Six: Kind Hospitality 

“What should cause you to be out so late, boy?” The man who rescued Layre has him settled by the warm, flickering fireplace of the Valna Inn. The Valna Inn was a cozy family motel run by the gracious married couple, Madris and Cyran, as they had introduced themselves. Cyran was now handing him a warm cup of ginger tea which Layre sipped gratefully.  

Madris was busy in the kitchen, awoken by the commotion her husband and Layre both caused. 

“I am new to Vatou. I did not know of the monster.” Layre admits sheepishly, feeling irritated by the fact that he was underprepared. Nobody in Iyelion ever mentioned a monster lurking through the night in Vatou.  

“Yes. The clock strikes one in the morning, and the creature comes out to feast.” Madris explains, rolling up her sleeves to start washing the hotel dishes. The stack is huge, and Layre feels terrible that he cannot help. Cyran had firmly instructed him to stay still, and now he’s gathered up some medical supplies to work on his arm. It was bleeding still, but not too terribly.   

Cyran skillfully flushed his wound. And with needle and thread, and cautious movements, he began to stitch the gash closed. Layre watched with amazement. 

“How did you learn to tend to a wound so skillfully?” Layre asks, wincing when Cyran starts a new stitch. He pulls the wound closed tight when he does. The skin around it is red and angered. Layre imagines it will bruise deeply, bright blue and purple.  

“I learned from my father. He was a medic for the Vatoun warrior force. He saw all kinds of injuries. This one you got here is nothing compared to his stories.” Cyran clicks his tongue, finishing the last stitch. He ties off the medical thread and snaps the thread from the roll. Then, he smothers the stitching with a healing balm. Once Layre’s entire arm is wrapped neatly with gauze, he stands and dusts off his jacket.  

“Do you mind teaching me? I may need the skill.” Layre inquires, leaning back and sipping again on his ginger tea.  

“You ask a whole lot of us, boy. We have already saved you from death and given you a place to rest, is this not enough?” Cyran grumbles. Madris shoots him a pointed glare from the kitchen, and Cyran’s face softens. 

“I understand. I will take my leave. Thank you both for your kind hospitality.” Layre stands, setting his tea down and automatically going to reach for his satchel. It is then he remembers it has been stolen from him. He hastily checks his neck, and lets out a long, relieved sigh when he feels that his mother’s necklace is still there.  

“We have no need for thanks.” Madris pipes in and then turns to Cyran. “You always wished for a son, Cyran. Let us take him in for a while. He can work for us, and you can teach him.”  

Cyran rubs at his scraggly beard for a while, thinking it over.  

“Fine. You can stay, but you must work for us while you do so. Your first lesson will be bright tomorrow morning. After which, you will tend to the rooms downstairs so that they are ready for the guests.” Cyran declares finally, hiding his small smile by biting feverishly on his bottom lip.  

Layre grins widely, sitting back down on the lounging chair. His heart buzzes with warmth. 

“Ah, pardon us, dear. What is your name?” Madris asks, walking over to inspect Layre.  

“I am Layre Iarberos.”  

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ 

Layre spends three months at the Valna Inn. He wakes early in the morning and helps Madris by making breakfast for the guests. After which he attends medicine lessons with Cyran, who usually lays out all his informational books out on the living room floor before the fireplace. Cyran gifted him a worn journal, in which he scribbled down his notes. He filled it to the brim with drawings and diagrams. This journal had become his second-most valued possession, right after his sapphire necklace. 

At check-out time, Layre will clean the rooms after the guests have left. He makes the beds, does the laundry, sweeps the hardwood, scrubs the bathing rooms, and does anything else he can to ensure the rooms are in pristine condition for the new guests in the morning. His night routine was no doubt his favorite. He locks the doors and windows, washes dishes with Madris, and jokes around with the couple until he finds himself tired enough to sleep.  

Madris and Cyran have allotted their spare bedroom to him. It is not personable, but Layre finds that it has begun to feel like a second home for him. His only true home will always be in Iyelion, slotted up tight against the giant red oaks. 

When he looks outside to see the first flower blooms of the Spring season, he knows he has stayed at the Inn far too long.  

He hated goodbyes. He felt as though his whole life had been a series of regretful goodbyes. He had one last loving, warm dinner with Madris and Cyran. That evening, they gave him longing, dreadful looks. They knew he was leaving; they could tell in the way he avoided their lingering gazes.  

As Layre gathered up his new possessions and secured them in the new satchel he had bought himself in town, Cyran and Madris leaned into his spare room.  

“We never asked you what it is you’re doing here, boy.” Cyran says, his voice breaking with sadness.  

“I plan to kill the Four Almighty.” Layre states like it is the easiest goal in the whole world, and maybe to him, it seems so.  

“Oh dear...” Madris turns away, overcome with fear and sorrow. Layre knew they did not think he could do it, but Layre had been training his whole life for it. He knew it was what he was meant to do. He was to free Mageus, Anima, Iyelion, Solmeris, and the Shaded World from the Gods; he would not stop for one moment, even if threatened his life. 

“How do you plan to do such a thing?” Cyran asks, reaching for Layre but stopping himself. They all knew there was no blood between them, nothing that tied them together in an objective sense. But for the three of them, there was a familial love. Layre had appreciated their kind guidance, their willingness to help, and the couple enjoyed the illusion of having a child to care for. 

“I am unsure. All I know is that I must find the Demi-God. He is the key to all of it, I feel sure about that much.”  

“The Demi-God?” Madris mumbles in disbelief. “What could he possibly offer you?” The question is more to herself than to Layre, so he leaves her inquiry unanswered. 

“Tread carefully, son.” Cyran offers him, disregarding the uncertainty of his wife and his own feelings. They both did not believe in Layre’s plan, but that was fine. Layre had grown up knowing not many would; it would not deter him.  

“Do not fret. I promise I will save Vatou.” The couple just nodded, tears running down both of their faces involuntarily. 

After pulling them both into a long, emotional embrace, Layre waved his farewells and found himself back on the streets of Vatou. He only had but a few hours to reach a safe place before the creature roamed about. 

During his time at the inn, Layre had traveled to the local libraries. He would rent out dozens of books about the Demi-God on the days the inn was closed. He would scribble his findings in his journal. Sometimes he read through up to ten books a day. His insane drive, his purpose was what kept him going. The librarians would occasionally have to kick him out, as he would stay until closing, nose buried deep in a book. 

He had learned a few things vital to finding the Demi-God.  

For one, he stayed in an enchanted cabin far into the Yelling Steppes, a flat desert rolling just south of Vatou. The sand there was violent red and sizzling from the heat, and dead, thin desert grass covered the entire ground. It hardly rained there, and when it did, it threatened Vatou with harsh, murky flood waters. 

Layre also knew that he never left the steppes. Anima had forbidden him from doing so, as even a spotting of him threatened their lives.  

The cabin, however, was glamoured by Anima’s magic. She had hidden it away in the depth of the desert, and it would be impossible to find by eyesight. The cabin would appear invisible to any who searched for it. Layre would have to travel the entire expanse of the desert in hopes that he can find the cabin by touch. It was a dreadful plan, but it was the only way he knew of. 

Layre climbs up an alleyway wall, kicking away at the waste bins below him so no creature may follow. He crawls onto the roof, listening to the painful cry of the bell tower now far in the distance. As he stared into the vast, empty city of Vatou and the vermilion Yelling Steppes beyond, he felt hope swell brightly within his chest. He was drawing nearer; he was almost there.