Chapter 2: Good Brothers

Evan trailed Marcus through the lively streets of Eldren Academy's lower campus, the morning sun slicing through the late summer haze.

The air carried the aroma of fresh bread from nearby stalls and the faint metallic tang of forge smoke from the craft halls.

Students and vendors crowded the cobblestone paths, their voices merging into a vibrant hum that nearly drowned out the strange buzz in Evan's mind—the System of Sacrifice, lingering like an uninvited guest.

He shoved his hands into his cloak pockets, trying to focus on Marcus's chatter rather than the cryptic panel that had turned his night upside down.

"Mate, you're dragging like a cart with a broken axle," Marcus said, glancing back. His grin was wide, but his eyes held a trace of worry. "Sure you're not ill? You've got that look, like one bad shift'll finish you."

"I'm fine," Evan lied, forcing a half-smile. "Just need food. You promised flatcakes, so don't skimp."

Marcus laughed, dodging a group of students hauling instrument cases. "Oh, you'll eat today, trust me. This place is gold—Hearthstone's, tucked behind the almsmith's shop. Cheap, fast, and the portions? Could feed a draft beast."

Evan nodded, his stomach growling loud enough to rival a forge bellows. He hadn't eaten properly in days, and the promise of a real meal felt like a lifeline.

Marcus had a knack for lifting his spirits, always had, even in Evan's darkest times. A memory surfaced, unbidden, of a winter two years ago when Evan had hit rock bottom.

He'd been sixteen, just out of the wardhouse, and his first stipend from Eldren hadn't arrived. He'd gone three days without food, too proud to beg and too broke to buy even a crust.

He'd been shivering on a bench near the archive, trying to study a borrowed tome, when Marcus—then a stranger—had plopped down beside him, offering half a steaming meat pie.

"You look like you're auditioning for a ghost role," Marcus had said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Eat this before you keel over."

Evan had tried to refuse, but Marcus wouldn't budge, staying until Evan took the food. That was Marcus: always noticing, always stepping in, no questions asked.

Another flash came—last spring, when Evan had twisted his ankle hauling crates and couldn't work for a week. His dues were overdue, and the dorm steward was threatening to lock him out.

Marcus had slipped twenty AR under Evan's pillow, claiming it was "extra from a sketch commission." Evan knew better; Marcus's commissions barely covered his own supplies.

But Marcus never mentioned it, never asked for repayment, just kept dragging Evan to meals or study sessions like nothing had changed.

"Oi, you in there?" Marcus's voice pulled Evan back.

They'd reached Hearthstone's, a squat stone building with a wooden sign carved with a glowing ember. The smell of sizzling batter and spiced syrup wafted out, making Evan's mouth water.

"Yeah, just… thinking," Evan said, shaking off the memories. "This better live up to the hype."

"Trust me," Marcus said, pushing open the door.

Inside, the restaurant was packed with students, their laughter and clinking mugs filling the air. Rough-hewn tables were crammed together, and servers darted through the chaos, balancing trays of steaming flatcakes and clay pitchers of cider.

Marcus led Evan to a corner table, barely big enough for two, and waved down a server with the ease of someone who'd been here a dozen times.

"Two stacks, extra syrup, and cider," Marcus ordered, then glanced at Evan. "You want anything else? They've got sausage links that'll make you weep."

Evan hesitated, his eight AR feeling like a stone in his pocket. "Just the flatcakes."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "My treat, mate. Don't argue." He added sausage to the order before Evan could protest, then leaned back, stretching his long legs under the table. "So, what's the plan after graduation? You're a year out now, right? Gotta have some grand scheme."

Evan shifted, the question hitting harder than expected. Graduation felt like a distant cliff, one he wasn't sure he'd reach.

"Dunno," he admitted. "Pass my courses, maybe find scribe work. Something steady."

Marcus frowned, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Steady's fine, but you're smarter than that. You've got a head for details—those archive notes you lent me last term were better than the prof's. Ever thought about auditing? Or even teaching? You'd be good, you know."

Evan snorted, though the praise warmed him. "Teaching? With my luck, I'd be scrubbing chalkboards, not writing on 'em."

"Nah, you're selling yourself short," Marcus said, leaning forward. "Look, I've seen you juggle three jobs and still scrape by in class. That's not just grit—that's brains. You just need a break, someone to cut you some slack."

