Who Am I

Eric entered the inn. It was exactly as he would have imagined—noise layered on warmth, the air thick with woodsmoke and ale. A small band played near the hearth, their instruments strange but familiar. Lutes with fewer strings. Drums beaten by hand instead of stick. Reed pipes that bent their notes just shy of tune.

The door shut behind him and the sound dimmed for a heartbeat. Heads turned. A few whispers passed between tables. He knew why.

His coat wasn’t local work. High-collared, trimmed in silver thread that pulsed faintly blue along the seams—rune stitch, unmistakably elven. A tear marked the upper arm, edges dark where blood had dried into the fabric. His right hand was worse—skin along the knuckles raw and half-healed, the color of old fire. He could still feel the ache when he flexed it.

No one said anything, but they didn’t have to. A human in elven clothing, scarred and carrying silence like a weapon, didn’t belong here.

He crossed the room slowly. The floorboards creaked under his boots. Someone laughed too loudly to fill the quiet that followed him. A barmaid stepped aside to let him pass, her eyes flicking once to the slash on his coat before she looked away.

He found a corner table, back to the wall. The band found its rhythm again, and the room’s heartbeat returned.

Eric exhaled. The noise was the right amount of distraction.

After a while a barmaid made her way to him—a young girl, sixteen at most. Her apron was too big, tied twice around her waist. She carried a tray of mugs that rattled with each step.

Eric frowned. Childhood here didn’t last long. It couldn’t. When survival mattered more than dreams, growing up wasn’t a choice—it was a deadline.

She stopped at his table, glancing at the runes on his sleeve before meeting his eyes.

“You staying the night, sir?”

He nodded. “A room if one’s free,” he said, voice low, rough from travel. “And a drink to wash down the road.”

She smiled faintly. “We’ve got both.”

Her eyes flicked to the blood on his cuff again, then to his face. Whatever she saw there kept her polite. “Ale’s warm tonight, but it’s clean.”

“That’ll do.”

She nodded and slipped away through the tables. The crowd barely noticed her, the room already closing back around its rhythm.

Eric leaned back, eyes on the flickering hearth. The music had found its stride again, but every note felt just slightly off, but still very human, the cadence the rhythm.

He could still feel the crust of dried blood tightening on his skin when he moved his hand.

The girl returned a few minutes later with the drink. She set the mug down gently, careful not to spill.

“Room’s ready,” she said. “Top of the stairs, last on the left. Good thing you came when you did—it’s the last one we’ve got.”

Eric nodded his thanks. The ale was darker than he expected, bitter on the first swallow, smoother after. It tasted of roasted grain and sweet berries—a flavor that belonged to work and long days.

He sat for a while, letting the warmth spread through him. The music faded into background hum, the chatter a blur of half-heard words.

When the mug was empty, he stood. The room shifted slightly, not from drink but from weariness. The stairs groaned under his boots, and by the time he reached the top landing, the sound of laughter had dulled to a heartbeat under the floor.

He found the door, the latch sticking once before it gave. The room smelled of wood and oil, a single candle waiting on the table. He closed the door behind him.

Silence followed, heavy and complete.

Eric cleaned himself up in a basin of clear water. The inn didn’t have plumbing like the elven city—no flowing taps, no quiet hum of enchantments. Just a pitcher, a bowl, and the sound of water moving under his hands.

The room was lit by a single candle, its light soft but uneven. He studied the walls for a moment, then sighed.

He took out his carving knife and set to work. Four simple runes—one on each wall—light enhancement etched shallow into the wood grain. The glow they produced wasn’t much, but it steadied the shadows.

He added a fifth rune near the door, a simple contact switch. A brush of skin was enough to toggle the lights. He tied them together with a weak absorption array, feeding off ambient mana so no one needed to channel it directly.

The setup was crude compared to elven craft, but it worked. Plain wood wasn’t ideal—it bled energy too fast—but for a human inn, it was more than enough.

