What Lingers


11/27/4722

The day is finally over, another day where I was forced to do things that I would rather forget. My hands are clean now—I scrubbed them three times—but they don’t feel that way. Still feel wrong.
They were just children.

I try not to think about it. Focus on the mundane. Unbuckle my armor. Set my shield against the wall, careful as always. The Guardian’s duty never ends, even when—

Movement.

Corner of my eye. Something small. Child-sized. I turn. Nothing there. Just shadows pooling in the corner where the lamplight doesn’t quite reach. The dancing flame give them the illusion of life, yes that must be it. Just tired. I return to my armor. The straps resist my fingers—cold, stiff. Everything feels colder since I crossed into Ustalav. Since—

There.

Again. Definite movement this time. I spin, shield already in hand. Empty corner. Empty room. Empty air that tastes of copper and cold. My breath mists. It shouldn’t. The suite that Shakoom paid for is warm, too warm for my breath to mist. Not to mist like from the kind of cold that comes from inside not from the outside. The kind I remember from—Don’t think about Lastwall. Don’t think about the rubble. Don’t think about what watched you in the darkness.

I shake my head. Battle fatigue. Guilt playing tricks because I don’t want to think about what I had to do today—the small bodies flying and lying still in the snow. The mind trying to distract itself against what it doesn’t want to process. I’ve seen it before in other soldiers. Now I’m seeing it in myself.
I move to the small mirror above the washbasin. I need to check the wound on my temple from when that boy—when the possessed boy—clawed at my face. Not deep. Healing clean. Good.

I lean closer to inspect it. Behind me in the reflection, something moves. A girl with small tangled hair, pale skin. She is thin, too thin. Standing in the middle of my room behind me, I freeze. My hand inches toward my weapon. She’s wearing ragged clothes, a too large dress that hangs off her like a shroud. She’s watching me with eyes that are too dark, too big, too—I whirl around, shield raised.

Nothing.

Just an empty room. My bed, my gear, the lamp casting its lonely circle of light. No girl. No child. No one. I look back at the mirror. Just me. Alone. Just my own face, older than it should be. Worn. Haunted.

Haunted. Funny word to choose.

I splash cold water on my face. The water in the basin is so cold it burns. I blink. Just water. Just my face. Just exhaustion. I don’t look in the mirror again as I prepare for bed. I’ve slept in worse places than this. In mud. In snow. In trenches where the dead outnumbered the living. I can sleep anywhere. But I can’t get warm.

Three blankets and I’m still shivering. The cold radiates from everywhere and nowhere. It’s not the room—when I hold my hand near the lamp, I can feel its warmth. But the moment I pull back, the cold returns, seeping, invasive. Like it’s coming from inside my own bones.

I close my eyes. Force my breathing to slow. In and out. In and out. The Guardian’s meditation. Find the center. Find the calm. Find—Scratching. Soft. Rhythmic. Like small fingers on wood. I open my eyes. The sound is coming from under the bed. Rats, I tell myself. Just rats. Old inn. Old building. They’re everywhere in this part of Ustalav.

The scratching continues. Patient. Deliberate.

I lean over the edge of the bed, shield in hand, peering into the darkness beneath.
Two eyes stare back. Too large. Too dark. Reflecting no light.

Child’s eyes.

“Hello?” My voice is steady. A knight’s voice. A Guardian’s voice. “Are you—are you hurt? Do you need help?”

The eyes blink. Once. Twice. Then they’re gone.

I scramble out of bed, lamp in hand, heart hammering. Crouch down. Look under the bed properly. Nothing. Just dust and an empty chamber pot.

No child. No eyes. No one.

I sit on the edge of the bed, lamp trembling in my hands. The flame dances, casting my shadow huge and monstrous on the wall behind me. For a moment—just a moment—the shadow has too many limbs. I close my eyes. Open them. Just one shadow. Just mine. Just normal.

You’re losing it, Hugh. Get yourself together. You’ve faced worse than guilt. You’ve faced the Whispering Tyrant’s armies. You survived Gallowspire. You survived—The cold intensifies. The lamp flame gutters. Nearly dies. When it flares back to life, there’s frost on the window. On the mirror. On the metal buckles of my armor. I set the lamp down carefully. Deliberately. Get back into bed. Pull the blankets tight. Keep my shield within reach.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I’ll ask the priest about blessings. About wards. About protection from—From what? Guilt? Ghosts? Memories? The weight of children’s blood on my hands even when they weren’t really children anymore?