Aligning the Forgotten ✓

Chapter 34: Roux

The station tower is nothing more than that—a tower. I look up at the pointed tip, the clay shingles on the circular roof, and allow my eyes to travel down from there. The white stone this tower was constructed out of is now a sickly shade of grey, moss grows within the cracks and shadows the eastern side; vines cover the rest.

There are no windows, the only entrance and exit through this rectangular-shaped structure is the front door, a slab of wood that appears as if someone tugged it from the ocean, slammed some hinges onto the side, and left it here. From what I can see, there isn't even a handle to push or pull that door open.

Surrounding us is the most silent expanse of land I've ever been in. To the north, the woods is merely miles away and to the south-west, shadowed by the smoke and clouds, is a small range of mountains blocking us from the coast. I can barely see their pointed peaks through the remnants of this morning's battle, we didn't arrive in time to participate.

The king is eager to get inside the tower and receive reports from commanders, they should arrive soon from the war camp full of injured soldiers and weakened healers trying to make the most of their power.

Death clings to the air, as does smoke and ash. The entire southern part of the continent has been burnt to a crisp in battle and what is left over, unhealthy air, adheres to the land like sap. With every breath I take in through my nose, I bring the smell of destruction into my lungs, of burning bodies and charred trees. There is no sicker feeling.

The inside of the tower is empty for now. Someone vacated it days ago, likely the commanders and generals in the war, when it was time for the battles to take place. They fight two to three battles in a stretch of time and rest their powers, only to go at it again a day later.

Each surface of the ground floor is covered in a layer of dust. Towards the back of the rectangular-shaped room, a wooden table is covered in a rough sketch of the land, drawn by hand, and locations circled on the piece of rough parchment. Arrows drag in all directions—it's not just a map, but battle plans, too.

Someone left a bottle of whiskey on the corner of the table, half empty, and didn't bother to cork the cap. Binx picks up the bottle, sniffs the contents, and winces. He doesn't drink, never has, and likely never will. I shake my head when he extends it to me with a smirk, a silent question if I want to take that risk.

I don't.

The rest of the room is a mess. Behind the table, a staircase presses against the wall and leads to the second floor and whatever else this tower might contain. Beds, weapons, supplies, food. We nearly ran out on the way here, the trek from the woods to the station happened to be much longer than we expected as the terrain was rocky. Each of us injured ourselves more than once, only to have our powers and the quick dash of water, to heal the wounds.

There are no proper seating arrangements. Armchairs scatter throughout the room, placed in odd directions—one facing the wall, two facing each other, one resting against the corner cutout of a broken bookshelf, and a torn one with hardly any fabric left near the door. Everything left behind is untouched, unmoved, and definitely unsanitary.

Sheets were once thrown over the seats but someone threw them to the floor and didn't bother cleaning up; nothing in the room is clean. Clothes litter throughout, discarded pairs of boots are on one end of the room while the other is clear on the other side—no one has bothered to take care of this place. With war at hand, I can understand why. There are more important things to worry about than the cleanliness of the station.

Not wanting to piss off anyone that might come in here and miss the mess, I leave everything where it is and avoid touching what doesn't belong to me. I don't know these commanders and generals, if they don't want me in their space, I'm not to associate myself with anything.