With heavy steps, Gase made his way back to the inn.

His search for the language from his memory had hit a dead end. He had asked the woman at the scrollhouse, an archivist, he later learned, for help in identifying the tongue. She had been surprisingly willing and quite interested in the idea, if not entirely helpful.

Gase had quickly realised that his understanding of this new language was minimal. While he could recall the pieces he had heard in his memories, repeat them and relay their meaning, he was anything but fluent in it.

His thoughts drifted to Lae, the woman from his memory, as she asked him not to go. Even now, he could see her before him, could hear the words clearly. He knew what was said and how it was said, but saying something different or even the same thing in a different way was beyond him.

He dragged a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of parchment, the result of the day’s search. On it was written the few sentences he could recall, broken down into sounds in the local language, as well their meanings. Given Y’rid’s rather unimpressive ability of the local script, which he had inherited, the archivist had done all of the writing.

Notes on each ‘word’ and sentence structure had also been added by the woman. Possible definitions and commonalities with other languages, determined after she listened to his explanations and answers to her questions. A service that had cost him another silver piece.

One sheet of parchment, the combined effort of both him and the archivist. It was less than he had hoped for, to say the least.

He did learn some things though; The language spoken locally, the one he also now spoke, was called Therien. Therien Standard to be precise, although most just referred to it as ‘Common’. And common it was. It was apparently based on a much older tongue, and its use had spread far and wide. Unfortunately, this also gave rise to its numerous regional dialects.

According to the archivist, some of these dialects could be near impossible to understand if you travelled far enough. Some variants had even morphed so much that they were now different languages in their own right.

The woman was partial to the idea that his language was, in fact, a version of Therien from some distant region she didn’t know.

She had directed Gase to a few books and tomes in the scrollhouse that were written in different dialects of Therien and even some other languages. He had looked through them but, as he by then expected, he could barely understand any of it.

By the time the scrollhouse had closed with the setting sun, he seemed no closer to finding the origin of his language than when he had started. He planned on going back there tomorrow, though he had little hope for it to turn up anything useful after today.

Gase put the thoughts from his mind as the inn came into sight, and with it, a familiar figure. Leaning against the wall of the building was a young man dressed in old and torn clothing. The very same man who he had run into earlier that day. Y’rid’s friend, he supposed.

At first glance, the man seemed relaxed, unfazed by the looks he got from the inn’s patrons who were coming and going. Closer inspection showed him otherwise though. The man had a tense stillness to him, a wariness of everyone passing by.

Gase felt his mouth stretch into a grimace. He remembered telling the man to meet him here but, in his search at the scrollhouse, he had forgotten about him entirely.

The man stood up straight as he saw him approach. Gase gave him a nod as he tried once again to think of the man’s name. Still nothing.

But perhaps this wasn’t so bad. He didn’t have much luck with his own memories, but maybe he would have more success in filling in the gaps of Y’rid’s.

“I thought you weren’t going to show up,” the man said.

“I had something to see to, nothing serious,” Gase said, forcing the weariness from his voice and a smile onto his face.

The man looked him over with a dubious expression. “I take it didn’t want seeing to?”

Gase raised an eyebrow before letting out a sigh. “No, it did not. But enough of that, let’s get inside.”

He caught the man’s frown as he walked past him and into the inn. Was he too brusque? Would Y’rid have said more?

The merry atmosphere of the common room washed over him as he stepped inside. It was as lively as it had been the previous evening. Various groups of people sat at the tables, drinking, eating and talking.

Gase led the man over to one of the unoccupied tables furthest from the roaring fire. He turned his gaze towards the man after they sat down.

When he first saw the man, Gase thought he was about the same age as Y’rid. Now he thought the man was perhaps a little older; twenty-two, twenty-three terms maybe.

He had the same wiry and thin frame Gase had, one gained by living on the streets. Sharp grey eyes were framed by dirty, dark-brown hair. It made him seem a bit cold at first, but he didn’t think the man really was.

“So?” The man asked. “You said you’d explain things.”

“What do you want to know?” Gase asked carefully.