Eric leaned back and watched the runes pulse to life.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d learned until moments like this. Every mark, every trace of light, reminded him that magic had stopped being foreign somewhere along the way.

He blew out the candle. The room was bright enough now, runes casting their steady glow across the walls.

He sat on the bed.

The lights had been a distraction—work for the hands, not the mind. He hadn’t needed to make them, but anything was better than facing what waited behind his thoughts.

It came anyway.

A storm of memory and emotion.

The lightning bolt. The smell of scorched cloth and flesh. The hole smoking in the man’s chest, the sudden stillness where life had been.

The one sharpening his blade—alive one breath, dead the next.

The man at the fire—he’d only meant to stop him, take the hand, end the threat. But the strike had gone high, the blade slipping through bone and brain before he even realized.

He told himself it was necessary. That it had to be done.

But why had it been so easy?

Was that instinct, or something darker hiding beneath it?

Was he just dressing it in reason because one innocent had been spared?

He ran a hand over his face, forcing the images back. He knew the truth.

He would do it again. Every time.

His daughter’s face rose in his mind—small, trusting, alive.

If she were the one crying for help, he would pray that someone like him was close enough to hear.

Sleep wouldn’t come. He turned on the bed for a while before giving up and pulling fresh clothes from his dimensional storage. The old ones still smelled of blood and smoke. He folded them neatly, setting them aside by the wall.

Only then did he realize—he still had the Valean family’s belongings.

“Crap,” he muttered under his breath.

He sat there for a moment. They’d need those supplies to get through the week—grain, tools, the little things that kept people alive.

“I’ll take it to them in the morning,” he said quietly, more to himself than to the empty room. “They probably need them.”

He made his way back downstairs.

Fatigue pulled at him, but the energy of the day still hummed under his skin, refusing to fade. The common room had thinned out; the air was cooler now, the music gone, only the crackle of the hearth and the murmur of tired voices remaining.

He spotted his group near the far table. Kaelen sat with a mug of ale, elbow resting on the wood, the easy posture of someone trying to unwind. Lyren and Welyvyne were talking quietly beside him, their laughter soft but genuine.

They noticed him at once.

Welyvyne’s smile was small, a little sad around the edges. She reached out and patted the empty chair beside her.

“Didn’t think you’d sleep,” she said.

Eric grinned back, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, lowering himself into the chair. “The day’s catching up. I just—” he paused, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I feel a little uneasy about how easy it was to kill so many people.”

The words landed heavy, pulling the table quiet for a beat.

Kaelen’s mug stopped mid-turn in his hand. Lyren looked down, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. Welyvyne’s smile faded, replaced by something gentler, almost protective.

Kaelen spoke first. “You did what had to be done,” he said evenly. “They’d have killed that family if we hadn’t arrived when we did.”

“I know,” Eric replied. “But knowing doesn’t make it sit any better.”

Kaelen smiled warmly, the kind of smile that carried understanding rather than comfort.

“That’s a good sign,” he said. “You’re a man who acts first and feels later. I didn’t know that about you before today.”

He lifted his mug, studying the swirl of ale before adding, “I know how you feel. I’ve faced the same fight inside myself—more times than I’d like to admit.”

He set the mug down, the sound soft against the wood. “The first time, it makes you question who you are. After that… it just reminds you what it costs.”

Eric looked up at him, quiet disbelief in his eyes.

“That… well, that sums up exactly how I’m feeling,” he said, voice low. “Questioning if I might be a monster deep down.”

Kaelen didn’t answer right away. The firelight caught the lines around his eyes, softening them.

“You wouldn’t be asking that if you were,” he said finally. “Monsters don’t stop to wonder what they’ve become.”

Welyvyne exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “He’s right,” she said. “You’re not a monster, Eric. You just haven’t had time to make peace with what you had to do.”

Lyren nodded faintly, eyes still on her drink. “The world doesn’t give much room for peace,” she murmured. “But asking the question—that’s where it starts.”

Eric sat back, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. “Maybe,” he said softly. “I guess I’ll see which answer I find.”

