The hot water thundered over Rave's shoulders, washing away days of sweat and blood. He leaned against the cracked tiles, letting the sting of heat soothe the bruises he'd collected on the road. Each breath was a reminder that he was still alive.
He took his time, watching the steam rise and swirl in the small bathroom. There was a strange comfort in the way it blurred the edges of the world, like a moment of peace stolen from the city outside.
When the water ran cold, he shut it off and stepped out, muscles aching. He wrapped a towel around himself and caught sight of his reflection in the fogged mirror.
For a second, he didn't recognize the face staring back: Damp hair plastered to his forehead, eyes that looked older than they should have. He reached up to wipe the glass clean, and that's when he saw it.
A mark on his shoulder. Dark and swirling, faintly pulsing under the skin.
He froze. His breath caught in his throat. It was the same mark he'd seen on Noctis—the same shape, as if it had been pressed there by something ancient and impossible.
"What…?"
He touched it with trembling fingers. The skin felt warm, almost alive.
His mind raced, memories of Noctis's quiet power, the way she'd looked at him like she'd known something he didn't. And now, part of her was in him. Inescapable. He felt a shiver run down his spine.
"This… wasn't here before…"
He sighed with curiosity and activated the mask.
The skinwalker's mask had shifted his features to those of Wil: Sharp jaw, tired green eyes, hair darker and wilder. The weight of the mask felt lighter now, more natural. But it was still a mask, and he didn't forget that.
He dressed quickly, slipping into Wil's travel-worn clothes: Simple, dark, blending into the city's twilight. His money pouch felt heavy at his hip: ten gold coins, each worth more than most of the outskirts' folk saw in a year.
Outside, the city of Crimson Fall stretched before him. Brown clouds hung low, pressing down on the dark rooftops and winding alleys. Lanterns flickered to life as dusk fell, the light dancing on slick cobblestones. The air smelled of rain and woodsmoke and roasted chestnuts.
Rave walked with purpose, blending in as best he could. Even in Wil's body, he kept his head down and his steps careful.
He stopped at a small money-changer's stall wedged between a weaver's shop and an apothecary. The money-changer was an older man with sharp eyes and calloused hands, his breath steaming in the cool evening air.
Rave handed over a single gold coin. The man bit it carefully, nodding once, and slid a stack of a hundred silver coins across the counter.
"Good rate, for now," the man said, eyes narrowing. "Careful with it. Even a single silver's enough to feed a family for a week in the outskirts."
Rave gave a curt nod, tucking the silver coins into his pouch. He thanked the man and turned away, his mind already on the next step: food.
The market was still alive, even as night crept in. Flames from cooking fires threw flickering shadows on the faces of hawkers, each calling out in sing-song voices: Flatbread spiced with cumin, skewers of roasted meat, sweet rolls dripping with honey.
Rave's stomach tightened. He hadn't eaten anything real since the cave.
He stopped at a woman's stall, the heavy scent of meat and garlic making his mouth water. She barely looked up as he handed over a single silver coin, more than enough for a meal that would keep someone from the outskirts fed for a week. She didn't question it; silver was silver, and no one in the city turned it away.
She gave him a steaming bowl of thick stew—chunks of meat and root vegetables swimming in rich broth. He took it and stepped back from the stall, breathing in the heat of it, feeling the ache in his chest begin to ease.
He found a quiet corner, leaning against the worn stone wall of a blacksmith's shop. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, soft bread to dip in the stew, tender meat that fell apart in his mouth. Each mouthful felt like an anchor, something solid to hold onto.
The city around him moved in currents—merchants calling out their wares, children darting through the crowd, the dull roar of life that never really stopped.
He felt the weight of Wil's face on his own, the way people looked at him with a flicker of recognition and then quickly looked away. Wil's rank in the Nightshade Legion carried weight here—weight Rave didn't fully understand but was willing to use.
"For now," he murmured to himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "For now, this will do."
As he finished the last of the bread, he caught sight of her.
A girl weaving through the crowd, dark hair in a loose braid, moving with the kind of grace that looked accidental. She was dressed simply: A deep blue cloak over a plain tunic, but there was something about the way she carried herself, a quiet confidence that made her stand out.
For a moment, their eyes met—hers were a clear, pale gray, almost silver in the lantern light. There was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, a tilt of her head as if she saw past the mask he wore.
And then she was gone, slipping into the tangle of people like she'd never been there.
Rave's breath caught, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air.
'Who was she…?'
The thought lingered, even as he turned away and forced himself back into motion.
He walked back toward the small hotel, silver coins clinking softly in his pouch.
The streets grew quieter as he moved away from the main market. Lanterns cast soft pools of light on the cobblestones, the air heavy with mist and the tang of iron. He passed a group of beggars huddled around a small fire, their eyes following the glint of his silver coins but saying nothing.
Back in his room, he stripped off the borrowed clothes and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. The mark on his shoulder seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight, a dark swirl that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
"Noctis… what did you do to me?"
He didn't have the answers. But for now, he had silver in his pouch and warmth in his belly. The city of Crimson Fall was dangerous, but it was also alive—and he was alive in it, for the first time in a long time.
He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled noise of the city outside. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled the hour—soft and mournful.
"One step at a time," he told himself, tracing the mark lightly with his fingers. "One step at a time."