Tragedy. That was the first thing I thought when I opened my eyes this morning and realized that something very important to me had given its last shine. My adventure companion. The friend who had accompanied me in my previous life and in my current existence has died. I held it in my hand one last time and, with its final breath, it woke me up so I could be with it during its departure. But I think it was inevitable, given the lack of electricity in this world.

  From now on I’ll have to rely on my biological clock so I don’t arrive late to work. I’ll keep my phone as a talisman next to my one-dollar coin and my expired metro card.

  The sun wasn’t yet at its highest point, but it was already burning as if it were. The air whistles when I cut through it with my heavy training sword. Beside me, Rya watches me carefully and, if necessary, corrects some mistakes.

  My chest feels tight and my blood seems to dance beneath my skin. It’s a sensation I still haven’t gotten used to. I perform one final swing before my teacher interrupts me.

  “That’s enough,” she orders.

  The weapon falls to the ground, and so do I. Sweat pours down my forehead like a cascade of saltwater and my arms tremble like noodles. Also, my shirt—covered in dirt and sweat stains—reminds me that from now on I have to manage my money better, because paying for laundry is going to become expensive if I keep this up. The best option would probably be to buy more clothes.

  “Remind me again why I’m doing this?” I ask, gasping for air.

  “I already told you: so you can learn to control your strength.”

  I let out a sigh mixed with exhaustion and disappointment. I wonder how long it will take me to graduate from this training and join the Hunters Guild. When I think out loud about my progress, Rya scolds me for wanting to rush everything and says that the more desperate I am, the slower things will move forward.

  “I think I already know how to control this,” I say while looking at the clouds.

  “No, you don’t,” she replies sharply. “Let’s see… pick up the sword and raise it over your head.”

  Not understanding the purpose of her request, I follow her instructions. The sword that until yesterday was almost impossible for me to maneuver now feels like a joke in terms of weight. Almost.

  “You see? We stopped training a while ago, but your power is still active.”

  I no longer feel my chest compressed or my limbs hot, but I can still lift it. Why?

  She walks around, looking at the grass. She picks up a stone the size of a tennis ball and holds it in her hand. She squeezes with force—so much that her breathing becomes labored and her face turns red from the effort—but the small object remains intact.

  “You see? Right now I look like a normal person trying to crush a stone with her hand. I’m out of breath and sweating. And that’s exactly what I want to teach you.”

  As she finishes speaking, the little rock turns to dust in her grip.

  She continues her explanation. Standing up, she places one hand on her slender waist and points to the sky with her index finger.

  “In a controlled environment it’s easy to say that. But in a stressful situation or during intense physical effort, your body produces adrenaline and as a result, you don’t restrain your strength until much later. Like right now.”

  Her lips spit out a short list of situations where things could go terribly wrong if I don’t control my power. From something as simple as a bar fight to much more detailed scenarios that make me think she has experienced them firsthand and isn’t just making them up.

  I reflect on her words. I’m truly afraid that what happened yesterday will happen again. That guy’s arm felt like cheap rubber under my palm. I wonder if he’s okay. I also don’t want Eleanor to ever look at me with fear again. I don’t think I could bear seeing that expression on her face a second time.

  All that’s left is to be patient.

  By the way… was she trained the same way, or is she just teaching me based on her own experience?

  “Tell me… how did you feel the first time you discovered your powers?”

  “Are you actually curious or do you just want to rest longer?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as a smirk draws itself on her lips.

  “A bit of both,” I reply, arching my back and pushing my elbows backward to relieve the stiffness in my limbs.

  I’d really like to know her story, and if she ever asks about mine, I’ll gladly share it. Even though it wouldn’t be a real one, unfortunately. Wait… hadn’t I already told her? I don’t remember.

  Sitting on the grass, she places the sword beside her thigh. The tip of the iron blade points in my direction. Rya lets out a sigh and her green eyes light up with a nostalgic glow. She barely opens her mouth to speak, but something stops her for a few seconds, as if she’s considering whether telling me about her past is a good idea.

  “I was just a little girl when I found out I was a Laerim,” she says with a smile. “Of course I felt happy… and so did my parents. At first it was strange and a bit difficult because I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Your parents didn’t teach you?” I tilt my head.

  “No. They were normal people.”

