- Chapter 052 -

  Desperate Attempt

  Tori cleared her throat, a small sound in the total quiet of the room. Defensive justification displayed on her face. “Well, it’s true,” she stated, speaking as if a clinical diagnosis. She refused to look at Carl, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall somewhere above his head. “You’ve been a ghost. Either locked in that workshop or drowning your sorrows at The Drake. A social call, this… is a healthier alternative.”

  Mark almost smiled. It was a textbook example of a failed de-escalation, an attempt to fix a problem by restating the flawed premise with more conviction. It was a terrible technique, but he could appreciate the effort.

  Carl, however, didn’t seem to need de-escalating. He just let out a long, slow breath. “I hear enough of it at the tavern, thank you,” he said, his voice a tired rasp. He finally looked up, not at Tori, but at Mark, a flicker of dark humor in his eyes. “The memory-erasing properties of their finest ales are, I can assure you, extremely exaggerated.”

  The comment was a perfect piece of gallows humor, the kind Mark had shared with a hundred different overworked engineers and underappreciated engineers in his old life. It was the language of the perpetually stressed, and for a fraction of a second, he felt a flicker of genuine camaraderie with the grumpy, besieged gemsmith.

  Carl then seemed to decide that the best defense was to pivot the entire conversation. He pushed his chair back slightly, a deliberate, tactical maneuver to reclaim control of the room.

  “Right then,” he began, his voice taking on a new, almost cheerful energy. “While these women get started on dinner. We should see about…”

  The effect was instantaneous.

  To Mark’s right, Dawn, who had been a stunned observer, went rigid. The look on her face was one of pure, cold fury. It wasn’t the loud, explosive anger of Alex Smith. It was the quiet, absolute stillness of a predator that has just identified a new and very specific problem. Her glare, when it settled on Carl, could have flash-frozen the tea in his mug.

  Valerie, on the other hand, visibly relaxed. A quiet, almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaped her lips as the social bomb that had been ticking in the center of the room was finally, if crudely, defused. The argument was over, the awkwardness redirected. She looked genuinely grateful.

  Mark just watched, a quiet observer of the masterful piece of social judo he had just witnessed. Carl had not only deflected the focus from his own personal life but had, with a single, casually sexist comment, created a new, less personal conflict that completely consumed the room’s attention. It was risky, brilliant, and left him deeply impressed.

  “…let’s find out what the primitive doesn’t know,” Carl finished, turning his full, undivided, and now intensely curious attention to Mark. He leaned forward, his earlier weariness replaced by the focused energy of a craftsman with a new and fascinating puzzle. “What about our glorious world do you want to know?”

  Mark took another sip of his tea, using the moment to frame his own, more immediate project needs. “Well, I need some raw materials for a personal project,” he began, directing the question to Carl. “I’m trying to get a better understanding of the… science behind your ritual magic. I was hoping you could give me a price for some basic, low-tier bits to practice. Something I can afford to ruin.” He paused, letting the professional inquiry settle before pivoting to the more human question. “But a more immediate, and frankly, more pressing question…”

  He gestured vaguely with his free hand, indicating the unlikely assembly in his living room. “Does anyone here own any casual clothing?”

  The question left everyone looking confused. He watched as three very different expressions of bafflement settled on the faces around his table.

  Dawn, still simmering from Carl’s earlier comment, was the first to answer. She looked down at her own attire, the worn reinforced leathers, the practical straps, the two obvious daggers sheathed at her belt.

  “This is casual,” she stated, her voice a flat, simple declaration of fact.

  “I’m not questioning the… practicality,” Mark clarified, trying to find a neutral term that wouldn’t cause offense. “But everyone seems to be in their work attire. The robes, the leathers… Don’t you have anything else? For when you’re just… at home?” He gestured to his own fine blue tunic. “Even this feels more like a uniform than a choice.”

  Valerie, who had retrieved a bag from near the door and was now unpacking vegetables onto the counter, answered without turning around. “We have formal wear, of course. For ceremonies or official functions.” She held up something potato-like, inspecting it for blemishes. “But this is what we wear. It’s comfy and durable, it’s what we’re used to, and with the steam cleaners, keeping them fresh isn’t an issue. It’s just… efficient.”

  “Besides,” Tori added, her voice a little too bright as she saw an opening to contribute, a chance to salvage a little social footing. “For all you know, the custom is to be naked in our own accommodation. You’re the one walking around fully dressed like a freak.”

  The silence that followed was immediate.

  Mark just stared, completely wrong-footed by the sheer, unfiltered randomness of the comment. Valerie closed her eyes for a single, pained moment, a silent plea to the universe for this conversation to end. Carl, who had been on the verge of saying something, was left with his mouth slightly agape, his expression appearing stuck in complete shock.

