The boy on the bed made a superhuman effort to pull himself up, leaning on trembling elbows. A fit of coughing shook him—convulsive and wet—making the flimsy branch walls shudder. When he managed to regain control, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a faint, shiny reddish smear across his knuckles. His breathing was a constant whistle, the sound of lungs fighting for every gulp of air.

  —Welcome, Miss— he managed to say, his voice a thin thread of air forced through the illness. —Forgive little Rolus. He has always called me ‘Papa.’ Don’t hold it against him. He’s my little brother, in truth— A shadow of a smile, both sad and proud, flickered across his gaunt face. —I am Lykos. I was a flax harvester before I fell ill. It is a pleasure to receive you— The words ‘pleasure’ and ‘receive’ sounded strange in such a context of misery, but they were spoken with heartbreaking dignity.

  —Papa is Papa!— Rolus protested with the simple stubbornness of childhood, hugging his brother from behind with a strength that seemed to want to transfer his own vitality into him.

  Selena, feeling her legs still weak, took a seat directly on the damp ground of the floor, not caring about her clean dress. She watched the scene: the sick teenager acting as a father, the small child clinging to the only authority and protection he knew. A wave of emotion—a mixture of pity, admiration, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility—rose in her throat. Her eyes filled with hot tears. I am the adult in this situation, she thought with a sharp pang, and I must depend on these children who only have each other. What kind of world is this?

  But she couldn’t afford the luxury of weeping. Not here, not now. With a sharp movement, she wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her dress, leaving two dark spots on the brown fabric. She cleared her throat, forcing her cracked voice into a firmer tone.

  —It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lykos— she said, looking him directly in the eyes. —I came to see you because of what Rolus said, but also because I need someone to answer a few questions— She paused, inventing as she went, weaving a lie that sounded plausible. —I came here with my group. They are staying at Old Orla’s place. But… we ended up separated; I know little of this place.

  Lykos listened to her, his eyes scanning her face, her simple dress, and the absence of any luggage beyond her bag. He coughed again—a deep, painful sound—and this time Selena clearly saw the bright red stain left on his palm before he quickly hid it against the blanket.

  —I won't ask for free— Selena continued quickly, before compassion could lead her off track. She pulled out the cloth-wrapped egg Rolus had given her. —How about we share this egg in exchange for answers?

  The offer, so simple and concrete amidst such need, seemed to change the atmosphere in the hut. Lykos looked at the egg, then at his brother, whose eyes had lit up at the promise of food. A flash of something that wasn’t quite gratitude, but the recognition of a fair trade, passed over his face.

  —It’s a deal, then— he said, his voice a bit clearer.

  Selena unwrapped the egg. The shell was a porous green, strange to the touch. Carefully, she cracked it open with her hands. It wasn't a simple hard-boiled egg. It was stuffed: an aromatic mixture of fresh herbs, bits of crumbled white cheese, and cooked fish meat. It was a simple but substantial meal, a delicacy compared to the palpable hunger filling the hut. She divided it into three precise portions and held them out. Rolus took his with restrained eagerness, looking at his brother for permission. Lykos nodded, and then the boy took a careful bite, savoring every mouthful like a treasure.

  While he ate his portion, Lykos spoke. —I suppose you want to know, first of all, where you are— he began, his voice gaining a thread of strength, the strength of one sharing valuable knowledge. —This is the West Ward. We are… lucky. We have easy access to the stream water. Though you have to boil it first, it's always available— He coughed, a dry sound this time. —The town is called Terracanto. We are famous for the tanneries further down the stream. The smell… you’ll get used to it.

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  Selena nodded, chewing slowly. Then, she turned to Rolus, who was licking his fingers with delight. —Little Rolus— she said, her voice a bit more confident, more natural. —Do you remember how we met?"

  The boy stopped licking his fingers, and his face lit up with the pleasure of telling a story. —Yes!— he said, setting his portion aside for a moment. —That day I was in front of Old Orla’s inn. Hidden in a nearby alley. I saw you. You weren't alone.

  He paused, his dark eyes turning a bit more serious at the memory. —It was a tall man, and he looked… dangerous. He had a scar on his eye, right here— He pointed to his own eyelid with a still-greasy finger. —I was scared and hid better. But almost by accident, you, Miss, caught my eye. I froze. I thought you would scold me or worse. But you didn't— Rolus continued, and a genuine smile, full of retrospective relief, reached his eyes. —You said to me: ‘Don’t be afraid, little one. You would be perfect for a job, and I’ll pay you two crowns to do it for three days. If you accept, I, Selena, will let you call me Miss.’

  Two crowns. Three days. It matched what Orla had said. The previous Selena had a plan, and she needed a discreet messenger—a child from the neighborhood whom no one would pay attention to.

  Rolus flashed a fleeting smile, showing his chipped tooth. —Without a word, I told you I accepted. Two crowns is a very good price. Then you told me: ‘From this day forward, I will give you your pay at sunset. You must buy me food and bring it every day before the sun is at its highest. You must go to the North Hills; look for an inn with a sign of an egg and a nimora guarding it. There, ask for the order. If you ask fewer questions, I might give you three crowns.’

  The boy's words fell in the hut like carved stones. The North Hills. An inn with an egg and a nimora. The order. These were specific, deliberate instructions. It wasn’t a mistake, nor a casual trip. The previous Selena had planned something. Something that required an isolated refuge, an intimidating guardian, an innocent messenger, and a supply of food delivered under a visual password. A plan that, for some reason, had gone terribly, catastrophically wrong. So wrong that she—whoever she was now—had woken up in Selena’s body, bathed in blood that later vanished, with no memories and a sealed wound that shouldn't exist.

  That’s why Selena was dead when I arrived, she thought, and the coldness of the conclusion chilled her to the very core of her being. Something killed her in that cabin. And I… what am I? A replacement? A mistake? A success?

  —I don't know anything else, Miss— Rolus said, interrupting her spiral of thoughts. The boy made a gesture of concentration, furrowing his brow. —Maybe… the tall man can answer you.

  Selena shook her head, pushing away the image of the cold Bjorn. —He separated from my group. We argued. Unless he comes to apologize, I won't speak to him again— she lied with an ease that surprised her. Then, she addressed Lykos again, whose face showed the toll of the effort to stay awake and talk. —Which lord is in charge of this land?

  Lykos took a deep breath, the whistling in his chest intensifying. —Baron Reedholm— he said, the words coming out in clips. —Who owes service and vassalage to Grand Duke Valerius of Solendra— He paused to catch his breath, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of respect and resentment. —Though the town has a mayor. A fat, bald man named Lucius— He spat through gritted teeth, a flash of helpless rage crossing his feverish gaze. —Since he became mayor, he doubled the gate tax— He coughed violently, a spasm that doubled him over. When he could continue, his voice was a whisper loaded with venom. —If it weren't for that… Papa and Mama wouldn't have died. We had no money, and they had to end up as debt slaves. In the southern salt mines— Another cough, weaker but equally gut-wrenching. —But the mine… it collapsed.

  The silence that followed was more eloquent than any weeping. This was a place of brutal hierarchies, of taxes that killed, of legalized debt slavery that consumed lives and left dying children in huts made of branches. Lykos and Rolus’s parents hadn’t died of a mysterious disease or a supernatural accident. They had died because of one man’s greed, crushed under tons of rock in a dark hole because they couldn't pay a tax. It was reality. Her new reality. As tangible as the damp earth beneath her feet, the taste of herbs and fish in her mouth, and the whistling sound of the boy's lungs.