  A single word was enough for me to understand the pause she made earlier. Of course, I’m not stupid enough to pry deeper into her life, so I won’t ask the obvious question.

  “I had all sorts of sensations and it scared me a lot at first. It wasn’t just tingling that sometimes got stronger… there was also this second heartbeat in my chest. My mom even found me crying in the backyard once. I really thought my heart was going to explode at any moment.”

  We both laugh at the same time.

  That power was considered a blessing in her home. Coming from a family of small merchants, she tells me how proud she felt when she no longer struggled to carry boxes to help her father—she even challenged him to little strength contests, which of course she always won. Though I suspect her dad let her win on purpose.

  “Luckily my strength regulated itself over time.”

  “Didn’t they pay someone to teach you?”

  “By Lha’el, no,” she denies. “It was way too expensive. A guard from the village was kind enough to teach me a little, but then he got transferred somewhere else and I couldn’t continue. I had to figure it out on my own.”

  Rya lifts her chin proudly. “I remember grabbing a stick and imitating the guards’ movements when they were training with swords. Later… well, I left home after turning fifteen and here I am.” She shrugs.

  It’s a nice story. I would’ve enjoyed it much more if I had an ice-cold beer in my hand. Though I’m sure there’s a lot more to tell between the day she left home and the present, I won’t insist. Maybe one day she’ll tell me… or maybe not.

  Of course, as a gesture of gratitude, I shared my own origin story with her. At first I didn’t know how to connect certain events of my fictional life—though I obviously didn’t clarify that to her—since I haven’t repeated this story in several days. I think I should write it down over and over on a sheet of paper so I don’t forget it again.

  She doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Is it my tone? Maybe my acting is too obvious. Now I’ll have to add acting classes to my to-do list. What a pain.

  She begins asking more direct questions about certain details—questions I obviously hadn’t prepared for in advance. I interrupt her by suddenly feeling a convenient surge of motivation to resume training.

  Our practice continues until the sun reaches its highest point in the sky. She recommends continuing another day because she has things to take care of. I’m not very happy about it. It’s not that I want to spend the entire day swinging this sword up and down—my hands are burning like they’re touching hot coals—but if she leaves, I won’t have anything to do for the rest of the day.

  “So… we continue tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll be busy tomorrow too.”

  “Seriously?” I sigh in disappointment. “But tomorrow I won’t have anything to do either. It’s going to be boring.”

  Rya suggests that I can keep practicing on my own even if she’s not supervising me. But I’d feel awkward doing it alone. Not to mention she’s taking my training weapon with her.

  “I can’t do it if I don’t have the sword…”

  “Take it home with you. I don’t mind,” she says with a crooked smile.

  Resting on the ground, I support my hand on the dirt. Tiny compacted particles of dust press against my reddened skin. When I ask why she won’t come tomorrow to assist me with training, her answer hits me as hard as a horse kick. Eleanor’s birthday is in a couple of days and she’s going to the market to buy ingredients and prepare something she likes. I feel a bit uncomfortable for not knowing that information, though it’s understandable—we haven’t known each other that long and she has no obligation to tell me her birthday.

  “I didn’t know that…”

  “I’m not surprised. She doesn’t usually tell anyone her birthday unless they ask her directly.”

  “I see.” I sigh. “Did something happen that makes her not want to say it?”

  “Not at all. She just doesn’t care about celebrating it. But if something did happen that day… well, she wouldn’t want to say it and she’d have her reasons.” Rya shrugs with mild indifference. “But don’t worry—we were going to invite you anyway.”

  The party will be at her mother’s house after work. We’ll leave a bit earlier because of it. Still, it feels strange that Eleanor downplays a day like that, since for many people it’s as important as the start of a new year or Christmas.

  Whatever. There’s only one thing I’m worried about right now: What can I get her? I don’t have money and I don’t even know what she might like. I can’t show up to that gathering empty-handed. That would be mortifying.

  I could make up an excuse and not go, but maybe Eleanor will ask me to come anyway… or maybe not. God, what a problem.

  I ask Rya if I can accompany her. Maybe I’ll come up with an idea while walking through the plaza, and I think I have a few coins under the mattress. I’m sure I can find something cheap. She refuses at first, but eventually gives in when she sees how stubborn I am about it. We agree to meet in front of the guild.