  It was Dawn who, in a clumsy attempt to steer the conversation back to something vaguely normal, managed to send it directly off a cliff at high speed.

  “Well, I prefer to keep my clothes on, thank you.” she added, her arms still crossed tightly. “I’ve got far too much to show off.”

  Valerie gasped, a sharp, scandalized sound. Carl’s baffled stare intensified, his eyes widening in a new kind of horrified disbelief, even putting the mug of tea on the table before he dropped it.

  Dawn’s face flushed a deep, instant crimson as she realized what she’d just said, and exactly how it had sounded.

  “SCARS!” she blurted out, the word a panicked, defensive shout. She uncrossed her arms, gesturing frantically at her own body. “I meant SCARS! I’m a hunter! Beasts… they leave marks!”

  The silence that followed was almost physical, thick and suffocating. Mark just stared at what could only be described as an epic car crash that continued to pile-up in spectacular proportions.

  It was Valerie who, with the quiet competence of a first responder arriving at a scene of chaos, took control. "Dawn," she said, her voice a calm, professional command that cut through the stunned quiet. "Come and give me a hand with these vegetables. Your knife skills are better than mine."

  Dawn, looking profoundly grateful for a task, something that would remove her from the center of attention and practically scrambled to the kitchen. She went to the counter, took the knife Valerie offered, and began dicing a pile of the vegetables with a speed and precision that was both terrifying and deeply impressive.

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  With the immediate crisis averted, Mark decided it was time to steer the conversation onto the safest, most boring ground he could find. He looked at Carl, who was still staring at the space where Dawn had been and for a moment Mark thought he was actually broken.

  "Earlier," Mark began, his voice a quiet, conversational anchor in the awkward silence, "in Deirdre's shop. I almost offered her my hand when we met. Is that... a custom here? A handshake?"

  Carl blinked, his mind pulled from the wreckage of the previous conversation. "A handshake?" he repeated, the question seeming to ground him. "Aye. It's a merchant's greeting. A way of showing your hands are empty and your intentions are, theoretically, honest."

  "And getting drunk after work?" Mark added, pressing the advantage of a normal topic. "I'm guessing from your earlier comments that's also a common practice."

  A flicker of Carl's usual, cynical humor returned. "It's a necessary one," he grumbled, taking a sip of his tea. "After a day of dealing with fools and Guild monkeys, a man needs something to dull the edges. The ale at The Drake is barely fit for cleaning tools, but it's cheap, and it does the job. Eventually."

  The familiar, mundane rhythm of the conversation was a welcome relief. From the kitchen, the steady, rhythmic chop of Dawn's knife and the quiet murmur of Valerie's instructions were a comforting, domestic soundtrack.

  "Back home," Mark mused, more to himself than to anyone else, "the go-to after-work meal, especially after a few drinks, was always fish and chips." He saw the blank look on Carl's face and clarified. "Fried fish. Fried potatoes. Simple, greasy, and perfect."

  Carl let out a short, derisive snort. "Fish?" he scoffed, his voice filled with the pragmatic disdain of a mountain-dweller. "What's the point? The rivers have a few small trout, but it's too much work for too little meat. We're a land of stone and timber, not water. If you want a proper meal after a long day, you have a steak pie, or a good, thick stew."

  "He's right," Valerie called from the kitchen, her voice carrying over the sizzle of vegetables hitting a hot pan. "We preserve what we can from the summer harvests in Dione, and we rely on the herds for the rest. Our food is designed to be hearty. To see you through the worst of the cold."

  "And the cold is coming," Dawn added, her voice a low, flat statement of fact. She still hadn't turned from her work at the counter. "Winter in the Iron-Tooth range is no joke. The snows can be monstrous, meters deep. It shuts down the high passes for months."

  "You don't... do anything about that?" Mark asked, surprised there wasn't a strategy there. "With all the magic here, you can't just... stop the snow?"

  It was Tori who answered, her voice regaining a fraction of academic confidence. "We moderate it," she explained, stirring a large pot on the glowing hob. "The Agronomists' Guild performs a series of large-scale rituals at the start of the season. They can lessen the severity of a blizzard, raise the temperature by a few degrees to prevent a killing frost. But they can't stop winter. The seasons are a fundamental force. You can't just turn back a storm, you can only try to survive it."

  The conversation, a slow, meandering journey through the mundane realities of this new world, had a strangely calming effect. Mark felt the new reality of customs slotting into place in his mental map of the Collective. They were practical, resilient people, their magic and their culture shaped by the harsh, beautiful reality of the mountains they called home.

  He took another sip of his tea, a final, logical question forming in his mind. "So, if winter is coming," he began, "I assume you have... holidays? Festivals? Something like Christmas?"

  He was met with four identical, completely blank stares. The word had been greeted with the same blank expressions as 'polyester' and 'space station'.

