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The moment Yu stepped into the common room, Bubs put him to work; work he had most definitely not signed up for — or rather, been forced to sign up for by Tria. Under the ridiculous pretext of helping him “learn the layout” and “understand the daily routines”, Bubs declared that Yu would be cleaning every single room. One by one. Day after day. And just like that, his first day was spent scrubbing the common room from top to bottom while Bubs poured the last drinks for Fallem and the escort party.
They had already finished lunch. That had been the worst of it. Bubs had simply stated that Yu had arrived too late, so he got nothing. No lunch, no breakfast — nothing. The tables were still cluttered with empty plates, the scent of food still lingering in the air, thick and taunting. There was obviously food left in the kitchen. But there was no arguing with Bubs. The mianid had given him nothing and sent him straight to work.
Eventually, the others retired to their rooms. Only Fallem remained. While various members of the escort party filtered in and out throughout the day, he lingered persistently, as if the second he stepped away, that one ker general would walk through the door.
Fallem had inquired to meet Lorien Warshaper the instant they arrived yesterday, only to learn that neither she nor the watch-captain had returned. They had left two days prior, patrolling the path, a routine the watch-captain followed with clockwork precision. He was expected back sometime before T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n this night. And so, Fallem waited.
The rest of the escort party enjoyed the luxury of time. Time to eat, to rest, to recover from the arduous journey. How truly good for them. Yu, of course, had been granted no such reprieve. Bubs had made sure of that.
The common room was a grim, utilitarian space, built for endurance rather than comfort. Dark stone walls loomed, their uneven surfaces pocked with scars from age and wear. A massive hearth dominated one side, its iron grate blackened by the smoke of countless fires. A single long sofa and two chairs sat beside it, worn, worn but sturdy. Above them hung a battered pike, its edge sharp.
Heavy wooden tables stood in neat rows, their surfaces gouged and stained, the wood permanently darkened by years of use. The chairs were equally robust. They came in varying sizes and shapes to accommodate the diverse travellers who passed through. Some had wide backs, armrests, and leather padding; others were plain, meant for bodies that required little in the way of comfort — or more room for spikes, wings, and the like.
Two large tapestries adorned the walls. One depicted an abstract swirl of smoky figures, locked in some battle. The other showed a forest beneath a blood-red sky with gnarled and twisted trees. If one stared too long, the shadows between them seemed to shift. There were portraits, too. One of a wizard, or perhaps a tairan, clad in a uniform of unknown rank. The other of what was probably a female shaman. She was so far gone in her transformation that Yu could not guess her original race.
And then, there were the defences. Some subtle. Others blatant. Iron reinforcements braced the doors and windows, which had shutters on both the inside and outside. A loaded crossbow was mounted near the kitchen entrance. Another hung by the stairs, alongside two swords and what must have been a wizard’s staff.
By now, Yu had also noticed the crystals embedded high in the walls, just beneath the ceiling, near where the light orbs drifted. Their purpose was unclear, but he suspected they were tied to some sort of warding spell. He made a note to ask Tirran when the opportunity arose.
The kitchen, connected to the common room by a swinging half-door, was Bubs’ domain. Yu had not been called in yet. From the threshold, he had only glimpsed a narrow hallway leading to one door at the left and another at the end. Bubs came and went out of the latter. When he worked, it stayed shut.
There was also a pass-through that served as a window between the kitchen and common room. It was a simple cut-out in the wall between the half-door and the stairs leading to the upper floors. A broad wooden ledge lined the opening, a place for setting down plates. From there, the sharp tang of smoked spices, fire, and simmering broth wafted out, tangled with the ever-present undercurrent of ale that had long since soaked, seeped and settled within the wood. More often than not, the only thing to emerge from that gap was Bubs’ perpetually sour face, his dark eyes peering over the ledge in constant suspicion. The mianid was too short to see over it naturally, which meant he had to stand on a stool just to glare down at Yu.