  With our plans set, we head back to the city with Isabela’s help. I asked her to drop me off on the main avenue. I don’t feel like going back to the inn and watching the spider on my ceiling weave its web. I need to find something to kill time. Maybe wander around to get to know the city better, but my burned back and the sweat pouring off me make me discard that idea. The weather is unbearable right now.

  It must be great to have a horse. When I finally get one, I’ll enjoy riding everywhere. I need to come up with a name for when the time comes, but I think it’s still too soon.

  There are more people on the streets than in previous days. Many walk with faint smiles, others chat calmly with their companions, and a few are buying things from small stalls along the sidewalk.

  Walking with my eyes forward, I run into a small group of people. All of them staring at something intently while murmuring among themselves. Old people and young ones—everyone so different, yet sharing one thing in common: their faces show uncertainty and concern.

  On a hollowed stone wall, there is a poster with hand-drawn portraits of three girls. All of them barely reaching adolescence. In large red letters covering most of the heading I can read: “MISSING.” Below, more information: a brief summary with their names, ages, and the last places they were seen. None of them is older than fifteen.

  Given the little wear on the material, it’s clear this notice was put up very recently.

  Kidnapped by bandit groups. Attacked by monsters. All kinds of rumors reach my ears—each one more extreme than the last. Things are clearly getting worse, and I wouldn’t rule out that one—or both—of those possibilities are the reason these girls are far from home.

  I walk away from there after learning the reason for the crowd, silently wishing those girls are safe.

  I keep moving forward. The sun behind me burns even harder. Further ahead, to one side of the avenue, a man with bangs covering part of his face delivers a speech at the top of his lungs. The people passing by don’t seem to pay him the slightest attention. I change my path to avoid entering his field of vision. I don’t want to argue with anyone, especially under this sun. “Children of sin and resurrection” is the last thing I manage to hear before his voice fades into the distance.

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  I can taste desert sand on my palate. My throat begs for something extremely cold.

  An intrusive thought lights up during this aimless walk. I know someone I could hang out with, but I have no idea where he lives or works. I only know he helps out at a store around this time.

  I wander back and forth. Around our previous meeting point there are plenty of shops where I might find him. I visit one store after another until I reach a grocery store. The smell of fresh vegetables and fruit on display fills my nostrils. Among the tall wooden shelves, a figure bent over is organizing merchandise.

  “Hey,” I say out loud.

  When he turns toward my voice, Nick stands up and we greet each other with a high-five and a fist bump.

  “Hey, how’ve you been?” he asks. His hands are dirty with soil.

  We chat a bit, though we’re constantly interrupted by customers entering the store. His shift ends in an hour, so I patiently wait for him to finish so we can make plans. A young girl with short hair and cream-colored eyes arrives later to replace him. Our introduction can be summed up in two words.

  Nick and I talk about random things as we walk through the center of the city. The white walls of some buildings reflect the sunlight.

  “How are things going? Can you already do something crazy with your Laerim power?”

  “Yeah, yeah… let’s say I’m controlling it better now,” I answer, slightly lowering my gaze.

  I don’t know why I lied, but maybe it’s my desperation talking. I want to finish this training and join the guild as soon as possible.

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  We enter the market. Merchants shout their products as if they had megaphones in their throats while people haggle with great enthusiasm. Out of the corner of my eye I look at some items to see if I can find an appropriate gift for Eleanor, but I have no luck. Dodging the crowd and stumbling into a person here and there, we leave the place shortly after. The suffocating atmosphere gives Nick an idea.

  We set off after deciding on our destination. Despite there being plenty of taverns in the city, he specifically asks me to accompany him to one. When I ask why he’s so insistent, his answer leaves me thinking.

  “Are you sure…?”

  “Yeah, man. You’d wipe the floor with everyone if you joined, and we could win some extra money too.”

  “Don’t they have rules against Laerim fighting there?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed.

  I don’t feel ready for that. Though the idea tempts me, I’m afraid things will go wrong.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been,” he says, shrugging. “But I’m sure your teacher has taught you some moves by now.” He shadowboxes.

  So far I haven’t learned any combat techniques and now I feel guilty for lying to him. The worst part is that he’s actually convincing me with scenarios where I come out victorious and everyone cheers for me.

