The hail had stopped, but the feeling of helplessness seemed like it would never end. Jaxton found himself on the street a few hours past the worst midnight of his life. He walked alone on the road while the Colors bunked into their hotel rooms for the night on Carter’s orders. Even Aeryn—who had lost not only his uncle’s life but his uncle’s body as well—obeyed Carter’s command.

“Get any sleep that you can. I will need you all tomorrow,” Carter had said. “Tomorrow, we search the city and camp the roads. His Majesty himself is on his way here… He doesn’t know yet, but I’ll send a message his way in the morning.”

Jaxton hated knowing what Gordon’s brother did not. It was like a terrible secret he couldn’t tell though desperate to shout it out.

Gordon was dead, the same as Hendricks.

They had ties to opposite parts of Jaxton, and their deaths were like cannonballs launching out, pulling him apart.

First, the father figure who took him in, and gave him everything, and cared for him like no one else ever did. Yet, Jaxton had never thanked him for what he did for him, nor had he told him enough how grateful he was to work with him.

The other, the only person Jaxton had met in his life with who he wanted to be friends. Hendricks lived a similar life, and his outgoingness had reached even Jaxton’s heart. And poor Dara… she waited all night for his return.

She had cried in Jaxton’s arms. Why was it that Jaxton hadn’t? Dara screamed when she found out, but Jaxton… he hadn’t even shed a single tear. Crying was something Jaxton hadn’t done since his early years as a child, parentless and alone, abandoned to fend for himself. Their deaths hurt, it damn well did, but he could hardly process it.

He thought about tomorrow and the days after, waking up and not having Gordon in his life. Something about this he couldn’t comprehend. Nothing felt real to him.

His shoes shuffled the hail on the street. It was blistering cold outside, and Jaxton wore nothing more than a jacket and a thin pair of trousers.

Policemen patrolled the street to the apothecary with flashlights scanning around. Jaxton hid from the light like it was fire, hiding around corners while the police searched. Just because the Colors concluded didn’t mean the police—those on duty and awake at the hour—were.

But what could they do that the Colors couldn’t? A man so quick he could catch a bullet with his mask; a man so reflexive he could defend a sword’s thrust with a swipe of his hand. The police were the lowest on the military ladder, usually an introductory job before a warrior entered the military.

The street lamps at this hour were on dim to save power. Steepcreek was on a silent lockdown, but they enforced curfew as always. Only now, the police wouldn’t hesitate in questioning those lurking in the streets. They flashed their lights down the alleyways, stirring both the rats and any homeless unfortunate enough to be seen.

Jaxton crept through, street by street, finding his way back to where his life changed forever. He finally found the front door of the abandoned apothecary. He grabbed his pistol, pulling it out of its holster.

Then, with all of his might, he kicked the door.

His leg shook more than the door, and he caused more pain to his knee than damage to the door. Pathetic.

Jaxton cursed, dropping his head on the door. He bit his lip, looking around, making sure there was no one else around. He opened the door with his left hand, barging in with his gun drawn and aiming through the darkness.

The candles still lit, at least the half that hadn’t burned out since. Nobody was inside.

Jaxton still pointed his gun forward and out, hoping that bastard was still here, only hiding. He wanted to put him down; he wanted revenge. However, he acted too late. Gordon’s body, as well as Corolla, were already gone.

Gordon had always praised Jaxton for his “usefulness” in his daily life. He called him an excellent assistant, and Jaxton prided himself through those compliments. Each one made the burden he felt all of his life lose its weight and pulled him closer to Gordon. Jaxton belonged. Not to himself, but to Gordon. He gave him everything, so Jaxton gave him his all back in return.

Yet, his all wasn’t enough. When it was all said and done, Jaxton couldn’t be the one thing he wanted so desperately to be for the Colorsword general.

Useful when it mattered.

Jaxton’s body shook, and his gun rattled to the earthquake forming in his hand. Like a short time ago, he succumbed to his weakness. His gun fell out of his hand like a rock falling down a metal staircase. It bounced a total of three times before Jaxton’s eyes finally jerked his head down to see his rumbling, waddling gun, like a coin that fell just right.

He dropped to his knees, and his vision went blurry with his tears. He looked down to his lap and finally started to cry.

Finally, he was reacting properly to such an event. Crying hadn’t been something Jaxton knew he was capable of until now. It felt neither good nor great, but it was a release. Yes, Jaxton thought. A release.

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with the flame of a nearby candle, and brought it to his lips, avoiding the torrent of tears. He inhaled the smoke into his lungs but held it for what he swore was the longest few seconds of his life. Jaxton noticed something disappointing.

He didn’t know why, but when he saw his tears fall from his red, burning eyes, he almost expected them to come out as hail. The air, his body, and skin, all felt blistering cold.

Jaxton lifted his head to exhale, and his face became showered. A puff later, the cigarette started to taste foul like rotten eggs. It wasn’t that it was different, only that it felt wrong to partake in smoking by himself. He only ever started because he wanted to have breaks with Gordon more often, but now he was addicted.

He brought the flame of his cigarette, extinguished it to the stream falling under his chin, and then discarded it in a candle. Jaxton stood up, holstering his gun before turning to the door.

Jaxton was many things: tired, afraid, and lost. It felt so similar to his youth. Lost and afraid… yes, that was all to like his childhood. But he was an adult now, and if only one soul wanted to take him on as a young boy, who would want him now?

When he stepped outside, he found the sun through the top of the Tower of Levi. He stared for a moment, looking at the strongest light the sky currently had to offer. He walked east toward his hotel, looking not for the patrolling policemen, but keeping his eyes on the single orb far of the horizon.

There was nothing more spectacular than seeing something so distant be so prominent.

The light, while far away, still had its own form of heat—a second sunrise, gentle enough the hail on the ground melted.

Jaxton wasn’t much for finding arbitrary values or meanings through sights or senses in general. He knew sadness now like the barrel of his gun, and the Tower didn’t change that. But, after seeing his reflection on a gilded glass window. It wasn’t until then that he realized he had stopped crying along the way back to his hotel.

He needed time, for even if tears were temporary, his memories would be with him either until he died or became mad. Gordon or Hendricks wasn’t something he could drop in a day. It would gnaw at him like rats feasting over a corpse, an all-you-can-eat-buffet. But it was something he had no choice other than to live with.

That said, while a cigarette sounded distasteful, Jaxton needed a drink…