THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

The Burden of Survival

As Dawn contemplated her situation, a heavy weight settled in her chest; she realized that revealing Rosham's latest secret to Menas might be the only way to save her family. Bradford, the self-serving ruler, remained indifferent to the suffering around him, prioritizing his own power over the welfare of the citizens. Even if the secret were to remain hidden, Dawn couldn't envision how the people would endure much longer. Ultimately, the only beneficiaries of the situation would be Bradford and his fellow nobles, who feasted on the desolation of the land.

Lying in bed, Dawn resolved to take action the following day. The morning twilight crept in, a subdued light that failed to push away the gravity of her thoughts. As the sky brightened, it forced her weary eyes to open, revealing two well-worn books resting on a wooden table beside her bed. They were reminders of her son, the reason she had ventured into danger—only to return too late to save him. A profound sorrow enveloped her; she had to find food, for her daughter, Bella, hadn’t eaten the previous day, and the reality of their dire situation had not given her the luxury of thinking about food yesterday.

Dawn thought of a man her age, Albert Cooper, who lived alone after achieving some success in his business pursuits. She hoped he still had food stocked in his home and, against all odds, was still alive. In her heart, she knew that the presence of food was far more important than the man himself. With a heavy heart, she left George and Bella sleeping soundly in their beds, making her way toward Albert’s house, located a considerable distance from her own.

This section of Kentaki housed both modest and extravagant homes, occupied by men who flaunted their wealth. Albert, in his pursuit to join the ranks of the affluent, had made his mark among them. The neighborhood stood eerily silent, unscathed by the chaos that plagued the rest of the area. The calmness, however, offered no assurance of safety.

As she approached the building made of arcane stones, Dawn recalled her last visit when the lower floor had been deserted. She quietly ascended the creaking staircase, each groan echoing in the oppressive silence. At the top, a long corridor flickered with light from twelve flames set in pairs along the opposite walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to whisper secrets of their own.

She stepped into the corridor where her eyes were drawn to a spacious kitchen. The chimney still roared with fire, and everything appeared to be in its rightful place. The doors stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses into the servant quarters that mirrored her own modest home. At the corridor's end lay a grand dining area, supported by imposing pillars, a testament to Albert’s status. The enormous, round table at the center was laden with luxurious jugs, plates, and bowls, fresh fruit soaking in a crystal bowl, while a jug filled with fine wine suggested there had been no immediate thoughts of hunger here.

Awash in the opulence surrounding her, Dawn pondered how no one seemed to inhabit this vast space. Her gaze fell on a side entrance that led into a narrow corridor flanked by two rooms. One of these was undoubtedly Albert’s. Driven by curiosity, she opened the door to the left, leading into a vast room.

Inside, a grand bed dominated the space, raised slightly on a platform. A built-in closet caught her attention, filled with luxurious items that seemed out of place in such a downtrodden city. Among them was an ornate mirror, a status symbol in Rosham, where only a select few could afford such a luxury. The absence of life in the room sent a shiver down her spine as she shifted her focus to the second door.

There, sprawled across the bed, was Albert Cooper, the man she had sought. His countenance was one of defeat; dull skin sagged around sunken eyes, and wisps of brown hair hung limply, revealing deep-set wrinkles that told stories of a man worn down by suffering. He lay there, helpless, as if fully aware that life was draining from him.

Dawn rushed to his side, surprise flooding her as his weary eyes attempted to meet hers, though it seemed a monumental task for him. It was as if he had resigned to his fate, silently accepting the approach of death. He wouldn’t be just another nameless corpse lying out on the streets, but still, the scene before her was tragic beyond words.

Pulling down the sheets that covered him, she was met with a sight that chilled her to the bone. His hands had vanished beneath layers of decay, and his feet were already being consumed by insects. A wave of horror washed over her at the realization; Albert was little more than a corpse in the remnants of his once-vibrant life. The pain he felt was palpable, manifesting in his eyes that screamed silently for relief.

