After completing a [Chronos Sphere] spell scroll, he stood, stretched his stiff legs, and hobbled downstairs to the kitchen in search of a snack. “Hey, Mom,” he called out, “any chance of a bite to eat?”

  “Good timing,” his mom replied as he stepped into the kitchen. “Zia’s first attempt at buttermilk biscuits is nearly ready.”

  “Hi, Zia,” Jack greeted as he settled at the table, still feeling the soreness from the previous day’s battles. He couldn’t help but let out a soft groan as he found his seat.

  Zia offered a timid smile. “Hey, Jack.”

  Hard to believe she’s the same street kid who tried to pinch my coin purse, Jack thought, noting the flour smeared across her cheek and the tip of her nose. “Working hard, huh? I hope my mom hasn’t got you doing all the cooking now?” he teased.

  The girl shook her head. “No, no. Your mom’s great…” she trailed off, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. “She’s really, really nice,” she added in a whisper, her eyes lowering to the floor.

  His mother patted Zia on the head. “You’ve been a delightful companion for this old lady. Unlike my troublesome son and daughter, who only show up when they smell food,” she added with a theatrical sigh, just as she opened the oven and pulled out a tray of freshly baked biscuits.

  “They smell amazing,” Jack said. “Did you make them?” he asked Zia.

  She nodded and fiddled with the end of the blue ribbon tied through her silver hair, a bashful smile forming as she watched the biscuits cool on the rack.

  “It’s her very first attempt at baking,” his mom explained with a smile, placing the steaming biscuits onto a cooling rack. “Now we get to sample them.” She shot Jack a look that said, ‘You are going to like them!’

  Moments later, the three of them were biting into warm, fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits.

  Jack’s biscuit was a little misshapen, but still a biscuit. With a careful bite, he was rewarded with the delicate crunch of the crust, giving way to a soft, pillowy interior that melted on his tongue. “Hmm, that’s nice,” he murmured.

  The tangy sweetness of the buttermilk, balanced by a buttery richness, made him want more. For a few blissful moments, the aches and bruises from the previous day’s battles faded, replaced by the simple, comforting pleasure of a warm, imperfect biscuit.

  “They’re really good, Zia,” he said, offering the little girl a thumbs-up before devouring another, this one shaped more like a squashed, lopsided slug than a proper biscuit. Then another, and another… “Are there any more?”

  His mother laughed. “Nope, that’s it. Well, Zia. I think we can safely say Jack approved of your baking.”

  Zia smiled as she nibbled on her last biscuit like a little mouse. “My mommy makes me these,” she said in a hushed voice, a tremor of sorrow threading through her words. “I miss her.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Moved, Jack’s mother knelt and pulled the girl into a hug. “It’s all right, dear. I know she’d be glad you’re safe now.”

  Jack felt a knot of emotion rise in his chest. He knew that pain; he’d lived with it for decades. Though his eyes brimmed with tears, he managed to blink them back, calling on the quiet stoicism his father had always shown. He still didn’t know any of the details of how Zia came to be alone, but her panicked reaction at the mere mention of goblins hinted at a dark, traumatic past. Something he wasn’t sure she was ready to talk about.

  After the comforting, misshapen snacks, Jack returned to his room, determined to craft more spell scrolls and channel his focus into work he loved.

  Jack crafted a handful of spell scrolls, allowing the rhythm of the pen and the familiar smell of ink and parchment to calm his thoughts. When his mom left to run errands in the city, he took full advantage of the opportunity.

  His mom’s sleuth-like instincts for uncovering secrets were inconvenient at the best of times, especially when said secrets involved the bloodstained possessions of a now-dead, rat-faced rogue.

  The rogue’s pack was retrieved from the courtyard and smuggled back inside. The remaining items within reeked of dried blood and unwashed leather; they needed to be taken to the washhouse before they began to attract flies or questions.

  What he was going to do with the rogue’s bow and shortsword—still hidden behind the shed—was a future Jack problem.

  Stuffing his pack full of bloody items, he slung it over his shoulder, wrinkled his nose at the stench, and braced himself to head back into the city.

  Jack trudged through the city, every muscle protesting from the previous day’s chaos. His bloodied pack was slung over one shoulder. It bulged with the rogue’s spoils—armour, gambeson, cloak, gloves, and the rogue’s own pack—all in urgent need of professional cleaning.

  “Ow,” he muttered, hobbling with each step. He paused at the entrance of the nearest reputable washhouse, its weathered stone fa?ade streaked with decades of aether-steam stains. Vapour drifted from the open doorway, carrying the mingled scents of soap, lye, and hot water. Jack braced himself against the ache in his side and limped inside.

  “How can I help ye, lad?” asked the old dwarven woman at the counter.

  Jack managed a tired smile. “I need all this cleaned, please.” He tipped the contents of his pack out. “How much?”

  The old dwarf raised an eyebrow at the bloody mess. “Did ya strip a corpse, lad?” she asked, half-joking, though her eyes betrayed her curiosity.

  Jack chuckled. “No, some bugger shot me in the forest with an arrow, and planned to strip my corpse for shits and giggles,” he said, pulling back his shirt to reveal the fresh scar. “Now all my gear’s covered in blood, and I’m no longer beach body ready!”

  It was almost a credible tale… if one didn’t look too close at the two blood-soaked packs, the armour and gloves that wouldn’t fit him, or the glaring inconsistency between his scars and the placement of the holes. Plausible enough, perhaps, to a half-blind old dwarven woman in the late stages of dementia.

  The old dwarven woman—who was not half-blind and in control of all her mental faculties—pulled a piece of lint from the counter, rolled it between her fingers and said, “Aye, that’ll happen to ye lad, in a world such as ours.” She looked at the bloody items again and then at Jack. “I hope ya got the bastard?” she said with a grin, before she began sorting through the items.

  “Hmm. No. He got away,” Jack lied while trying not to look guilty.

  The old dwarf burst out laughing. “Sure, he did. Let’s hope yer next forest assassin wears clothes in ya size, hey lad.” She tapped her nose and continued to check the soiled and damaged gear with a trained eye.

  Jack’s eyes widened in panic. Fuck! She knows. He looked at the door and considered running.

  The old dwarf poked a stubby, gnarled finger through one of the holes in the leather armour and chuckled. “Do ye want the bags cleanin’, too?”

  Jack, still wide-eyed, nodded. Should I run?

  “Then, that’ll be 1 silver and 20 coppers to clean the lot,” she said, stroking her plaited beard. “We can patch up the holes for 50 coppers, lad,” she added. “It’ll be like it never happened.” Her smile was almost conspiratorial.

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Thank the Gods, she doesn’t care that I killed someone.