SmilinKujo
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Chapter 54: Scars Beneath the Flame
🕑 Added 2025-02-04 16:14:45 +0000 UTCThe fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls of the inn. The scent of roasted meat and stale ale lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of smoke from earlier lamps. The common room had thinned out, leaving only Halrik, the three knights, and Dorian at the large oak table.
Mira brought over another round of ale, her usual bright demeanor slightly subdued. “The bridge’s fixed faster than we thought,” she commented, placing the mugs down with practiced ease. “Though the workers look like they’ve been to hell and back.”
Dorian arched a brow. “Why’s that?”
Mira sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Turns out the Twelve’s entourage pushed the workers to the brink of death to get it done faster. No rest, no breaks. Heard two collapsed from exhaustion.”
At that, Dorian saw a flicker in Tache’s eyes—a flash of something raw and bitter. Though Tache masked it quickly with a broad grin, it didn’t go unnoticed. He slammed his mug on the table, forcing a laugh.
“More ale, Mira!” he shouted, the cheerfulness in his voice not quite reaching his eyes.
Mira nodded and retreated, leaving the group in silence save for the occasional pop of the fire.
As the night stretched on, the tavern grew emptier until only they remained. Halrik rose with a quiet groan, stretching his stiff joints. “Well, that’s enough drink for me. I’ll retire for the night.”
But just as he turned, Tache’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising firmness.
“Don’t ever let those Twelve Church bastards set foot in your territory again,” Tache said, his voice low, trembling with something that wasn’t quite anger—more like grief wrapped in rage.
Halrik’s gaze softened slightly. He placed his other hand over Tache’s, a solemn gesture. “It was my oversight that let them in the first place,” he replied quietly, then pulled away and left them alone.
Dorian, sensing the heavy air, opened his mouth to speak—ready to crack a joke, lighten the mood, anything.
But Tache beat him to it.
“I don’t have a problem if you’re a Twelve believer, Dorian,” Tache said, staring into the amber depths of his ale. “It’s just… the new branch of them—it’s tainted. Rotten to the core.”
Dorian leaned in slightly, sensing a story beneath the bitterness. “What do you mean by that?”
Before Tache could respond, Selyse interjected, her tone sharp. “Tache, you’re drunk. You’re–”
But Tache held up his hand, silencing her. His eyes met Dorian’s, dark and steady.
“I’m sober enough to know I’m telling my story on my own conscience.”
…
The firelight blurred, and when Tache’s voice returned, it was quieter—rougher—as if dredging up words from a place long buried.
“I was six when the war broke out,” he began. “Nobles squabbling over land, titles—none of it mattered to us. But we paid the price.”
The image painted itself in Dorian’s mind: a small town reduced to ash, the sound of clashing steel mingling with screams. Tache’s voice grew distant, lost in memory.
“My parents died during a skirmish. Knights from both sides… they weren’t heroes. Just men with swords, cutting down anyone in their way. After that, I lived on the streets, stealing scraps, fighting rats for crumbs. Until one day, an old nun found me.”
His fingers traced the rim of his mug, absentmindedly.
“She offered me bread.” His voice softened slightly, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fresh bread. Warm. I followed her back to an orphanage—a crumbling place, but it felt like… safety. For three years, I was happy. Or I thought I was.”
His smile faded, replaced by a distant stare.
“But things never added up. Kids would pray with the nun… and they’d vanish. I was too young to understand at first. But curiosity’s a dangerous thing.”
He took a long drink, then set the mug down with a soft thud.
“I found out the truth. The orphanage was a front. They weren’t sending kids to good homes or distant relatives. They were sending them to ‘priests’—monsters hiding behind holy robes. They did things…” His jaw clenched. “Things I can’t even say out loud.”
Dorian felt his stomach twist.
“So, I did what I thought was right. I… killed the adults running the place. Slit their throats while they slept. I thought I was saving the others.” He exhaled shakily. “But I made a mistake. A mistake I’ll never forgive myself for.”
His gaze grew distant, lost in the flickering shadows.
“I went to the mayor, thinking he’d help. But he was worse. He called the Church, told them the orphanage was a heretic den.” Tache’s hands trembled slightly, but his voice remained steady. “The next day, paladins and priests surrounded us. I tried to explain, tried to reason. But they wouldn’t listen. Said I was already corrupted. A heretic child trying to manipulate them.”
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“I was ten. I didn’t even know what ‘manipulate’ meant.”
Dorian swallowed hard, his heart heavy.
“They burned it all. The orphanage, the children inside—my friends, the ones who shared my fate. I tried to save them, but…” He trailed off, Tache pointed to his own back. “This is where the fire kissed me. Y’know the burn scar, the one you see at the lake.”
Silence settled over the table like a thick fog.
“I survived. Dug myself out of the ash. Found two broken swords from the fallen paladins and kept them. They felt heavier than anything I’d ever held, but I couldn’t let go.”
His eyes softened slightly as he glanced at Selyse.
“I wandered for a year. Until I found an anchor. Her.” He nodded toward her, his voice quieter now.
Dorian sat in stunned silence, the weight of Tache’s past settling over him like a stone.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Dorian cleared his throat, his voice softer than usual.
“I guess I know the story behind that scar now,” he said gently, his usual charm absent.
Tache forced a smile. “Told you it wasn’t a great story.”
But Dorian shook his head. “No. It’s a hell of a story. A hard one. But… it’s yours.”
They sat in silence for a while longer, the fire burning low.
Dorian reached for his lute, strumming softly—not a performance, just a quiet melody. A song without words, woven from grief and resilience.
And in that small, dimly lit inn, among scars both seen and unseen, they found something fragile and rare.
Understanding.