“What do I want to know?” The man repeated with a snort. He waved over at Gase. “Three days ago, you were saying you were going to try something. Then you disappeared. And this morning I see you walking on the street dressed like you robbed a merchant.”

Gase considered. What did he want to tell the man? He certainly couldn’t tell him the truth, that his friend was most likely dead and he was now inhabiting his body. Yet he had to give him something at least, especially after he had called him here for that exact reason. Having someone to help fill in the gaps in Y’rid’s memory might also prove valuable. Who knows, the man might even be able to help him get in touch with someone who could help in identifying his language.

“You didn’t, did you?” The asked with a smirk after he didn’t respond. “Rob a merchant?”

“I seem to recall us stealing food,” Gase said, raising an eyebrow.

The man waved the words away. “Different matter entirely. No one will search for the thief that took a piece of bread. It’s all about causing less trouble than it would be to catch you.”

“Got it figured out, huh?” Gase said with a wry smile.

“Always,” The man said before his smile faded. “You know... I didn’t think I’d see you again. You had that same look Ulrin had, right before he got himself killed in the forest. After the guards… I thought you were going to do the same. Try to become a hunter, only to end up a free meal to whatever you stumble into.”

He was worried.

The realisation struck Gase with a force that surprised him. The concern in the man’s voice was real, personal. More than that, he felt guilty for having caused that worry. He found himself wanting to explain what happened, even when he knew his best option might be to send the man on his way, to cut off all ties.

Knowing more about Y’rid’s past wouldn’t change anything either. And the idea that the man, a street dweller, could somehow connect him with someone who knew his language while the archivist couldn’t was ridiculous.

Even his reason for inviting the man here, a sense of honour or guilt not to abandon the friend of the man whose body he now wore, now seemed more like a justification for the invitation.

Without him knowing, his thoughts had shifted to favour the man sitting in front of him. It had to have come from Y’rid’s memories. It was the only explanation he could think of.

The idea was disturbing. If true, then how much of an effect did these foreign memories have on him? How many of his actions had been coloured by them without him even knowing?

“Are you alright?” The man asked, giving him a concerned look.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

The man looked like unconvinced. Luckily, a serving girl walked up to their table and saved Gase from elaborating.

“I see you got rid of the rags,” She said to Gase with a friendly smile, after giving the man a glance. It was the same girl who had brought him his food that morning. “What can I get you?”

“Two of plates of whatever you’re serving and two mugs of ale,” Gase said, fishing out a silver coin. He could feel the man’s gaze on him as he gave it to the girl, and she turned away with a nod.

“Not just some fancy new clothes, I see,” the man said. He looked up, and Gase could see the glint in his eye. “So how did that happen exactly?”

Gase drummed his fingers on the table as he made up his mind. The man wouldn’t be willing to let it go. He might really have cared for Y’rid, but the opportunity to change one’s fate was too enticing for a street rat. If he turned the man away now, he had no idea how it would turn out. And, if he were honest, he didn’t want to.

A part of him whispered that it was only Y’rid’s remnants playing tricks on him, but he pushed that part away.

“I have something to tell you,” Gase said. “It might seem a bit unbelievable.”

The man leaned forward slightly with a small frown.

“I lost my memory.”

Gase waited for his words to sink in. It didn’t take long.

“You what?”

“I lost my memory,” he repeated.

The man stared at him for a few moments before his expression soured. “Yeah, you’re right, it is unbelievable. Because if you expect me to believe that shit, then those guards hit you harder than I thought. If you don’t want to tell me about your source of coin, then don’t. But don’t take me for-”

“Just listen,” Gase interrupted as the man seemed to be picking up momentum. “You said I told you I had something planned, yes? Well, I think I know what that was. There was some work offered by that mage who lives just outside the city. I took it.”

Gase waited. That was as much as he was willing to say. If the man didn’t believe him then so be it.

“You’re serious,” the man stated before his expression warped in incredulity. “Night, Yri! What were you thinking? Kesh died for that mad mage’s fucking coin!”

