The Soul Twister

By Jason J Sergi

Journey of a Soul

Young Kas' entire existence has revolved around The Keep and the harsh love of Doctor Retsam. It was a simple existence based on simple principles. An existence Kas was set to be content with...until he met Poly Lost, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a woman with origins as mysterious as his own, a woman Kas was sure he was meant to marry. So when Kas learns that Poly is missing her soul, Kas readily agrees to help her find it. But soon unforeseen events force them upon a far different path, one that will take Kas away from The Keep, Doctor Retsam, and everything else he ever knew, for Poly has something The Coven of Soid desperately wants, and they'll stop at nothing until they get it .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason J Sergi
• Release date: Feb 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463502570

Jason J Sergi

ABOUT THE AUTHORJason J Sergi lives and writes within the frigid hills and vales of New England. According to his calculations, he will need 300+ years to finish every project he plans to write. He intends to reach that goal, somehow, someway, and hopes that his readers will join him for every step of the journey.

Book preview

Prologue

Life and Death

Mox 7th Bonday, 1861 GRB

Dozens of Hexzen shells lined the chamber’s angled walls, their metal skin black and glossy in the waxy light, heads worked to resemble elongated human skulls, rows of pointed red teeth frozen in forever grins, eyes staring vacant from shadow-filled sockets.

Lord-Conjuror Xoma stood at the chamber's far end, the toes of his booted feet just touching the edge of The Black Sun emblazoned on the floor before him, its diamond rays radiating around a circle of pure obsidian.

Xoma's attention was fixed on the closed door at the chamber's opposite end, its surface coated in reflective Zos, which allowed him to examine his mirror image: the tall red crown topped with twenty spike-like tines, the black mask set with sunken eyelets below arched brows, the beak-like proboscis that curved out and down from the center, the smooth sweep of a featureless mouth-guard below. A black short cape ran down from the crown’s base to flare around Xoma's neck while a matching cloak hung from his shoulders down to his waist. Black leather armor wrapped the rest his body like a protective sheath.

Unlike the Hexzens’ armor, which was crafted from mundane iron, Xoma’s was fashioned from Drakzhid skin, which, when worked correctly, was nearly as hard as iron before then being infused with Zydum, thereby strengthening it far beyond its natural limits.

Xoma raised a gauntleted hand to let The Soul Twister dangle from its thin gold chain. The object appeared as a small translucent rod with silver lines spiraling down its length. On one end balanced a black reaching claw, on the other, a miniature golden cage, its door open.

Xoma smiled beneath the mask, felt the flesh at the corners of his mouth split, tasted the coppery hint of blood. A small thing, yet so powerful, he mused aloud, voice deep and guttural. Such is the will of Soid! With this The Coven will soon have the numbers to crush our enemies and present them chastened and subjugated before The One True God!

A bell sounded from beyond the Zos-covered door, three hollow clangs.

Xoma lowered The Soul Twister.

Enter!

The door swung inward, letting in a blast of frigid air and blowing snow.

First to enter was Wise-Lord Mextral, snow falling in clumps from his dark cloak, the cowl hanging loose from around a red metal turban, his face concealed behind a solid black, featureless mask.

A procession of filthy children followed in Mextral’s wake, three score all told, fresh from the breeding pits. Boys and girls, all nude, bodies shivering and blue from the cold, young eyes wide with fear.

A pair of Lore-Masters entered on the heels of the last child; they resembled Mextral in every way save their turbans were black. The Lore-Masters closed the door, blocking out the cold, and then took positions to either side.

Wise-Lord Mextral stopped the first child a short distance from Xoma.

Outside, the wind howled, blowing strong enough to rattle the upper windows in their casements.

The children stood in a quivering line, tears melting on their cheeks. Most chose to stare at the floor rather than meet the Hexzens’ dead glares, but several stood unabashed, dirty faces fixed with grim masks of resignation.

Xoma held The Soul Twister aloft, And now, young children, prepare to accept this honor that Soid, The One True God, has bestowed upon you!

The children bowed their heads, as they’d been instructed.

Xoma focused, blocked out all unnecessary stimuli until he achieved a state of Deep Thought, where he was able to access the sacred place hidden deep within his primal mind, to probe its dark depths until he located the Void Portal, which appeared to him as a massive black circle. Then,with a mental strength that could only be attained from decades of training and discipline, Xoma forced The Portal open, creating a horizontal slit through the circle's center, then widening the breach until The Portal resembled an angry red eye, black lightning bolts branching out from a matching pupil.

