The Siege of Shadows: Book one

One with the Shadows (16)

The days bled together, each one a blur of monotony. The world outside felt distant, unimportant. Time had lost its meaning in the aftermath of Davin's death, and every morning I woke up to the same hollow emptiness. I could feel the weight of my own thoughts, suffocating me. The sadness was a constant pressure, like a storm in my chest, but I didn't know how to let it out. I couldn't bring myself to care.

Once, I had searched for answers. I'd sought meaning, reasons, a purpose to keep moving forward. Why had I been brought here? How? Was there a way back? But now, the thought of searching felt like dragging a boulder uphill, only for it to crush me when it inevitably rolled back down. What was the point? Davin was gone. My village was ash. I had begged the world to give me something—a sign, a spark—and it had answered with silence. My desire to understand, to fight, to find anything at all had died along with him.

I threw myself into my work at the inn, letting it consume me. It was a distraction—one I welcomed. Cleaning rooms, scrubbing dishes, taking inventory, anything that kept my hands busy and my mind blank. The innkeeper didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. He could see the hollow look in my eyes, the way I kept to myself, but he didn't push. None of them did. And that suited me just fine. I didn't want anyone to see me. I didn't want anyone to care.

There were times, late at night, when I stared into the flickering embers of the tavern's dying hearth and felt nothing but a quiet resignation. No spark, no grief, no anger—just emptiness. The questions that once clawed at me had gone silent, drowned by the weight of the void inside. Why? How? What now? I no longer had the strength to ask. There were no answers waiting, and even if there were, I no longer cared to hear them.

I'd stopped hoping for clarity. I'd stopped hoping for anything at all. Every dream I'd had, every plan for the future, had turned to ash alongside Winlow. Now, I was nothing more than a shell, moving through the days because stopping would take more effort than continuing.

I kept my head down, my cloak always wrapped tightly around me, hiding my face from the world. I didn't want to be seen, didn't want anyone to look too closely. The last time I had let someone in, I had lost them. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.

My hair was always tied back, hidden from view. It was easier that way. I dressed like a man—loose trousers, a plain tunic, sturdy boots—and always kept a knife at my belt and a sword on my back. The weight of them was comforting, as if I could still protect myself, even though deep down I knew nothing could protect me from the ache in my chest.

I didn't speak much. I didn't want to. The quieter I was, the less I had to explain. I became a shadow in the corners of the tavern, my face obscured by the hood of my cloak, my words few and measured. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, didn't want to invite anyone into my life. I had seen how quickly things could be taken away.

I became a fixture in the background of the inn, unnoticed by most. People came and went, their lives moving around me like a slow, steady tide, but none of them saw me. They saw the quiet shadow who cleaned the rooms, the one who sat in the back corner of the tavern nursing their drink. They didn't ask questions, and I didn't give them answers. I was a ghost, blending into the walls, fading into the wood and stone.

But I watched. I listened. The quiet gave me time to observe, to pick up on the small details that others missed—the way the innkeeper's wife looked at him when she thought no one was watching, the way the drunkard in the corner always ordered a third drink just before sunset, the subtle tension in the air when a group of merchants argued over payment. I took it all in, like a silent observer, but I never got involved.

Every so often, a street thief would slip past the guards and attempt to snatch a purse or cut a pocket. And every so often, I would stop them—swift, silent, and without hesitation. A quick hand on the wrist, a gentle twist, a little pressure, and they would drop their stolen goods like they had never meant to take them in the first place. I didn't say anything, didn't make a scene. I just watched them scurry off, tails between their legs, never looking back.