted to settle for the branch and see if he could feel that feeling again.
He raised the branch high above his head and then brought it down, a long swooshing sound accompanying it.
But after that was done, his shoulder trembled and he laughed.
"What am I even doing?" He asked himself and looked at the branch in his hand.
Of course, he was at the age where he would want to play sword fights with his fellow but contrary to his age, his mind seemed a little more mature.
He did not play with the other kids his age unless they had a valuable skill he could learn.
And since he worked in the tavern with his father all day, he had no time to play.
He tossed the branch back and walked back to where he dropped the axe. He picked it up and proceeded to chop the firewood.
Unknowingly to him, Thorne was gazing down from his study window, watching the boy's action and what he had done with the branch. Then, he looked back at the wardrobe and worry filled his usually fierce eyes.
"Isn't it too early!" He mumbled and closed the curtain.
The weight that young boy has to carry is far greater than the likes of this back alley town could carry. But for what reason was he here to begin with?
What was the secret Thorne was trying so hard to keep hidden?