Xoma beckoned, and unleashed the raw power that was Zydum.

To his eyes, an oily black tentacle lashed out from The Portal to paradoxically arc high above the tines of his crown. Xoma took control of the tentacle with a force of will, redirected its writhing flow back into his body, letting it fill him, his body a vessel and a wellspring at once.

Voices long dead moaned through Xoma's mind from The Void, pleaded with him,cursed him,chanted in tongues familiar as they were foreign. Memories that weren’t his alone attempted to take form within his living mind but he kept them at bay, denied them full fruition, and then his vision turned red as the wonderful poison stretched his physical form to the limit, saturated his soul, threatened to crush his vital organs, to grind his bones to dust, death a literal heartbeat away.

Xoma resisted the urge to cry out as the Zydum boiled his blood, scorched his skin. Acid foamed in his stomach, his joints crackled sickeningly, but he endured, even as scores of black-hot tendrils crawled along his arms and torso and the spit sizzled in his mouth, the flesh of his tongue roasting from the inside out. But despite this, he revealed no outward sign of his internal struggle.

Focusing his thoughts on a level of reality that could never exist in the corporeal world, Xoma forced a small sliver of Zydum into The Soul Twister. To his augmented eyes, the Zydum now appeared purplish-black, streaked with dark green and smoky red filaments. The Soul Twister blazed with pure light-eating shadow, pulsating. The Zos within activated and The Soul Twister accessed an invisible energy known as The Gift to the heathens, but as The Sin to The Coven.

Xoma hated that he needed to use the enemy’s blasphemous power, but it was the only way he could access and manipulate the life-cores needed for The Transfer Ritual. He felt nothing of The Sin, of course, could only sense it as an invisible surge of nothingness, completely contained within body of The Soul Twister.

Some of the children began to weep.

Xoma gestured to the first in line, Step forward, small one, and receive your communion.

The child, a boy, approached Xoma shakily.

Xoma held The Soul Twister over the boy’s head. The relic grew larger, expanding until it was of a size with the boy, then larger still as it swung from the now tiny chain in Xoma’s grasp, the reaching claw enormous, gold cage now black, both dwarfing the boy, its pendulum movements threatening to wrench Xoma off his feet but he remained outwardly composed. And then The Soul Twister stopped swinging as its fell hand closed around the boy, encapsulating him in fingers of shadow. The hand then bent backwards at an impossible angle to place itself within the cage, the boy remaining where he was. When the clawed fingers opened a moment later, they released a shimmering sphere of rainbow colors before their host hand returned to its original position, the cage door closed, the shimmering sphere locked within.

The boy now stared blankly at nothing, his body still.

Xoma watched from the center of an arcane storm as The Soul Twister stretched until the cage hovered before the nearest Hexzen shell, continued to stretch until the cage bars seemed to pass through the solid metal skin, the rainbow sphere vanishing within, and then the Hexzen’s dark-pit eyes suddenly flared to life, burning with a fierce red glow.

The Soul Twister shrunk back on itself, the cage now empty, the door open once more.

One of the Lore-Masters came forward to direct what was left of the boy to the rear of the chamber, where he was made to sit and await further modifications.

Xoma motioned for the next child to come forth, this one a girl with black hair, green eyes staring defiant. Once more The Soul Twister extracted the life-core and placed it within a waiting Hexzen shell.

And so it went.

A while later, half the Hexzens stood with red-glowing eyes while more children were seated than not.

Intoxicated by the glorious agony of Zydum, Xoma motioned for the next child to come forward, this one a boy with stained bucked teeth jutting from his dirty face. The clawed-hand closed around the boy before bending back towards the cage—

Xoma was suddenly distracted by the sensation of Zydum being utilized from an unknown source nearby. It started off as a slight caress of his mind but quickly gained in intensity until he felt it approaching in a surge of fast rolling waves. Cursing silently, he had just enough time to brace himself before becoming inundated by the barrage; millions of invisible hands trying to force the Void Portal closed in his mind, but he retaliated, drove a solid wedge of Zydum between the onslaught and The Portal, though it proved only a temporary reprieve.

