Dawn began to break over the swamp, sweeping away the greenish mist with cold light that illuminated the ruined lodge and the figure standing in its doorway.
Kairos examined his hands. The dry mud had peeled away, revealing paler skin beneath, the scratches from running from his enemies now healed.
The hardened nails were still there, but he could conceal them by clenching his fist. The scent of sulfur and the power radiating from him had subsided, suppressed with great effort, like magma forced into slumber.
What remained was an exhaustion etched onto Aerion's gaunt face, his hollowed cheeks, and blue eyes that now, with Kairos's strenuous effort, began to lose their golden glow.
He no longer looked like a fire monster, but like a young noble who had survived a catastrophe, wounded and nearly desperate. The fragile mask of Aerion had been prepared since last night.
"Disgusting," Kairos hissed internally, feeling the faint disgust for the weak, false role he had to play. But this had to be done; the body was still weak, and his draconic power was not yet fully restored.
Moreover, he needed more information, a fresher context than Aerion's fragmented and emotion-laden memories. He needed eyes, ears, even hearts full of vengeance or fear that he could manipulate.
And for that, he needed access to other humans. A small, remote village, not far from this swamp, was the perfect place to start.
He took a deep breath, suppressing the revulsion at inhaling the swamp air, which this morning should have been fresh but still smelled foul.
Then he recalled fragments of Aerion's memories: the way he would bow slightly when speaking to common folk, the soft yet clearly trained tone of his voice, the gaze that attempted to be friendly yet maintained a noble distance, typical of nobles.
Kairos practiced it. He straightened his back, then lowered it slightly, adding to the impression of fatigue. He also relaxed his still-aching shoulders, shedding the stiffness of the arrogant predator within him.
He forced a thin smile, which appeared unfriendly, but was enough to convey fragile good intentions. The smile was unnatural, but at least it was highly effective.
After he deemed everything ready, he walked along the animal path he had identified yesterday, leading him out of the swamp.
The terrain was still difficult—muddy ground, slippery roots, tall reeds that scratched his arms—but this body, after brutal training and forced healing, was already responding better.
His coordination improved, though every movement was still closely scrutinized by Kairos's critical, and always complaining, mind.
Finally, he saw thin smoke rising in the distance, above a sparser line of trees. The smell of freshly tilled earth, animal dung, and cleaner wood smoke replaced the stench of the swamp.
The village was small, perhaps a dozen simple wooden and stone huts surrounding a dirt common. A scrawny cow grazed by a decaying wooden fence.
Several small children played in the mud near the central well, pausing to stare in bewildered awe at the stranger who had just emerged from the forest.
Their eyes widened at the sight of his tattered and dirty clothes, made of fine material. His face still showed remnants of aristocratic handsomeness, despite being dirty and thin.
Kairos, now playing the role of Aerion, directed his stumbling steps toward the well. An old man in worn clothes was drawing water from it.
Upon seeing Aerion, his wrinkled but sharp eyes observed Kairos with caution.
"Pardon the intrusion, sir," Kairos said, deliberately making his voice hoarse and raspy, yet with a clear articulation that no common farmer would possess. He also bowed slightly.
"May I have a drink? My journey... has been long." He let his voice trail off, even adding a weak tremor he mimicked from Aerion's memories of despair.
The old man nodded slowly, but without a smile. "Go on, sir."
He offered a wooden cup filled with clear water from the bucket. His gaze remained fixed on Kairos, assessing him. "Where are you from, sir? Ain't often we see folks coming through the swamp from that way. It's a damn risky path."
Kairos drank the water eagerly, appreciating its cleanliness, though to him, it was still merely the water of lesser beings. He adjusted his expression to one of sadness, mixed with exhaustion.
"I... I am from Lyceum," he whispered, ensuring only the old man heard. The destruction of that prestigious Academy must have spread everywhere.
"I managed to escape... but the others..." He stopped mid-sentence, closing his eyes for a moment, feigning 'emotion.'
When he opened his eyes, a fabricated 'despair' was visible there. "I am only trying to find a safe place. Until the situation... calms down."
The effect was immediate. The suspicion in the old man's eyes melted, replaced by pity and understanding for the stranger's situation.
"Lyceum," he muttered, shaking his head. "Word of that bloodbath's reached us. That Crown Prince is a proper monster.
He lowered his voice. "And Vaelgard is truly a bunch of scavenging wolves, circling for scraps. They've been prowling closer lately, scaring the village folk and nicking whatever they fancy."
Vaelgard patrols close by.
This was the first piece of information he had successfully obtained, and Kairos gladly noted it mentally.
"Are they looking for people like me?" he asked, feigning fear, and acting as if he was about to flee.
"More like stirring up trouble, sir," the old man replied cynically. "They're looting food, stealing horses, or just flexing to show who's running the border now. Therion might be a sitting pretty on the throne in Etheleum, but out here in this godforsaken no-man's-land, Vaelgard calls the shots."
There was deep bitterness in his voice. "All we want is to be left alone. We scrape by with a bit of harvest, a bit of fishing. But Therion's tax collectors bleed us dry, and Vaelgard's thugs keep hassling us... it's a bloody though life."
Discontent...
Kairos nodded with false sympathy, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he listened to the old man's story.
"I understand, sir. Truly a regrettable situation." He surveyed the impoverished village.
"Is there a place here... perhaps a simple inn? I have a little..." He fumbled at his tunic, pulling out a small silver coin tucked into a hidden seam—Aerion's last valuable possession. The coin gleamed, a stark contrast to the surrounding poverty.
The old man's eyes narrowed at the coin, then he looked at Kairos's face again. His assessment immediately changed.
A noble who had fled, wounded, but still had money.
"There's a place, sir. Marta's shack, down at the edge of the village. She might have a room and some grub for ya. But watch your step," he added in a low, warning tone, "this is a small village. Too many eyes, too many ears. Some folks are in Therion's pocket, others just scared stiff of Vaelgard."
Kairos nodded his thanks, then gave another small coin as 'gratitude.' "Thank you, sir. My name is... Aris."
A simple alias, easy to remember, but unremarkable. He turned, heading towards Marta's shack, which the old man had indicated, feeling his gaze follow him, as well as the curious stares of other villagers who now dared to approach.