WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

twenty-four | generalisation

For the first time in a long time, Cole had the luxury of sitting inside a firelit dining hall and taking his time as he ate, as he dished out a bowl of well-made stew and took his own seat at one of Canale's dark-wood dining tables.

Emer slumped down into the seat next to him. She looked oddly vulnerable without her armour or coat or furs, wearing nothing but her thin, freshly washed undershirt, which was tucked under a leather belt. Cole smiled at her briefly before finishing off his meal.

He hadn't been starving, but throughout the trip through Weles' cold forests the feeling of hunger had been a constant, unspoken sense that followed them all the way through. They had eaten what they needed and saved the rest. At least Alistair had had the decency not to complain about it.

"Can't believe they actually agreed to keeping him alive," Emer scoffed through a mouthful of potato and stew. "I thought the witch would've been dead by now."

Cole snapped her a look before thinking better of it and turning away again. "Canale is a good Clan. They'll respect my word."

"You don't sound so certain."

Cole didn't say anything to that.

"Look," Emer sighed, gulping back her food. "You've got to look passed all that Alistair-ness. Even I will admit that he's not exactly... a terrible person. But when it comes down to it, he's a Chrysosian mindrenderer. For the sake of all of Weles, he would be better off dead."

"If he thought about us the that way, we would be nothing but uncleansed advena to him. And he doesn't. It's only fair that I extend that same level of decency."

Emer shook her head, an angry line forming between her eyes. The shadows that had gathered there were gone, chased away by the warmth, a good meal and fresh water. She looked healthy. Cole wondered if he looked any different – he hadn't had the time to stop and look since their arrival. Always moving around, always worrying.

"It's different, Cole." She said sharply. "This isn't just about some deal, when have you ever cared about that? If you were extending that 'same level on decency', he would be bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. That's how the Chrysosians do it, isn't it?"

Cole felt the heat building in his chest, an undercurrent pulse getting louder in his ears. Ba-dump. But why was he getting wound up over this? It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter, but it did.

"Don't you think it's wrong the way we look at people who are different to us?" He said lowly, gaining control over the volume of his voice before he started shouting and regretting it. "We know we're not all the same, not all Welish people are angry, or great fighters, or – or... I don't know. What makes Chrysosians any different?"

"It's war, Cole." Emer turned her face away, peering down into her cup of lager. The movement in the dining hall sent ripples through the drink, the colour of burnt gold. "That's how it works. If we saw them like that, it would make it a lot harder to kill them."

Cole wanted to say something, he really did, but he had no idea what to say. She was right, he couldn't allow himself to think about Alistair as if he was something separate from the whole of Chrysos or its great, scaly army. It was too risky – for himself, for Alistair, for Galanthus. And Alistair couldn't afford to do the same for him. This was the way it was, there wasn't any way around it.

"Well, well," a voice started, taking the seat opposite his. "Cole Ursa, is it? I've heard all sorts of things about you."

Cole glanced up at the boy from across the table. His hair was pulled into braids against the sides of his scalp, sharp eyebrows slashed down the middle with scars. He had his hands flat against the table, and Cole could make out the fresh tattoos across his knuckles, red-rimmed. There was an older tattoo against his temple, above his eye.