The attack was persistent, immense, and he was already weakened from the soul-transfers. Xoma’s defense was broken at last, The Portal slammed closed, separating him from his own precious contact, and then his core was engulfed in black fire and trilling bells…

Xoma opened his eyes some incalculable time later. His vision was returned to normal, no longer red, and he found he was lying on his back, his body beset with pain.

He stood on unsteady legs to peer through the eyelets of his mask.

Smoke and dust hung thick in the ruined chamber. Many of the children lay still out in the open or partially buried in plaster dust, others were missing. Likewise, many of the Hexzen shells lay in pieces, though those that’d been augmented were gone.

Xoma’s crown lay warped and broken at his feet. Mextral and the two Lore-Masters lay dead nearby, snow piling on their corpses from where the door hung bent and broken.

Who could’ve done this? Xoma asked the dead.

The list of possible offenders was short by default since Zydum had been used, which meant the transgression had to have been committed by Devil-men, Witches, or from those within The Coven. The first two were too weak to commit such an act, even with large numbers, but the third was all but impossible.

Xoma’s wonderment over suspects was interrupted by a sudden jolt of panic. He ran about the chamber, searching frantically through the dust and carnage but it was nowhere, The Soul Twister was gone.

No! Xoma cried, blood filling his mouth. It can’t be!

He raced outside through the broken door, boots crunching on shards of Zos as he ran headlong into the cold wind and snow, heading for the mighty pyramidal fortress of Xaronhold that loomed ahead, uncaring of the danger which may still linger.

Watcher Koriaz must be notified of the loss!...And my punishment must be dealt.

With The Soul Twister in the hands of an unknown enemy, the future of The Coven was in dire peril.

Part One:

Shell and Core

Chapter 1

Kaster

Ice covered the slopes and ridges of Mount Yaj, producing a panorama of smooth unbroken white, interrupted only occasionally by small patches of leafless trees and the winding scar of The Steelton Highway. Hundreds of telegraph poles paralleled the highway, marching north and south out of sight, icicles hanging like stalactites from their dark cables.

A pair of brass-skinned mechclads were pulling a heavy wagon south down the highway, their metal hooves eliciting a constant thunder as they galloped forth, kicking up great chunks of ice that were summarily crushed beneath the wagon's wide wheels.

Shivering up on the open driver’s seat, Kas tightened the straps of his skullcap in a futile attempt to get warm, though the constant gusts tore through his layers with ease, his stuffed leather coat and skullcap no match against the Post-Fall winds.

I told Doc a million times this thing needs a windshield, Kas growled through chattering teeth. Don’t know why I just don’t put one in myself!

But Kas knew what Doc would say if he did, since the old man had said it a million times already, Fumes, Kaster! If the exhaust vent from the fuel burner gets clogged, for any reason, fumes will collect in the housing with no way of escaping! Would you rather be wet and cold or dead?

Still, there had to be a better way. Though, if there was, Doc would’ve found it already. He was the smartest person Kas knew.

Another cold gust whipped in from the south, hitting Kas full in the face and dusting his breast with a liberal coating of ice.

Frig these frigid jaunts! Kas used a filthy sleeve to wipe the snot from his nose. I hate the cold!

He glanced down at the control panel, a curious thing festooned with levers, knobs, and glass-faced gauges. His eyes went to one of the latter to check the time.

Almost 16th Hour.

Good. I should be in Granton in another quarter hour, no more. Though, as he was assaulted by another obnoxious gust, Kas felt it might prove to be the longest quarter hour of his life.

Out ahead, the road was devoid of other travelers, had been for hours, and for good reason. No one with a hair of intelligence would be out in such weather.

Frig it all, why does Doc always send me and why do I always agree? Post-Fall’s no season for traveling!

Of course, Doc would say, Because winter’s nearly upon us and the people need their medicine, followed by, Kaster, at times I wonder if your parents weren’t a pair of brainless jellyfish to have had a slow-wit like you! or some variation thereof.

How was Kas supposed to counter that?

You can’t, you dolt! his inner voice laughed.

Frig it then! Kas mumbled into his collar. I must be dumber than a flock of rocks, freezing my rear off like I am, and for what? Then, after several more minutes of fuming, "I suppose they do need their medicine. And someone needs to deliver it. Why not me?"

The mechclads hissed dual clouds of steam from their nostril vents. Kas looked down to see more steam wafting off their metal hides.