The man’s outburst drew a few looks from those nearby. He glanced around before continuing in a quieter voice. “You know we are nothing to those people. Why would you put your life in the hands of one of them?”

Gase looked at the man, surprised at his reaction. The force of the man’s words was unexpected. He thought about the man’s question, it was one he had mulled over himself a few times.

He knew Y’rid had gone to the mage having reached the end of his rope, so to speak. The kid had been forced into increasingly worse circumstances, living on the streets became harder the older you got. Fewer people were willing to part with their hard-earned coin or food and stealing enough to eat became more challenging along with the punishment growing more severe. But the man sitting across from him knew all this, he was in the same position, after all.

“Something had to change,” Gase said. “I suppose I thought this was the only way.”

The man sighed and slumped in his chair, the life seeming to drain from him. “And it worked?”

No. No, it didn’t.

“Apparently,” Gase lied.

The serving girl came up to their table again and placed down two mugs of ale with the promise of the food to follow soon. Gase reached for his and took a deep draught. The man matched him, draining nearly half of the liquid in a single go.

After a while, the man spoke again. “And your memory? You said you lost it? A side effect?”

“Perhaps. The mage was convinced it would clear up in a while. But I have the feeling it’s not that simple.”

The man swore under his breath. “What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces. Flashes of events. Some recent, some from a long time ago.”

“Fucking mages,” the man said. He looked at Gase over again. “You at least got his coin, I suppose.”

“Half.”

The man gave a derisive laugh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me. Actually, on second thought, it does. I’m surprised you got anything at all.”

Gase shrugged. The mage hadn’t seemed like the deceitful sort. Arrogant and maybe even a little unhinged, but not false. Perhaps he should have been angry at the mage, hated him even. His memories were gone, replaced by the memories of another. Even his body wasn’t really his.

Yet it didn’t seem right. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate the mage. It felt like there was more to the situation, just out of his reach.

Gase turned his focus back onto the man in front of him. “I was hoping you could clear up somethings for me actually.”

“Of course. What do you want to know?”

Gase smiled at the words he had said to the man only a while earlier. “Well… Let’s start with your name.”

The man seemed stunned, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he finally seemed to find his words. “… Do you really not…”

Gase suppressed a wince as the man seemed to deflate. Best to get it over with now, however. He shook his head.

“… Enmon. My name is Enmon. Do you not remember me?”

“I do,” Gase quickly said after seeing the man’s expression. “Just not all of it. I know we’ve been friends for some time, but some things are missing. Your name being one of them.”

And everything else.

The man, Enmon, exhaled slowly and nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

“Well, at least I can finally put a name to your face,” Gase said honestly. “Do you know anything about the mage’s experiment?”

“You mean the job he offered for volunteers?” Enmon asked. “Shouldn’t you know more than me?” - He paused - “Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine. You mentioned a name, Kesh?”

“You don’t even remember her?” Enmon said and rubbed at his forehead. “It’s hard to believe. I mean, we haven’t seen much of her lately, but still.”

Enmon looked at Gase as if trying to see some spark of recognition, before shaking his head slightly. “She was one of us. You know, a survivor. Got work at one of the brothels in the slums two, maybe three, terms ago.”

“She must have heard about the offer of the mage,” Enmon continued. “We all did, sooner or later. But there were already stories, workers hired to drag away the corpses of those who took the job. Like I said, we are nothing to them.

Kesh went ahead anyway though. Guess she had enough of spreading her legs for a living. That was what, ten days ago? One of the farmers working near the tower, Girda’s husband… you remember Girda?”

Gase nodded. As soon as Enmon had mentioned her, he remembered the heavy-set, middle-aged woman. She was a baker that often gave the leftover stale bread to the street dwellers and beggars. More than once had she been the reason for Y’rid not going to sleep on an empty stomach.

“Anyway, her husband works the fields near the tower, yeah?” Enmon continued. “He was paid by the mage’s underling to carry Kesh’s corpse to the edge of the forest. He told Girda who then told us. Guess he recognised the corpse. You were there, you know. Not that you’d remember, I suppose.”