Albert’s body sagged heavily in her arms, his breath shallow, his skin clammy with the pallor of death. Yet his eyes, though dim and lifeless, were fixed in one direction, unblinking. Dawn followed his gaze, her heart tightening, until she saw it—a sword leaning against the far stone wall, its hilt catching the faint glow of the oil lamps. The weapon stood like a sentinel, silent and waiting.

Her throat tightened. She rose, her steps steady despite the storm raging inside her. The sword was cold as she wrapped her fingers around its hilt, the iron biting into her palm. Its weight was immense, not only in steel but in the decision it demanded. She returned to Albert’s side, her shadow stretching long across the chamber’s wooden floorboards.

Albert stirred faintly, his lips parting without sound. With immense effort, he blinked once—slow, deliberate. Dawn’s breath caught. She understood. He wanted release. He wanted the torment to end here, in this room, in this moment.

Her eyes dropped to the blade. A memory surged—Lance, and the book she had stolen for him, filled with remedies and tinctures. That book had been meant to heal, to preserve life. But Albert’s case was different. He was neither alive nor truly dead, trapped in a cruel limbo.

Her grip tightened. She could not let him linger in this half-existence. Without hesitation, she drew the blade from its leather scabbard. The sound of steel scraping free echoed through the silence, sharp and final. She raised it, her arms trembling, and with one swift thrust, drove it into his chest.

Albert’s body convulsed once, then stilled. A violent spray of blood erupted, splattering across the embroidered coverlet, the polished oak floor, and her face. Dawn froze, staring at her hands, at the crimson that now stained her skin. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She had ended a man’s life.

For a fleeting moment, regret clawed at her. Perhaps the greatest mistake she had ever made was stepping foot on Rosham’s cursed land, serving as an agent of Menas. Yet another part of her whispered that without Rosham, she would never have known the family she now fought for. That thought anchored her. This was mercy. He had wanted it. Better to die than to remain dead-alive.

Blood pooled on the floor, thick and dark, spreading like spilled ink. Dawn’s gaze lifted to the mirror beside the bed. Her reflection stared back at her—wild eyes, pale skin streaked with blood, a face she barely recognized. A strangled cry escaped her throat. She stumbled to the wardrobe, yanked out a linen cloth, and scrubbed at her face with frantic, almost violent motions. The blood smeared instead of disappearing, driving her into a frenzy. She rushed into the adjoining washroom, where a porcelain basin stood filled with cold water. She plunged her hands and face into it, scrubbing until the water turned pink, until her reflection no longer looked like a stranger drenched in death.

She left the chamber in haste, her footsteps echoing in the suffocating silence of the hall. The stillness pressed against her chest, heavy and unyielding. But she had no time to dwell. She had come here for survival.

The kitchen greeted her with an overwhelming sight. The stone-walled chamber was lined with shelves and oak cupboards, sagging under the weight of abundance: sacks of barley and wheat stacked neatly, baskets overflowing with apples, pears, and figs, jars of pickled vegetables glistening in the lamplight, and rows of earthen jugs filled with wine and water. The air was thick with the mingled scents of ripened fruit, dried herbs, and smoked meats hanging from hooks above the hearth. It was a treasure trove untouched by the famine clawing at the rest of Kentaki.

Her mind raced. She needed something to carry it all. Her eyes darted around the room, but nothing seemed large enough. Then she remembered—the wardrobe in Albert’s chamber. Sheets. Strong, wide sheets.

She hurried back, forcing herself not to glance at the bed where Albert’s body lay. From the wardrobe, she pulled a large white sheet, its fabric coarse but sturdy, woven thick for winter use. Returning to the kitchen, she spread it across the flagstone floor, the fabric whispering as it unfolded.

She began to gather supplies with deliberate care. Apples rolled into the folds, their skins gleaming like polished jewels. She scooped handfuls of barley and oats, pouring them into the bundle until the sheet sagged with weight. Carrots, onions, and dried beans followed,careful not to overload the bundle.

Every choice was measured. Enough to sustain her family, but not so much that she could not carry it. Her arms strained as she tied the corners of the sheet together, creating a makeshift sack. She tested its weight, adjusting the load until it was bearable.

The silence pressed in again, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the clink of glass. Dawn’s heart thudded in her chest. She had what she came for. Now, she only needed to leave this house of shadows behind.