Must be nice to be so warm the rain boils off your skin, he muttered. Least I don’t have to drag a heavy wagon behind me. There are definite trade-offs: frozen or exhausted, take a pick.

Kas shivered, though he supposed the mechclads didn’t care either way; they were mindless constructs, after all. The pair before him were older models, probably built within the last half century. Their design was based off a mythical creature known as a horse, which had four legs like a lorzel but with a thicker neck, longer face, and human-like eyes instead of a long scissor-like mandible and multifaceted insectoid eyes.

Most mechclad models were designed to fit their purpose: lorzels to pull wagons and carriages, the more robust lizgins to help with crop-fields or construction, mythical or animalistic designs for personal mounts, and a myriad of others ranging from plain to intricate, all to serve a like number of purposes, though only the truly wealthy could afford the newer models. Those burned fuel-oil alone whereas most older generations used a combination fuel-burner/water-boiler, generating heat to turn water into steam, with steam power being an improvement over the ancient Wind-Up generations, which were purely mechanical.

Natural and Unnatural Sciences had been Kas’ favorite subject during his school years, still was, with History a close second, followed by Natural Arts and Geography. And while it was true that Doc often called him slow when the old man was irritated, or downright angry, the truth—and Doc knew it too—was that Kas was quite intelligent. He was an avid reader, spending nearly all his free time back at The Keep devouring book after book in Doc’s expansive library, and he was always eager to keep abreast of current events, which made him a fount of knowledge both useful and otherwise.

None of that had helped him with the opposite sex, however, though Kas didn’t think it was his intelligence that turned women away but rather his appearance: the nest of shaggy blonde hair that billowed out to frame a bumpy face, his club-like chin and mouth full of large crooked teeth, his two different colored eyes—left blue, right green, both in the shade of a thick unibrow—and the large bulbous nose that leaned slightly to the left. Cutting his hair only emphasized the latter features, so he opted to grow it out in order to bring everything more geometrically into frame, and to partially hide the extraordinarily large ears that jutted from either side of his lumpy head.

He’d learned at an early age his ears were only good at two things: listening and building wax, of which they did both exceedingly well, the former allowing him to hear the jabbing whispers spoken by boys and girls, men and women, the consensus being that most found him ugly, and a large portion of that number thought him borderline grotesque.

This secret knowledge had conspired to make him self-conscious and wary of peoples’ outward reactions, which kept him emotionally off balance. The result made him socially awkward, especially around new people.

But, as with most things he found in life, it wasn’t all bad. He was twenty-two years young and The Engineer had blessed him with robust health, good height, and a manhood that would turn most virgins towards the convent rather than having to face it.

Of course, he’d never been able to test that last, given everything else going against him, but someday, he was sure.

Someday.

The sun was sinking fast in the west; the dying light set ablaze the ice-covered fields, transforming them into square patches of frozen fire, each separated by low ice-encased stone walls.

The lights of Granton came into view at last.

Thank The Engineer, Kas breathed as he pulled down on a lever, the mechclads slowing to a canter, steam blowing from their nostrils.

Almost warm.

Chapter 2

Granton

A high stone wall surrounded Granton.

Kas turned a knob on the control panel to take the mechclads off auto-drive, then used the levers to maneuver the wagon towards the gate. A pair of Town Guards in green leathers and gray cloaks let him pass unchallenged, recognizing Kas by sight.

Within the wall, the town’s streets and walkways were mostly free of the treacherous ice, the mechclads’ hooves ringing off smooth cobblestones now, while regularly placed gas lamps kept everything well-lit, though ice still clung to the peaked roofs of houses and shops and clumped high on the flat tops of warehouses and vendor stalls, the latter closed for the night.

The only others about were several gray-cloaked Town Guards on patrol and an antique Clockzen Crier named Graf.

Graf had been crafted to resemble a small boy: youthful face, blue glass eyes, brass skin long tarnished to green, hair made to look as if a slight breeze was blowing it to the side. The body was detailed: short blue coat for the torso, red breeches and black knee-high boots the legs, the paint heavily chipped on all three. A clock-face bulged from Graf's chest, with silver chains growing out to either side to loop around the neck like a necklace.

The automaton paced the ice-slick commons, crying out the date and time as it went. The time is ten minutes passed the 16th Hour, on this first Venday of Resha, in the year 1878! I hope this evening finds you well!