It would have been funny — If Bubs weren’t so utterly determined to piss on every single one of Yu’s attempts to actually get shit done. The scrutiny never ended. While Yu worked, Bubs lurked, emerging again and again, his eyes darting like a carrion bird searching for something rotten to pick at. His dissatisfaction took the form of constant corrections, clipped criticisms, and sharp, high-pitched orders thrown at him without pause.
Cleaning with his stumps was as much a challenge as it was a personal humiliation. The tools were crude but functional: coarse rags and sponges for the furniture, leather cloths for the windows, stiff-bristled brushes for scrubbing grime from stone, and buckets of soapy water drawn from the rain-collection barrels outside.
Carrying a bucket was an ordeal. Yu slipped one arm through the handle, bending what little remained below the elbow to lift it. There was hardly any strength left in that limb, certainly not enough to hold a full bucket without struggle. Keeping it steady while walking was even worse. The first few times, he filled it way too much, so that water sloshed over the sides with every unsteady step, soaking the floor, his feet and his trousers. And again, when he rinsed the rags, the movement sent more spilling over. Another thing for Bubs to shout about.
When it came to scrubbing, Yu quickly gave up pressing his stumps onto the rags and sponges. That only worked on flat surfaces, and even then, it left his feathers filthy and matted. In the end, his legs proved more useful. Balancing awkwardly, he clenched a rag in one clawed foot and attacked the grease-streaked, wax-spattered tables with sharp, forceful strokes. The floor received the same treatment. His talons scraped against the stone as he scoured at stains with an almost vindictive fervour, the sound grating, constant, unpleasant.
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It was painstaking. Degrading. His entire body strained. His lack of hands forced him to rely on awkward, full-body motions for even the simplest tasks, like rinsing a rag in the bucket. By the time Yu finished wiping down the tabletops and scrubbing the soot-blackened walls near the fireplace, his torso was drenched from leaning too close to the splashing water. His breath came sharp and frustrated, muscles aching, clothes and feathers damp, dirty, and clinging to his skin. And through it all, Bubs watched. Judging. Finding fault in things Yu had not even done yet. It was Tria’s fucking lack of attitude all over again.
No matter how much he scrubbed, wiped, or reorganised, every task was an opening for criticism. Every missed corner. Every surface that failed to gleam under the dim lantern light — That’s streaked. That’s uneven. That’s still filthy. Always something. Always. The mianid’s dark, segmented eyes never wavered, unblinking. Yu swore he could feel them on him even when Bubs’ back was turned. This was not supervision. It was deliberate humiliation, a slow, grinding process of reminding him, over and over, just how inadequate he was.
Yu wanted to hurl the rag in his face. The only thing stopping him was the gnawing, desperate anticipation of dinner.
By the afternoon, Yu worked at the grand common room window, scrubbing the thick glass beside the entrance. He stood on a stool, his bucket perched on another. A damp rag, gritty with vinnetin water, was clamped between the claws of his left talon, sweeping slow, deliberate arcs over the frost-rimed panes.
His own reflection grimaced back at him, distorted and broken across the streaked glass; his dishevelled mane of white feathers a fragmented snowflake, stretched and warped by the imperfections in the surface. The black markings around his eyes only deepened the hollows beneath them, making him look gaunt. Exhausted. Probably because he was.
Beyond the window, heavy snow smothered the world, muffling all sound. Inside, the air was thick with the acrid sting of vinnetin and soap, mixing with the low, smouldering breath of the fireplace.
Across the room, Fallem still sat at the same table, in the same chair, as he had since midday. He had barely moved, save for the occasional tilt of his head, shifting his gaze between the table and the frost-laced window. His long, thin fingers drummed a slow, absent rhythm against the rough wood, his profile sharp against the flickering orange glow of the hearth as he stared at nothing.