  Without realizing it, we had already left Olmir behind. We arrive at one of the surrounding villages and houses and enter a rather shady tavern. Its tables are set outdoors and people are impatiently demanding food and drinks. The air smells like a mix of manure, sweat, and dry grass.

  We sit at a corner table and I begin to observe the faces of those present. Lots of guys whose shirts are twice their size—conveniently hiding edged weapons—are the most common sight here. Each one looks worse than the last the more I look.

  Digging into my pocket, I find a silver coin to pay for my food and beer. I get eight coppers back.

  While we chat about nonsense to pass the time waiting for our order, his trip to the capital comes up.

  “Do you really want to go there? Why don’t you just go back home?”

  “Anything is better than going back. Trust me.”

  Our dented aluminum mugs are almost empty. We order a second round and my vision starts to blur from the alcohol. This beer can’t compare to the one Eugine makes; this one is much stronger.

  Nick doesn’t get along with his father—I already knew that from the first time we met. But is the contempt really so great that he’d rather work among rubble than go back home?

  He stares blankly at the table surface. His lips pursed, moving occasionally, eyebrows straight. Inside he seems to be organizing his words, but as if aware that beer will help loosen his tongue, he downs the entire mug in one go, choking in the process.

  “My dad has a farm,” he finally says, still hesitant. “I helped every day and hung out with my friends when I wasn’t working. But at some point he started comparing me constantly to my brothers.”

  Nick deepens his voice, doing a crude imitation.

  “‘You don’t do anything with your life! Blah blah blah.’” He spits. “One of my brothers is a soldier, the other became an artisan apprentice, I think.” He snorts mockingly, imitating a horse neigh.

  “Aren’t you interested in learning something like that?” I ask, raising my mug above my chin to sip the last drops.

  “No… it’s just that…” He interrupts himself, looking straight ahead. “Nothing has ever really interested me, you know? I just wanted to stay on the farm, quietly. Once I tried it, mostly because my mom asked me to.” He laughs at himself. “It didn’t go well.”

  His father paid a large sum of money for a shoemaker to teach him the trade. He lived with his master and helped in the workshop while learning. Months passed and he got tired of everything. He tells me it just wasn’t for him. Nothing was. And he feels guilty for not finding a purpose in life.

  He went back to the farm, making excuses. But when the whole family was gathered, he made the announcement.

  “When I said that, my dad lunged at me and started beating me,” he says, deepening his voice again. “‘How dare you! You’re useless, you’ll never amount to anything!’ I still remember my mom screaming for him to let me go, but luckily Chris was visiting that day and pulled him off me. After that… well, he kicked me out of the house and told me not to come back until I made something of myself.”

  In moments like this I wish I had the right words to ease the tension. But I think a simple, shallow “everything will be okay” would be too hollow right now. I understand the feeling, at least partly. It was common in the orphanage for praise to rain down on the kid who met sales targets. Though it’s stupid to compare the two situations.

  Silence reigns over us, only occasionally interrupted by the mumbling of drunks around us.

  “Right now I’m just waiting for a letter saying my dad died so I can go back to the farm. I know I won’t be the heir to the business, but I think my brothers would let me stay.”

  “Relax, brother. Everything will be okay,” I say anyway. “It’s also not good to talk like that about your dad. If something like that really happens, it’s going to hit you hard.”

  To justify his words, he uses my example. My fictional past can’t compare.

  “It’s not the same. I… I just left my village because I wanted to see the world.” I stare at the bottom of the empty container, trying to find an answer.

  The beer keeps flowing and the sun begins to set. The atmosphere turns a strong orange. Thanks to the alcohol in my bloodstream, it’s hard for me to speak coherently.

  Suddenly people start leaving their seats and walking toward a certain area of the tavern. I let Nick know what’s happening and we both follow the crowd.

  Behind a large barn stands an improvised ring made of thick, crooked wooden poles. The place looks more like a pig pen than anything else. The smell of manure is much stronger here. I discreetly cover my nose with my fingers.

  Someone standing in the middle announces the start of the fights. The crowd around cheers with applause and shouts, and bets appear almost immediately. Two men enter the ring, shirtless and barefoot.

  “Today we are honored by two great fighters!” the referee announces.