The young barmaid from earlier drifted past their table again. She slowed when she saw him with the others.

“I figured you were with them,” she said, then hesitated. “You wear elven clothing and don’t look like you’re—” She caught herself, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

Her eyes darted toward his empty hands. “Would you like another drink?”

Eric smiled faintly, easing her discomfort. “Sure. Same as before, thank you.”

She nodded quickly and disappeared toward the bar, her braid swaying with each step.

Kaelen smirked over his cup. “Seems you’ve made an impression.”

Eric huffed out a laugh. “More like I’ve confused her.”

Welyvyne leaned on her elbow, smiling softly. “Humans aren’t used to seeing one of their own dressed like that. To her, you probably look like something out of a story.”

Eric glanced down at his coat, the rune stitching catching the firelight. “Maybe that’s fitting,” he said quietly. “I feel like something out of one too.”

Eric frowned. “I never intended to kill them. I was trying to disable, to stop them—but it’s like I have more power than I even realized.”

He looked at Kaelen, the seriousness in his eyes cutting through the fatigue.

“I need to learn how to control it,” he said quietly. “I don’t want this to happen again, not if I can help it.”

Kaelen nodded slowly. “Then we’ll teach you,” he said. “Power without restraint burns everything around it. You’ll find the balance.”

Welyvyne’s gaze softened. “And until you do,” she said, “you won’t be facing it alone.”

Eric let out a long breath, the weight on his chest easing just a little. “That’s good to hear,” he murmured. “Because right now… I don’t trust my own hands.”

Eric caught a look in Kaelen’s eyes—something he couldn’t read. If he had to guess, it wasn’t doubt or pity. It was decision.

Whatever thought had crossed Kaelen’s mind, it shifted something behind his gaze, subtle but certain.

Eric couldn’t tell what it meant, only that his words had just set something in motion he didn’t yet understand.

The barmaid returned with the drink, setting it down carefully in front of him.

Eric took the mug, then looked up at her. “Like I was what?” he asked. “I’m not going to get angry—I’m just curious.”

She lowered her head, fingers twisting around the tray. “Like you aren’t struggling for survival,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Eric snorted, cutting her off with a faint grin. “You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to struggle.”

He took a sip, then added, “But I want to. I want to see how life is here. It’s part of why I came—to see how my people are living.”

The girl blinked, confusion knitting her brow. “How could you not know how we live? Have you never been to a human settlement?”

He shook his head. “Not like this. Not since… well, before all of this.”

“It’s harsh,” she said quietly, almost defensive now. “But we get by. Always have.”

Eric nodded, studying her face—the tired eyes, the soot at the edge of her hairline, the quiet resolve that came from endurance rather than choice.

“I can see that,” he said. “You’re tougher than most people I’ve met.”

Color touched her cheeks, and she straightened a little before turning to leave.

Eric watched the girl disappear into the crowd, her words lingering longer than the sound of her steps.

“I’ll help my people if I can,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Only Welyvyne turned at the sound, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pride and worry.

She didn’t interrupt, didn’t speak, just watched him for a heartbeat longer before turning back to her drink.

Eric downed the rest of his drink and set the mug aside.

“I got us a room,” he said. “Top of the stairs. Only two beds, but it was the last one.”

Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Two beds? Guess we’ll have to improvise.”

Eric grinned, the weariness in his voice easing for the first time that night. “So,” he said, pumping his eyebrows, “little spoon or big spoon?”

Welyvyne choked on her drink, half laughing, half groaning. “Gods, Eric—really?”

Lyren covered a smile behind her hand. “You two can debate that; I’m claiming the bed by the window.”

Kaelen snorted. “You’re welcome to it. I’ll take the floor before I risk being that close to his sense of humor.”

Eric chuckled. “Your loss. I’m told I’m very warm.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t loud, but it was real—the first sound of simple human ease since the forest.

When it faded, Kaelen stood, stretching his shoulders. “Come on, before we fall asleep at the table.”

They made their way upstairs together, the quiet between them no longer heavy but companionable.