Kas brought the mechclads to a halt in front of a red-walled clinic across from the commons. He set the parking brake and climbed down, taking a moment to stretch before knocking on the clinic door, which opened to reveal a portly white-robed nurse, a pair of large spectacles balanced on the bridge of her tiny nose. She was easily three times Kas’ age but her face was wrinkle free despite the gray curls spilling from her cowl.

Oh hello, Kaster! she greeted. You look positively frozen. When are you going to start dressing warmer? Typical young man, always wanting to test your constitution against the plagues and then Old Nurse Brooks has to fix ya right again! She put her hands on her wide hips, head shaking in disappointment. I take it you brought the medicine from Doctor Retsam, yes?

Kas nodded, Yes, Nurse Brooks. It’s all here.

Very good. I’ll get Nate and Lydia to help unload them.

As Nurse Brooks vanished back into the warm light of the clinic, Kas went around to the rear of the wagon, where the supply chests were stored under a tarp.

Only about a third of the wagon bed was used for storage, the other two-thirds were dominated by the colossal burner-boiler: a metal monstrosity covered in flywheels, belts, and dozens of copper and steel pipes. Two large metal tanks stood mounted to either side of the burner-boiler; the one on the right held water, the one on the left, fuel-oil.

Nate and Lydia arrived just as Kas finished rolling back the tarp. They were young, in their late teens, and dressed in the white robes of clinic workers. They greeted Kas warmly then went about hauling the wooden chests inside. There were twenty in all and, with Kas’ help, the unload didn’t take long.

Thank you so much, Kaster, Nurse Brooks said, coming back out as soon as the job was done. Nate and Lydia were inside, busy unloading the supplies. Nurse Brooks handed Kas a small oiled-leather purse. Here’s Retsam’s payment, and a little something for you as well, she placed a small yellow square, beveled in the middle, in his palm.

Thank you, Nurse Brooks. Can you ring Doc for me and tell him I’ll be heading back in the morning? There’s no way I’m gonna trek back up the mountain tonight, not if I don’t want to arrive home an ice cube.

Of course, Kaster. You be safe now.

The door closed and Kas climbed back into the driver’s housing, where he disengaged the brake, then pushed forward on a lever, the mechclads lurching forward with another blow of steam.

Chapter 3

Dav’s Respite

Dav’s Respite was a blue-walled, three story building capped with a peaked slate roof. Kas guided the mechclads around to a rear lot where he parked the wagon before clambering around the driver’s housing to get to the wagon bed. There he set about closing valves, cutting the flows of fuel-oil and water to the burner-boiler, causing excess steam to scream from the mechclads’ nostrils and the upper exhaust pipe, the burner-boiler crackling and popping as it cooled rapidly in the cold air.

When Kas was sure the engine could be left safely unattended, he jumped down and made his way across the lot, cursing every time he slipped on a hidden patch of ice.

That’s all I need is to brake an ankle, he muttered as he climbed the three short steps to the inn's front door.

Once inside, he was instantly met by a blast of welcome heat, the source being the wall-length radiator that squirmed along the common room’s left-hand wall, its nail-like valve hissing steam.

Given the time of year, most of the tables that were arranged around the hollow square of the bar were empty, though Kas knew from experience the place would be packed come the summer travel season and harvest time after that. The few patrons present were locals, mostly, from what Kas could tell, all sitting around the bar in groups of two or three or alone, the latter with only steaming mugs and thoughts for company.

Four rows of spherical gas lamps hung above the bar, lighting the common room exquisitely, with only the farthest corners obscured by shadows.

Hey, Kas! Dav called out, the diminutive man balanced on a step-stool behind the bar.

Dav was the proprietor of Dav’s Respite. He was half Twa, half Afarian, both Subjects located far to the west of Aith. The Twa blood gave Dav his short wide-bodied stature while the Afarian blood accounted for his coal-black skin and the curly black beard that fanned across his stained white apron, and for the long black curls that cascaded down from the puffy white hat he always wore scrunched over his wide forehead.

Don’t stand there dripping ice melt onto my floorboards, Dav continued, get over here and have a drink and a bite. I haven’t seen you in a month of Solaces.

Kas doffed his hat and gloves as he approached the bar.