He paused, his voice softening. "You ever think about applying for a guild grant? I know a guy in the craft hall who could put in a word."

Evan's throat tightened. Marcus meant well, but guilds didn't hand out grants to nobodies like him, not without connections or coin to grease the wheels.

Still, the fact that Marcus thought he was worth the effort—it meant something. "Maybe," Evan said, dodging the topic. "What about you? Still planning to be the realm's greatest artist?"

Marcus grinned, his eyes lighting up. "Damn right. Got a commission lined up next month—a merchant wants a mural for his shop. Pays decent, too. After that, I'm thinking of traveling, maybe hitting the coast to sketch the ports. You should come, you know. Get out of this grind."

Evan laughed, the idea so far from his reality it felt like a bard's tale. "Sure, I'll just pack my nonexistent savings and join you."

"I'm serious," Marcus said, though his tone stayed light. "You need to live a bit, Evan. You're always running, never stopping to breathe."

The server arrived, cutting off Evan's reply. She set down two towering stacks of flatcakes, golden and crisp, dripping with syrup and butter. A side of sausage links glistened beside each plate, and two mugs of cider steamed gently.

Evan's stomach roared, and for a moment, the System, his debts, his exhaustion—all of it faded.

"See? Told you," Marcus said, already cutting into his stack. "Dig in before I steal yours."

Evan didn't need prompting. The first bite was heaven—warm, fluffy, with a sweet tang that made him forget the dry biscuit from yesterday. He ate faster than he meant to, barely pausing to sip the cider, which was crisp and faintly spiced.

Marcus kept the conversation going, spinning tales of his latest craft project—a kinetic sculpture that kept collapsing—and poking fun at their professor's droning lectures. Evan nodded along, grateful for the normalcy, though the System's hum buzzed faintly, like a reminder he couldn't shake.

As they ate, Evan watched Marcus, struck again by how easily his friend navigated the world. Marcus wasn't rich, but he had a knack for landing opportunities—commissions, favors, extra shifts at the craft hall.

He wore his struggles lightly, always finding a way to laugh or pivot. Evan envied that, though he'd never say it. Marcus cared, truly cared, and that was rarer than any coin.

"You're quiet," Marcus said, pushing his empty plate aside. "Sure you're alright? You've got that 'counting AR in your head' look."

Evan shrugged, swallowing the last of his flatcakes. "Just tired. Long night."

Marcus studied him, then nodded, not pushing. "Fair enough. But you're not dodging me forever. We're sorting out that post-grad plan, whether you like it or not."

He grinned, then waved for the server. "Let's get takeout for Liam and Torren. Those two'll riot if we come back empty-handed."

Evan raised an eyebrow. "You're buying for them too?"

"Call it dorm harmony," Marcus said. "Liam's been on about some new alchemical formula he's testing, and Torren's probably starving after his forge shift. Besides, it's just a few AR."

Evan didn't argue, though he felt a pang of guilt. Marcus was always covering for them, always the one to keep their little group together.

They ordered two more stacks of flatcakes, packed in waxed cloth, and Marcus paid with a handful of AR, waving off Evan's offer to chip in his meager coins.

As they left Hearthstone's, the morning crowd had thickened, and Evan felt a little lighter, his stomach full and Marcus's easy company grounding him.

The walk back to Cinder Hall was quick, the campus alive with students hauling books or practicing minor cantrips in the courtyards. Marcus kept up a steady stream of banter, teasing Evan about his "haunted" look and promising to drag him to a festival next month.

Evan half-listened, the System's hum growing louder, though no panel appeared. 'What are you waiting for?' he thought, half-expecting a reply. None came.

They climbed the worn steps of Cinder Hall, the faded "Cin Ha" sign greeting them like an old wound. Inside, the hallway was quieter now, most students out for the day.

When they reached room 47, the door was ajar, and voices spilled out—Liam's sharp laugh and Torren's low grumble.

"Brace yourself," Marcus whispered, pushing the door open. "The chaos awaits."

Liam Voss and Torren Holt were sprawled across the room, turning the cramped space into a battlefield of books and tools.

Liam, a lanky alchemical apprentice with a shock of red hair, sat cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by vials of murky liquids and a battered notebook.