Yu emptied, scrubbed, and refilled his bucket with ice-laden water from outside, then set it beside the fire. The thing landed with a dull thud, slightly off-centre. There was a second bucket at the ready. Bubs had told him to alternate between them, letting one warm while he worked with the other. Yu picked up the second bucket, drawing out the motion, stretching each second of stolen rest before Bubs inevitably appeared on his stupid stool again. But the kitchen door remained closed.
A rare moment unobserved.
Yu hesitated, then set the bucket back down and shuffled awkwardly toward Fallem.
The wizard did not acknowledge him, eyes still fixed on the window.
Yu hesitated, then spoke. “Fallem, can I ask you something?”
Fallem’s fingers stilled for the briefest moment before resuming their slow, aimless drumming. “What’s that?”
“Those two … Deltingar and Estington. What are they? What race, I mean.” Yu kept his voice low, careful.
Fallem flicked a glance at him. “Ulbatans,” he said, tone flat. “From the far south.”
Yu looked at him.
The wizard did not elaborate.
Yu asked. “Do you know more?”
“I’ve never seen others,” Fallem admitted with a shrug. “Never been that far myself. Only heard the usual things; exceptional fighters, deadly in close quarters. And…” He paused, his fingers slowing. “Resistance to magic.”
“Resistance?” Yu repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means just that.” Fallem’s lips curled; not quite a smile. “Magic does not work on them. Not in the usual way.”
“How?”
Fallem closed his eyes, disinterest bleeding into his expression. “It’s Academy knowledge,” he said, a quiet superiority edging into his tone.
Yu’s feathers bristled, but he forced himself to keep this conversation practical. “So they are resistant by nature? Against all magic? Even against witches?”
Fallem exhaled through his nose, fingers resuming their slow, deliberate tapping against the wood. “It’s not my field. Worldbender elementers and healers, Lightshifters in general; they care about how magic interacts with others. I don’t. I’m a Worldbender transformer. My concern is how magic affects me, not how it’s warped or deflected by someone or something else.”
The dismissal was clear. Not in what Fallem said, but in the way he said it. That thin, veiled implication that Yu – bastard, wingless fina, failed wizard – was neither worth his attention nor common courtesy.
Yu knew that tone. He had heard it all before.
At Emery Thurm, when the examiners had turned him away at the gate on his first attempt, then allowed him to retake the entrance test the second time he approached them — only to fail, sneer and laugh him off the academy grounds. Then again at Ayenfora, where he had passed, where they had actually let him in, only to treat him as an intruder from day one. A shameful anomaly. An unwanted presence, tolerated only for the amusement of tearing him down, breaking him piece by piece over the miserable seven weeks he lasted there.
Fallem was subtler, perhaps. But the condescension was unmistakable.
What had changed? Had they not talked normally before? If this was how the wizard treated him after weeks of suffering together – braving the cold, fending off beasts and orks, surviving T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n – then he was no better than the others.
Yu clamped his beak shut as the thought crashed into him, as it struck fast and ugly: Let the witches find him before he finds his brother.
He turned back to the hearth, jaw tight. He grabbed the damp rag from the floor with his left claw and flung it into the water bucket with a sharp toss. Water splashed, sizzling on contact with the fire. Without a word, he hooked one arm through the bucket handle and hauled himself back to work.
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Dear Travellers,
oh so enjoyable tasks no one else wants to do, the long-overdue chores that have been left behind? Well, if you waited for a sign to do some heavy cleaning yourselves; make it this chapter.
Sentimentalities aside, please trust that I strive to create something more exciting than "a failed wizard turned janitor" with the next sections.
Until then, I would like to share a second poem that I have turned into a song. Please click to find:
,
at the bottom of chapter 5.1. I hope it resonates with you.
weight of words I attribute to each of them. If you would be so kind, please share your thoughts by participating in this poll — feel free to cast up to three votes if you like. I will keep checking back on the results, so please do not hesitate to vote even if you reach this section after many new chapters have long been published.
The Duckman
Which storylines do you prefer?