It’s good to see you too, Dav, he said as he went over and sat on a stool, the cushioned seat feeling far better than the hard bench seat of the wagon. I would’ve visited sooner but Doc has me running all around the mountain of late, doing everything but having fun.

Dav laughed, a wet, wiry sound, "Fun’s underrated, unless you have the datum to play with. Then fun is fun, if you catch my snow draft. Speaking of which, when’s that old coot gonna come down from his high perch for a game of Shogi?"

Don’t know. Doc and Hameel have been busy trying to contain the epidemic in Steelton. I’ve hardly seen them myself.

Dav grumbled a solemn hum, then leaned over to place his elbows on the polished marble of the bar; the smooth black stone was smeared with gray swirls and shot with gold veins. I heard things were bad on the mountain. Starting to get bad down here too. The clinic ran out of medicine earlier than I can remember this year. Usually they keep well stocked until mid-Liza at least.

Doc says it’s the worst start to a plague season he’s experienced in forty years.

Dav snorted through his flat nose. I believe it. That’s why we live for summer, aye? Anyways, will you want a meal and a room? Or are you heading back to Steelton tonight?

A meal and a room, please, plus breakfast in the morning. And I’ll start with a mug of Keef Ale.

You got it. I’ll waive the lot fee, as usual, so it will come to five datum total.

Can you break a Cube?

I can break anything as long as it’s worth something; you should know that by now.

Kas fished the Cube Nurse Brooks had given him from his pocket and slid it across the marble to Dav. The small man swiped it up with one pudgy hand, tucking it beneath his apron before deftly producing an orange Bar and five red Hearts with the other, spreading them before Kas all in one smooth motion.

Kas scooped the datum from the bar as Dav relayed his order to one of the serving girls.

Another serving girl, face tired, a stained apron around her slim frame, brought Kas a metal tankard of Keef Ale, poured from one of the casks behind the bar.

Thanks, Manda.

Welcome, Kas, she said, tone bored, before returning to the casks to pour a drink for another patron.

Kas took a sip of the dark green liquid, savored the bitter flavor and cherished the heat that spread through his body, leeching the rest of the cold from his joints as his mind cleared.

He listened in to the talk around the bar.

Most of what he heard were boring conversations about low crop yields, the price of seed, and speculation over whether the next year’s yield was like to improve or grow worse.

Kas did catch one interesting tidbit, this coming from one of the scant out-of-towners present, something about Kloon attacks along the border of The Wild Girdle.

He shook his head as he took another sip. Why anyone would live so close to The Wild Girdle was beyond him. Kloons aside, the region was a haunt of criminals, vicious beasts, feral zumbies, horrid mutants, and worse, if even a fraction of the tales could be believed.

The reports of Kloons being so far north was troublesome, though.

Most Kloons existed in The Southern Badlands, known colloquially as Kloonland, where they lived in warring tribes, only seldom venturing as far north as the southernmost settlements of The Syrtis Empire, though, when they did, they caused major problems. Kloons were the worst kind of mutants, twisted by their poisoned environment and warped genetics; their only purpose in life was to indulge their base desires, and they did so however and whenever they were able.

Of course, Kas had never seen a Kloon in its natural habitat. The last time they’d been seen north of The Girdle was before he was born, but he’d seen plenty being held captive in carnival shows and theater attractions. Enough to know he’d never want to meet one in the wild unless he was armed to the teeth.

His meal came: a large ceramic bowl filled to the brim with a hearty tomato and onion stew, a generous amount of sautéed lizgin chunks thrown in. Kas hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the aroma hit his nose. He practically inhaled the stew, and once most of the solid bits were gone, he put the spoon down and brought the bowl to his lips, slurping the spicy liquid until there was nothing left.

Meal finished, he downed the last of his Keef Ale and stood, his stomach full to bursting, head swimming from the Keef.

I’ll take my key, Dav.

Dav waddled over and handed him a small iron key attached to a leather badge, the numbers 2-13 stamped on the latter in red. There you are. Sleep well and warm.

Thanks, Dav. You too.

The diminutive man snorted, Sleep is for dupes.

Key in hand, Kas made his tired way up the stairs to the second floor, where he located Room 13.

The room was a small affair, containing just the basics: a bed and a small wooden washstand with a small mirror above the latter.

Yawning, Kas pulled a small battered book titled The Perennial Wife from a coat pocket and tossed it on the bed before stripping