Torren, built like a draft beast and twice as stubborn, was at his desk, sharpening a chisel with a whetstone, his forge apron still smudged with soot. The room smelled of Liam's chemicals and Torren's sweat, a familiar mix that Evan found oddly comforting.

"Well, look who's back," Liam said, glancing up. His green eyes narrowed at Evan. "Gods, Evan, you look like you've been wrestling ghouls. Those eye bags could carry my vials."

"Nice to see you too," Evan said, dropping onto his bed. "You're all so kind today."

Torren snorted, not looking up from his chisel. "Kind's not the word. You look half-dead, Quillian. Depot again?"

"Tavern too," Marcus answered for him, tossing the takeout parcels onto Liam's bed. "Brought you lot flatcakes. Thank me later."

Liam's face lit up, and he snatched a parcel, tearing it open. "Marcus, you're a saint. Torren, pause your brooding and eat."

"Not brooding," Torren muttered, but he set down his chisel and grabbed the other parcel. "Thanks, Marcus. Evan, you alright? You're quieter than usual."

Evan shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "Just tired. Long shift."

Liam frowned, chewing a bite of flatcake. "You're always tired. You're gonna burn out, you know. I've got a tonic that'll help—bitter as hell, but it works."

"I'll pass," Evan said, managing a smile.

Liam's tonics were infamous, more likely to scour his insides than cure him. Still, his concern was genuine, like Marcus's, like Torren's. The three of them were his anchor, the only reason he hadn't given up on Eldren entirely.

Another memory hit—last winter, when Evan had caught a fever that kept him bedridden for days. Liam had shown up with a jar of his foulest concoction, forcing Evan to drink it while Torren hauled firewood to keep the room warm.

Marcus had smuggled extra blankets from the craft hall, claiming they were "spares." They'd taken turns checking on him, even skipping classes to make sure he didn't slip away in a delirium. Evan hadn't known how to thank them, still didn't, but their presence had pulled him through.

"Earth to Evan," Liam said, waving a hand. "You're zoning out. Seriously, what's up?"

"Nothing," Evan said, too quickly. The System's hum pulsed, and he half-expected the panel to reappear, but it stayed silent. "Just… thinking about dues. Short a bit."

Torren glanced up, his broad face softening. "How much you need? I've got some from the forge."

Evan shook his head. "I'll manage." He hated leaning on them, hated the pity in their eyes, even if it came from care.

"Stubborn as a mule," Liam muttered, but he dropped it, turning to Marcus. "So, what's the gossip? You were at the craft hall all weekend—spill."

Marcus launched into a tale about a rival apprentice's botched sculpture, his hands gesturing wildly. The room filled with laughter, Liam's sharp cackle cutting through Torren's rumbling chuckles.

Evan joined in, though his mind kept drifting to the System. 'Opportunities,' it had said. 'Sacrifices.' What did that mean? Extra shifts? Riskier jobs? Or something darker, like the pacts in old tales, where souls were bartered for power?

"Evan, you're doing it again," Liam said, tossing a balled-up cloth at him. It bounced off his chest. "What's with you? You're acting like you've seen a wraith."

"Just distracted," Evan said, catching the cloth and tossing it back. "Long week ahead."

Torren nodded, tearing into his flatcakes. "Aren't they all? You need a break, mate. Come to the forge sometime. Hammering's good for the soul."

"And my tonics," Liam added. "I'm serious about that brew."

Evan smiled, their concern warming him even as it chafed. They didn't know about the System, couldn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to explain it, not when he barely understood it himself. For now, he'd keep it close, like a talisman he couldn't trust.

Marcus stretched, yawning. "Right, I'm off to sketch. Liam, keep your potions away from my bed. Torren, don't set anything on fire. Evan, try not to die before dinner."

"No promises," Evan said, earning a laugh.

As Marcus grabbed his satchel and headed out, Liam and Torren returned to their work, the room settling into a comfortable chaos. Evan leaned back, staring at the ceiling's damp stain, the System's hum a faint pulse in his mind.

He didn't know what lay ahead, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of something—curiosity, maybe hope.

His friends were here, by his side, and the System, whatever it was, was his now. He'd face it, sacrifices and all, and maybe, just maybe, he'd find a way out of this abyss.