I paced the hall. Wilder was just beyond the door to the weapons room. I wanted to talk to him about Wren, but I didn’t know how to breach the subject with him. I had never had an issue talking to Wilder before. I was beginning to curse myself for even having this idea in the first place. He would probably think I’m weird for coming to talk to him about this. Muttering under my breath, “maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” Wilder pulled the door open, leaning against the frame. “I’ve been listening to your footsteps pace back and forth for five minutes now. Something weighing on your mind?” He tucked a clipboard against his chest, he must have been busy, and I was disturbing him.

Shit. I’d been caught. I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m sorry, I was in my head, I don’t want to bother you-” I took a step back.

“Would you like someone to talk to?” He pushed the door open wider. “You can sit on the bench while I work, I’d be happy to listen to whatever is weighing on your mind.” We stared at one another; his gaze was patient as he awaited my answer.

Wilder was so kind. I took a deep breath, relieved he was welcoming me. “Well… I guess I could sit, if you don’t mind having someone watching while you work.” I stepped into the room. From the looks of it Wilder was the only one working and he had every storage case open. One of the many specialty weapons open on the counter in the center of the room. “What are you working on?”

He approached the center, putting his clipboard on the counter next to a rather intimidating looking sword. “Seeing what weapons need to be serviced soon. Some of these belong to generals or other high-ranking officers who have these weapons in storage and aren’t here to keep up their care. It’s part of King’s knights’ duties to manage this room.” I took a seat on the bench by the door, watching him work from afar. He studied the weapon with a keen eye, making a note on the clipboard. I felt lucky to have never done this job before. It must be incredibly boring to look at these old relics for hours.

“And how are you liking your new duties?”

“I like them quite a lot. Unlike the training facility I feel like I have been making a difference for Darsineka. A little sad to see some of my friends go, but I’ve had more time to learn new skills.” He moved to grab a small tag, writing on it, sticking it on the hilt of the sword. In the silence I realized the weight of his words.

“Oh yeah… Odeya left for The Tundra didn’t she?” Wilder was pretty easy to get along with, but no one could deny the two of them were best friends. He must be quite lonely.

“Yes, she did. She left a day ago. It was always her plan to go back home to her family and girlfriend after graduation, but she stuck around for a few days longer. She didn’t say it, but I think she was worried about leaving me here.” That was rather touching. I remembered briefly the day she left. She had come to bid a final farewell to my grandfather, taking her sword with her. Honoring the duty he gave to her. Her gaze looked bittersweet, perhaps already dreading her goodbye with Wilder.

“You both were very close.”

“We are. I plan on writing to her soon. She’s back home with the people she loves. She shouldn’t worry so much when we both have jobs to do. It’s not like I won’t ever see her again. I am fine.” Wilder carefully packaged up the sword before storing it away in a cabinet. He closed the door, moving to the next cabinet to grab the next weapon. A large bow and a matching quiver. He carefully laid them out on the counter.

I scuffed my foot against the floor. He had matured and grown. It was inevitable, especially when he achieved amazing feats in training. He had earned his place. But there was a new peace in him. “And what about Wren? Do you know how he’s adjusting?”

Wilder cast me a sly smile. “I knew you would want to talk about him. I wish I had a better answer than just good for you. I don’t see him too much these days. He’s attached to the King’s side day and night lately. I figured you would know better than I since he’s your grandfather.”

He was with my grandfather that much? I know I met my grandfather for our morning coffee. But now that I thought about it, I had been so busy with paperwork and onboarding new staff that I had barely spent time with him. “Really? I know you both had been named the personal guard, but Grandfather still has other guards, albeit they are retiring soon. Why is he spending so much time there?”

Wilder tapped his pen on the clipboard. “Well… Wren is complicated. I know he has his reasons for hanging around.”

“I know that. But you seem to know something I don’t. Is everything okay?”

Wilder considered my question, his face twisting into a frown. He turned to keep his back towards me, with a heavy sigh. “As an infernal he faces struggles outside what you and I could ever comprehend. I don’t know much about the Infernals that came before him, but Wren is sensitive. He wants acceptance and a place he feels safe.” Wilder pulled the string of the bow on the table. Maybe for work, or because he was trying to keep his hands moving. 

Then he continued. “There are stories of Infernals being made with purest form of rage, embodying death and power. But what does it mean when you make an infernal with fear?” 

The weight of that statement sat heavy in my chest; I didn’t have even an idea of an answer for him. What did it mean? What was he trying to tell me? Was that how Wren was created?

“There’s no one I have to ask, so I had to make my own definition.” That answered that. Wren was fear? Not the fire and destruction that was written. “I call him brother and friend, because if I let him sink into his fear, he loses control, becoming the very monster he’s afraid of. Himself.” Wilder clasped a hand over his arm, turning to me with a shameful expression on his face. “He’s seeking kinship away from my reaches, he sees something in your grandfather that makes him feel more human. I want that for him, more than anything.”

“Wilder... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive with my questions.” Shame burnt down to my feet. If I had kept my nose in my own business, then Wilder wouldn’t have felt pressured to tell me any of that.

“You weren’t being insensitive Clay. You were simply seeking answers, and knowledge is a powerful tool. Use it wisely and try not to scare him away.” Wilder’s lips tilted up in a smile, he was trying to make a joke to lighten the mood. I don’t know if it worked.

He went back to his work in silence while I stewed in it.

Every thought went through my mind a mile a minute. His words echoed. Held a weight that meant something.

There are stories of Infernals being made with purest form of rage, embodying death and power. But what does it mean when you make an infernal with fear?

Fear.

Not destruction. Or rage. But fear.

It settled in my chest. And I realized it made a twisted kind of sense. Fear was defensive. Reactive.

It makes you hide, lash out, isolate even. It turned your pain inward until it felt like something unrecognizable.

If Infernals were usually made from rage; hot, loud and explosive rage. 

Then did that mean Wren’s silence was its own form of violence? One that collapsed inwards, and devoured itself?

I’d always thought of rage as fire as it burned outwards, looking for something to blame. But fear?

Fear didn’t need a target.

It needed a place to hide. Like in the corner of the mind, growing teeth so it could whisper to you that no one understands. That no one would stay. That you deserved to be alone.

And to think if you were born from that? From a fear so deep, it became your origin story…

What chance did you have for peace?

“What if its worse?” The words barely left my lips. I couldn’t help the spiral of thoughts as it outpoured from me. Wilder turned to look at me, a furrow between his brows, like he didn’t think I had actually spoken. “Being made of fear, I mean…” Recognition flickered behind his eyes. “Rage has direction. But fear… It sits. Festers. Even rots as it waits. Until it turns you into something you don’t recognize.”

Wilder didn’t respond immediately. One hand lay flat on the table, the other touched his chest. I waited; breath held for him to say something back. Did I want him to disagree? If Wren really suffered like that, then how do you teach someone not to fear? Not to lose themselves in it.

“It’s worse,” he spoke at last. My shoulders fell. “Fear doesn’t want you to destroy the world. It wants you to collapse in on yourself. And Wren… He’s been fighting it for so long, I don’t think he remembers how to stop.”

He looked at me. A quiet, sad, rage burned in his eyes. How unfair it was.

“That’s why he clings so hard to people. To his purpose. Because if you take those away, what’s left… His fear. Hungry and wild. Waiting with teeth bared to devour everything it can. And it never cared who it hurts. Not even him.”