Gase mulled over Enmon’s words. It would seem that Y’rid knew the risks better than he had thought. Perhaps the kid really just wanted an end to it all.

Y’rid was raised for a few terms in the temple of Tella’nash, where mages were said to be blessed by the god. Did that influence his decision? Maybe not enough for him to believe in the mage but enough to push him over the edge?

The whole situation troubled him, though he could not say why exactly. People were being preyed upon, lured in by the promise of coin. Yet, if the risks were common knowledge and the mage was good for the payment, was there still a problem?

The question was how much Y’rid’s memories were affecting his judgement. Gase had no doubt that they were, to some degree.

“So how bad is it?” The Enmon asked seriously, pulling Gase away from his thoughts. “The memory loss.”

Gase took another draught of his ale. He placed the mug down again and stared into the swirling golden liquid.

“It’s bad,” he answered honestly. The image of Lae and the little girl from his memories flashed in his mind. “I don’t even know what I am missing, but I feel like less for not having it.”

“Shit. Anything I can do to help? I can tell you something, remind you of… I don’t know, things that happened? Maybe that will loosen your memory?”

If only you could.

Gase shook his head. The memories he truly wanted were not something the man in front of him knew anything about. And Y’rid’s memories seemed more like a tangled mess of random threads. Unravelling them might be possible, but given his recent revelation... did he really want to?

As for his own, he could only hope that time would fix some of it. And perhaps dreams, if his dream the previous night had indeed been a memory and not some figment of his imagination.

“I don’t think so,” he said sadly.

Silence fell between them, each caught up in their own thoughts. It was Enmon who broke it first.

“You’ve changed.”

The simple statement was spoken with certainty. Gase felt a stab of worry and fought to keep his expression neutral.

“How so?”

“I’m not sure. You’re just different. How you speak and act. It feels like-”

A deafening blare tore through the air. One that made every person in the inn’s common room freeze. It reverberated the room, piercing walls and drunkenness with ease. Gase felt his bones rattle as the mugs on the table shook. He looked at Enmon and saw the man pale, his eyes wide.

The sound faded, leaving stunned silence in its wake. Then everything broke into chaos. People shot to their feet, sending chairs to the ground. They shouted over each other as they ran, either to the door or upstairs to the rooms.

“Gods help us!” One patron shouted.

“Shit!”

“Where the fuck is my sword!”

Gase stood up and looked around, his eyes darting over the room as he tried to make sense of the madness. Something about that sound was familiar, it tugged at his mind, demanding his attention. He turned back to Enmon.

“What is going-”

Gase had barely started his sentence when the thundering blare sounded for the second time.

Then he remembered where he had heard it. When he was a boy, hiding underneath the bed. The sound had shaken the frame above him, as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was filled with the urge to run, but his father had told him to wait, to hide. So he did.

The memory hit like a blow to the gut. He could tell it was not his, but one of Y’rid’s. But seeing himself hiding under that bed, feeling the childlike helplessness creeping into his chest, it did not matter.

Y’rid had hidden under the bed until the next morning, waiting for his father to return. He never did.

Gase looked down and saw his hands clenched around the edge of the table, his knuckles white from the pressure. His heart raced, hammering in his chest. His mouth was dry, and a cold sweat ran down his back.

Fears of a dead man. That’s all it is.

He repeated the words in his head and slowly relaxed his grip. The blaring sound of the siren faded. It had served its purpose, warning all those in the city of the approach of a horde. A swarm of beasts bent on slaughtering all who hide behind the walls. Just like that night.

Gase took a deep breath and looked around the room. Some of the people had already stormed out of the inn with more following on their heels.

“Yri,” he heard Enmon say. “We need to get out of here.”

Gase looked at him. Enmon’s expression was controlled, his jaw set, but he could see the fear underneath as the man’s eyes darted from person to person.

“And go where?” He asked. Nowhere would be safe until the horde was broken upon the walls. He kept his breathing slow and deep, the sense of panic he had forced down still there.

Enmon opened his mouth only to close it again.

Gase turned his attention back to the commotion in front of him. One hunter fumbled with the straps on his armour, another held onto her crossbow with a slight tremble, one man even grinned maniacally in anticipation of what was to come.