  "Christmas?" Valerie asked, her brow furrowed in polite confusion. "I'm not familiar with that one. Our main festivals are Founder's Day, to mark the establishment of the Collective, and the Solstice celebrations, of course. But those are just a good excuse for a feast and an extra day out of work."

  Christmas wasn't a thing. The thought was a small, sharp pang of loss he hadn't expected. The tinsel, the terrible music, the enforced family gatherings... he had always complained about them, but their absence was a new and very specific kind of void. Another piece of his old life confirmed as gone, not just in time, but in concept.

  He looked around the room, at the unlikely assembly of strangers who had, through a series of chaotic and often violent events, become the closest thing he had to a community. A cynical gemsmith, a quiet huntress, and two healers who were currently, and with a surprising degree of competence, making him dinner.

  It wasn't home. Not yet. But in the quiet, shared warmth of the house, with the comforting smell of a meal being cooked and a fresh, hot cup of tea in his hand, it was, for the first time, starting to feel like a place he could learn to be home.

  The aroma that filled the house was a rich, savory cloud of a promise fulfilled. Valerie and Tori had, with the quiet competence of their profession, transformed a simple collection of ingredients into a masterpiece of rustic cuisine. The air was thick with the scent of slow-cooked meat, vegetables, and the unmistakable fruity notes of a red wine.

  They gathered around the dining table, the earlier, strange conversation long forgotten. Replaced by the easy, comfortable quiet of a shared task completed. It reminded him, with a sharp and unexpected pang, of after-work drinks with his old team back in Manchester. The letting-go of professional guards, the quiet complaints about unreasonable deadlines, the simple, human act of sharing a space and a moment after a long day. It was a fragile, unexpected piece of normalcy he hadn't realized he’d been missing so desperately.

  Valerie beamed with a quiet pride as she placed a large, steaming ceramic pot in the center of the table. "A good, hearty Drover stew," she announced. "The secret," she added, giving Tori a conspiratorial wink, "is that a generous amount of red wine always helps."

  The stew was thick and dark, the chunks of meat and vegetables nestled in a glossy, rich gravy. Mark’s stomach rumbled at just its sight.

  Tori picked up a ladle, a genuine, tired smile on her face. "Alright," she said, her voice lighter than he'd ever heard it. "Who's first?"

  It wasn't a thought. It was an impact.

  A spike of pure, white-hot agony drove through the base of his skull, a physical blow from an unseen hammer. The world tilted on its axis, the warm, comforting light of the room dissolving into a nauseating, spinning blur. A high-pitched whine screamed in his ears, drowning out every other sound.

  It was the same as before. The same monstrous, world-breaking headache that had crippled him in the forest. The same vertigo that had sent him collapsing into the snow.

  Dimensional sickness. The diagnosis screamed in his mind, a frantic, panicked siren. But why? Why now?

  He heard a muffled, distant cry of his own name. He felt hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him, but the contact was distant, a sensation a world away. He tried to speak, to warn them, but his jaw was locked, his tongue a useless lump of flesh in his mouth.

  He slumped backwards in his chair. His remaining coherent thoughts, his final, desperate attempt, was that he couldn't let them see him like this, so weak, so broken, not after…

  Through the fractured, swimming haze of his vision, he saw their faces, masks of alarm and panicked concern swimming into focus. He saw Valerie, her professional calm shattering, her healer’s instincts kicking in as she reached for him.

  And then he saw her stop.

  Her face, which had been a picture of clinical focus, went slack. Her eyes, wide with alarm, before she collapsed sideways, a silent slide from her chair to the floor.

  Carl, who had been pushing himself to his feet, let out a choked gasp. He clutched his head, his face contorting with a sudden, uncomprehending agony, before his legs gave out and he crashed to the floor, the tattoo on his hand flaring a deep angry red before going dull.

  Tori was next. She stumbled back, a hand flying to her mouth, her own healing magic flaring to life on her palm for a fraction of a second before sputtering out like a dying candle. She crumpled backwards and thankfully into a chair.

  Only Dawn was left.

  She was on her feet, a dagger already in her hand, a blur of desperate predatory instinct. She didn't scream. She didn't panic. Her sharp eyes darted around the room, searching for the unseen enemy.

  For a single, breathtaking second, she was a hunter, a survivor, ready to fight the impossible.

  Then her eyes went wide. The dagger slipped from her numb fingers, clattering loudly on the stone floor. She swayed on her feet for a moment, a look of absolute confusion on her face, before she too fell, a final, silent casualty in a battle no one had seen coming.

  Mark lay back in his chair, a helpless observer of the silent, sudden devastation. The rich, savory aroma of the stew filled the air as his world went dark.

  The uneaten meal grew cold on the table.