  I’m surprised to learn that the owner of this place is the one organizing the event. When he raises both fighters’ hands, a chuckle escapes me upon hearing their names. People around here sure know how to have fun.

  It’s hard for me to bet on either of them. Their builds are similar, but I put my money on the one who looks like a total loser. I’ve seen that type of person often win street fights.

  It’s not easy to part with a copper, but I hope my bet doubles by the end of this. Nick does the same.

  “Alright, alright. You may begin,” orders the tavern owner.

  He steps away from the ring and both fighters start their battle with a rain of punches and kicks. If a martial artist saw this scene, they’d writhe in disappointment. The loser almost grabs his opponent, who counters with a blow near the ear. I get disappointed thinking my money is going to disappear along with that guy’s dignity.

  Both keep their guard up, fists near the chin. It seems the patience of the loser runs out, because he starts neglecting his defense and just lunges at his opponent, trying to grab his legs for a takedown.

  He slips in the attempt.

  “Booo!” I say, thumb down. “Try again!”

  Amid laughter and boos, the loser growls in fury. He’s having a bad time, and so am I. I regret putting my trust in him.

  The fight continues. The loser is covered in dirt and his opponent laughs in his face. He jumps with great momentum, trying to land his knuckles on his rival’s face, but his fist is deflected. He falls to the ground from his own movement and gets pummeled with a rain of blows. One to the chin leaves him seeing stars.

  “That’s the end of the fight!” the referee intervenes. “Congratulations to Swift Feet!”

  The winner celebrates with his fist raised. The loser staggers out, blood covering his mouth.

  I lost my money. Out of the little I have, I made the mistake of betting on that idiot. Dear God.

  “What’s wrong with you? You could’ve won! It was easy!”

  “And what the hell is wrong with you? You just keep complaining,” he says, pointing at the ring with his thumb. “Get in there and see how ‘easy’ it is!”

  I earn the gaze of everyone present. Amid cheers and provocations, Nick touches my shoulder.

  “Go for it, Ethan! It’s your chance!”

  Doubts flood me and nerves crawl up my spine. Knowing my current condition and what happened yesterday, I wouldn’t dare fight that guy. For his safety and mine, mainly. But the urge to recover what I lost—and even make a profit—still lingers.

  “Looks like someone wants to fight our champion!”

  The tavern owner isn’t helping either. He keeps adding fuel to the fire.

  Is it too late to back out? I wonder if everything will be okay if I fight. I want to prove to Rya that I can control myself now. I know I’m ready. The boos toward me don’t stop, soon turning into insults.

  Swift Feet joins the crowd and taunts me with gestures and an arrogant smile.

  I accept reluctantly. My common sense screams that I should leave the place, but my pride wins this time. After taking off my shoes as ordered by the referee, the dirt beneath my feet isn’t as firm as usual. It’s softer, and knowing what my toes are touching makes my stomach turn.

  “Nice boots. They’ll be mine after this.”

  “In your dreams, asshole.”

  I leave my boots in the care of my friend. A straw hat passes again in front of the spectators who toss their coins into it. Out of the corner of my eye I see Nick put in one silver—the biggest bet.

  Now it’s not just my pride on the line, but also my friend’s money. If I lose now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to look him in the face. Not to mention I’ll be in debt with him.

  God, give me the wisdom to face this confrontation.

  Lost in my prayer, Swift Feet advances toward me with small hops. His cloth-wrapped fist almost hits my nose. I move to the side, analyzing his movements before doing anything.

  Did he train martial arts? His movements resemble those of an amateur boxer, at least in his pathetic footwork. He advances again. He’s more motivated than when he fought the other guy.

  No, no, no… not now, I tell myself.

  He’s slower. I can dodge him easily, even though he’s speeding up his rhythm. My heart starts pounding against my ribs and the blood in my arms feels like it wants to escape through my fingernails.

  I try to calm down. It’s clear that attacking him now would be counterproductive. I just have to change my approach. As if she were beside me, I hear Rya spitting out a “I told you so.” How annoying.

  “Big mouth!” someone shouts. “Fight!”

  I continue evading his attacks. Despite the boos behind me, I don’t lose focus on my goal.

  “Stop running!” My opponent stops in his tracks and confronts me. “Weren’t you saying it was easy? Then do something!” He spreads his arms.