The voice belonging to a woman reached his ears, her frustration clear as day. “-that’s why we should be on the wall! If the creatures break through then its already too late.”

“Not a chance! I hired you to protect me and my merchandise, not to play at being a hero to the city!” Another voice refuted, this one male.

Gase’s eyes fell on an armed woman near the front door. A long scar ran across her face, stretching from her brow to the corner of her mouth. It made the scowl she currently wore all the more impressive. Next to her were a group of armed men and women looking somewhat conflicted.

He immediately recognised them as the group of mercenaries he had seen the previous night.

The scarred woman stood with her hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her side as she stared down a man dressed in colourful clothing. The man, however, held her gaze without wavering. Quite a feat in its own right.

“I’m actually going agree with Mirik here, captain,” one of the older armed men next to her said. “A few more hands on the wall won’t make much of a difference, but there are always a few beasts that slip through the cracks.”

“I, for one, would be happy to have a few more hands on the wall,” a hunter said over his shoulder as he passed them. Before anyone could reply, he had already exited the building and turned around the corner, disappearing into the city.

“I’m paying you to get me to Lok,” the colourful man said. “You can go if you want, but if you do, don’t bother coming back. And definitely don’t be expecting any more coin from me.”

The sound of heavy footsteps drew Gase’s attention away from the argument and towards the other side of the room. From behind the counter, the large innkeeper appeared through a doorway leading towards the back. He was carrying a massive wooden bar on his shoulder, clearly straining under its weight.

He walked to the door before putting the bar down against the wall with a heavy thud. Pausing long enough to regain his breath, he turned to address the people still in the room.

“Anyone who wants to leave should do so now! Once this I close this door you can bet your ass it’s not opening until all this is over!”

The mercenary captain turned back towards the man she had been arguing with. She glowered at him for a few more moments before she spoke.

“Dan, Torin, you two go to the stables and keep a watch on the d’yari. Keep them calm, we’re going to need them if the wall’s breached.”

One of the men next to her opened mouth to say something before one of the others grabbed him by the arm and pulled him towards the door.

Giving one last look to the people in the room, the innkeeper closed the door. Just as he turned to pick up the wooden bar, the door opened again. The innkeeper spun, his face filled with anger, but stopped when a man wearing the tabard of the cityguard over his armour walked through.

The guard spared barely a glance for the innkeeper before turning his gaze to the people still in the room.

“We need volunteers at the wall,” the guard announced loudly. “Anyone who volunteers will be paid in silver. Even if you can’t swing a weapon, you can still help.”

The man turned to the mercenaries still standing near the door. “You lot looking for work?”

Gase looked down at his hands. They were shaking lightly. Just the thought of the beasts at the wall set his heart racing.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

Enmon looked at him and blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to volunteer.”

“Do you have some sort of deathwish?” Enmon asked, incredulity written across his face.

“I have to see,” Gase said.

Even now, he could feel that helplessness Y’rid felt as a boy. He wanted run or hide. He wanted the innkeeper to lock the doors and keep out whatever horrors were outside. He wanted to wait here as the guards and hunters gave their lives to keep him safe.

The thought sickened him.

He turned and walked towards the guard.

“Wait!” Enmon shouted behind him, but he did not look back.

He heard Enmon curse behind him before following. Surprised, he looked back at the man.

Enmon shrugged. “If you die, I’m taking your coin.”

Gase felt the corner of his mouth tug upward as he approached the guard.

“-a shame,” the guard was saying to the mercenary captain. “If you change your mind head to the western wall.”

The mercenary nodded, and the guard turned to Gase. “Volunteers?”

“Yes,” Gase said.

The guard nodded and turned on his heel. “Come.”

He followed the man outside, Enmon right behind him. They stepped into the cold night, the door to the inn slamming shut behind them, cutting off the light and warmth that spilt from the doorway. Through the door, he heard the sound of the heavy bar dropping into place and shivered.

Fears of a dead man.

He told himself and hurried to catch up with the guard.