But to Collin, Aries was simply... Aries. The same boy he’d grown up with, sunburned and dirt-smeared, daring each other into every kind of trouble. They weren’t blood, but that didn’t matter. Collin had long ago claimed him as a brother. And like true brothers, they’d mastered the art of irritating each other with precision—an eye-roll here, a well-placed elbow jab there.
Collin leaned into the canoe and reached for the last fish—a slick, wriggling thing that refused to be caught. Just as his fingers brushed its side, Aries bumped the canoe. The jolt sent the little boat rocking, and in a heartbeat, the fish and the knife tumbled from Collin’s hands. He lunged instinctively, but the fish shot past his grasp and landed with a wet slap between his boots.
“I know it sounds stupid, but just be yourself. Don’t play some role to impress her—women hate that. And whatever youdo, don’t take Nic’s advice. Remember Uriah? That disaster wasentirelyhis brother’s fault. If you just—Collin. Are you even listening?”
Collin jolted upright just as Aries rounded the other side of the skiff. The fish had slipped free—but the knife hadn’t. Its blade was lodged deep in his left palm.
He stared at it for a moment, then slowly opened his hand. Blood welled between his fingers, thick and startlingly red.
Aries sucked in a breath and scrambled to his side. “Oh god—are you alright?” His voice cracked halfway through, and the color had drained from his face.
“It’s nothing,” Collin muttered, but his heart was pounding. He kept his eyes averted, jaw tight. The pulsing throb in his hand was bad enough—looking at the blood made his stomach pitch.
Without a word, he tore at the buttons on his waistcoat with his good hand, yanked it off, and stripped the lining. He wrapped it tightly around the gash, fingers trembling. Dark blotches spread almost immediately through the fabric.
Aries crouched beside him, eyes flicking between Collin’s face and the quickly soaking cloth. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
Collin gave a faint, forced smile. “Well, at least I caught something,” he said weakly. “Shame it was the knife.”
Collin clenched the wad of ruined linen. Of all the things, why did it have to be his new waistcoat, the gift from grandfather for hiscoming of age?
Turning seventeen marked a milestone in Crimisa—it was the threshold of adulthood. Once a student reached that age, the village stewards reviewed their aptitudes and interests, then assigned them a future, charted in the form of a career path.
Collin celebrated his coming of age with a midnight bonfire in his meadow, arranged by his closest friends. The night was quiet and warm, lit by firelight and laughter. He received ahandful of simple, thoughtful gifts: the finely tailored waistcoat from his grandfather, a braided leather wristband from Dragonfly, a hand-carved box from Nic, and a quick but striking portrait sketched on the spot by Lekyi.
“Alright, we’ve hit the part of the day where I drag you to the hospital by your good hand,” said Aries.
“I’m fine. The bleeding’s mostly stopped.”
Aries frowned. “You look like you lost a duel to a butter knife.”
Collin delicately pulled away the fabric, wincing. “At least I looked good doing it.”
Aries shook his head, tugging on Collin’s elbow. “You’re pale and currently wearing your waistcoat as a bandage.”
“Let’s compromise—what if I limp dramatically and you feel heroic?”
“Perfect. I’ll tell them I carried you uphill both ways. Let’s go, tragic hero.”
Collin trudged uphill, each step heavier than the last. Whether it was the heat or the blood loss, his head was swimming. He kept firm pressure on his palm; the throbbing had dulled, but blood still trickled steadily down his wrist. He could butcher a stag without blinking, but the sight of his own blood never sat well.
They finally reached the welcome shade of the trees, and a sliver of relief slid over Collin’s shoulders. The air was still stifling, but at least the sun wasn’t gnawing at the back of his neck. They pressed on toward the main road.
Chroma’s town square shimmered like a mirage—quiet, bleached by heat, nearly deserted. A few villagers loitered in the shaded stalls, their faces unreadable. No one spoke. No one asked questions. As Collin and Aries limped past—sweaty, stained, and sore—no one so much as blinked.
The hospital doors opened to a rush of cool air, sharp and clean. Collin exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath. Inside, the light was soft, filtered through heavy curtains that covered the tall windows, muting the harshness of the world outside. It was like stepping into a quiet pool—still, forgiving.
Footsteps echoed lightly on the polished floor, and then River appeared—bright-eyed, his expression lifting when he saw them. He wore the deep green uniform of a civil servant, sleeves slightly rolled, as if he'd been mid-task.
“Good afternoon, lads,” he called, his usual easy grace in place—until his gaze dropped to Collin’s bloody hand. The smile faltered.
River stepped forward quickly, motioning them inside. “Looks like you had a rough one. What happened?”
"I’m better at catching knives than catching dinner,” Collin mumbled.
River led them farther into the quiet, sun-dimmed hall. As they passed one of the narrow beds, a familiar figure perched at the edge, looking pale and slightly wilted.
“Uriah,” Aries bellowed, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Why are you in here again?”