  A can of red paint seems to fall over him. If he got any angrier, he’d start steaming from the ears. I don’t say a word. My body is trying to suppress this strength.

  Something hard hits the back of my neck. A dark wooden mug rolls near my foot. When I turn to look for the culprit, a blow to the face knocks me to the ground.

  “Ethan!”

  Swift Feet traps me, pinning me down with his body weight. Barely covering my face, punches rain down like meteors. I manage to push him away, but knowing how things would end, I decide to give up.

  As I leave the ring, hands slap my back and others pull at my hair.

  We are aggressively thrown out of the tavern. The mockery doesn’t stop until we’re far enough away. I stink of manure and I’m covered in dirt up to my ears.

  We stop on the path to process what just happened.

  “Shit…” I whisper, bent over my knees. “I’m trash. God.”

  I fought like a dog knowing full well what would happen. What a disaster. I didn’t just lose money—I lost Nick’s too. He tries to lighten the mood by saying that silver comes and goes. Though he’s right, I’m not happy with how the day ended.

  I return to Olmir with my tail between my legs, wanting nothing more than to take a bath and go to sleep.

  We walk until a certain point in the city. On the way we joke about what happened, but my head can’t let go of the taunts I heard. I start imagining scenarios where I do this and that, where I come out victorious and receive applause from everyone. I think I’ll keep doing this until I get back to my room.

  I say goodbye to him near a park. Not before he jokingly reminds me that I owe him one silver. I laugh at his words, but inside I’m still seething with anger over what happened.

  The sun disappears from the sky. Without bringing a lamp with me, I can barely see anything beyond my own nose. The fog tonight is very thick.

  I walk while reflecting. Maybe I should follow Rya’s advice and train on my own tomorrow, even if just a little. But I still don’t know how I’ll be able to suppress my strength if, in any stressful situation, it comes bursting out.

  Among the shadows, a silhouette moves quickly. I rub my eyes to clear the haze covering my pupils. I drank a lot at the tavern and now the alcohol is taking its toll.

  Further ahead I see a stationary figure, shaped like a man.

  “Good evening…?” I ask, confused.

  He takes a step forward to move away the fog covering him. His bandaged arm, shaped like an L. I focus on his very distinctive clothing. When I realize who he is, two men appear behind him. It’s night and I’ve just run into people who hide knives under their shirts.

  This scene reminds me of a bad Hollywood movie.

  “Hey, relax,” I say, raising my arms. “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Give you back the humiliation you gave me in that hole!”

  Here I was worrying about him and he clearly has enough energy to ambush me. My day ends in the best possible way.

  “Relax. Sorry for breaking your arm, okay? But it was still your fault.”

  “My fault!? You dare say that?”

  “Damn it! You messed with Eleanor! How the hell did you expect me to let that slide?”

  With a nod of his head, the two thugs walk toward me, clubs in hand. They close the distance so fast I barely have time to react. I receive a solid blow to the eyebrow. Dazed by the impact, I fall to the ground. Behind me, the guy in the red coat laughs out loud.

  Someone speaks to me with an empathetic voice, telling me to stay down and cover my head. That if I resist, it will be worse.

  I ignore the warnings. A thick, dark drop runs down my eyelid. The shame I felt at that pigsty wasn’t enough—now I have to deal with another problem. I’m fed up with everyone playing with me.

  They hit me in the back, but I barely feel the impact. The piece of their weapon rolls across the ground.

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  Clenching my fist, I slam it into the stone slabs beneath me. As if a giant steel ball had fallen from a great height, I create a crater in the earth.

  Terrified by what they’ve just witnessed, my attackers retreat. I take advantage of the fear I caused to deliver an ultimatum.

  “Do you want me to kill you!? You fucking sons of bitches!” I roar, hands posed like claws.

  My bluff works and they disappear into the fog. Their speed of escape is so impressive I can barely make out their shapes.

  I stand there, breathing deeply and regaining my composure. Today really hasn’t been my day. I need to stop acting like I’m the king of the world, challenging my limits without measuring the consequences.

  I detour toward a nearby well and wash my face. The water is so cold it burns my injured skin, and I’m sure I’ll end up with a scar after this. I hurry my steps to reach the inn, take a bath, and lie down to sleep.