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He dropped the razor and blood trickled down his chin. His hands gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, knuckles whitening, as he breathed heavily. Through the nose. Out the mouth. Through the nose. Out the mouth.
He looked up again, denying the fear that was shivering up his body in waves. But he didn’t see him. It was only the wall behind him. The blood was wiped away easily, it was only a knick, and he finished shaving quickly, tossing the razor in the sink and walking out of that room as quickly as possible without taking another look in the mirror.
Owain had taught him how to shave. He’d shown him how to lather up, and take the long sharp knife and to swipe it just so against his jawline until his face was smooth again. He’d shaved next to him at the same sink for at least fifteen years. When Ezra had fallen out of a tree and broken both arms, he’d sat him down at the sink and moved his head to and fro, guiding the razor along the skin so he could have that much at least.
He’d shaved next to him only a week ago, both of them down to their vests and underwear, Owain’s stupid moustache left alone, Ezra weaving himself a new razor since his had gone missing. Coincidentally, Odbuoy had begun to grow a little peach fuzz, and they were talking about one of them having to teach him. Or Owain was, while Ezra thought methodically about the conversations he was going to have to have in the next few weeks, as things began to play out.
Odbuoy was never going learn to shave properly. Elodie was never going to introduce them to her new lover, Mathilde was never going to recite depressing poetry for the first years at Wunsoc again.
He’d last seen her with a broken neck in the middle of the square. He had left her there, in the few days when he thought he had finally gotten control, when he had thought that it was worth it, that he had spent much but now his investment was finally going to pay off.
He could always pick up the bodies later. Children were always born. He could teach the new generation what the old generation had taught him. That had been the plan at least. But now he was in borrowed quarters in the newly christened Wintersea Republic. And he had no way to come back to Nevermoor.
There was a group of children playing some game on the street as he walked by. He hadn’t noticed them, not really, except their ball rolled into his path, and he stepped over it so as not to trip. And when he did, his line of sight changed, ever so slightly, and for a second, he was sure that he could see the face of Elodie Bauer among those children.
It was nonsense. He told himself as much, but found himself later, with his hands against a brick wall in some lane in Yvalstad, breathing in through his mouth, because every time he breathed through his nose, he could smell the way her blood had, how the Square had when he was so consumed by his power that he couldn’t even take a minute to think about what he was doing.
Or, he had thought about it. He had just thought that it would be easier.
It was worth it though. Or at least he was so far inside this now that he wasn’t about to give up. What could he do? Go back there, to those ungrateful unwuns, and to the Society, on his knees, and beg for a second chance?
They had done away with capital punishment a century ago but he was sure an exception would be made for him if he let it happen.
Not that he was going to. He had work to do.
He couldn’t even get inside the city, and now, the border being closed and every day coming with fewer and fewer mentions of the so-called “Free State”, no one would be able to. The City itself had cast him out, leaving him on the outskirts with nothing except the skin on his bones and the clothes on his back, but he was sure that they had, by now, put in some other defences against him. As many as they could. Not that they would do much. But it didn’t matter. As long as the City refused him, there was no way he was getting back in.
Prosper fell easily. It was better for them, really, that their resources could be redistributed evenly across the Wintersea Republic. He did the dirty work, of course, that was what it was to be a wundersmith, after all. He was the iron fist of the Republic and he would see that her enemies were brought to heel, or to their knees. Because that was his job, and he was good at it.
He ignored the faces staring out at him in the reflection of the car window that returned him to the Capital after all his hard work was over with. The treaty had been drawn up, the mines made property of the Wintersea Party, to be overseen by one of their officials who would likely pocket more than a bit of the results, but that was to be expected.
He had always thought that democracies were so prone to corruption, that bureaucracy had holes deliberately punched into it to sink a country down. He ran a tight ship himself, but they only gave him control over energy, considering that he was the only person who could command wunder at will.
Not the only one, but the others who could… well, he had taken care of that. He was only valuable to the Wintersea Party, and to President Wintersea and their heir as long as he was the only person who could give that to the people of the Republic.
But if they got their teeth into another Wundersmith, one more malleable, one more loyal to them, a true republican rather than what he knew they thought of him - nevermind that he had helped create the Republic as it was for them - then he would likely meet a quick end and Squall Industries might as well come under a different surname, one perhaps, of one of the ancient Great Wolfacre surnames. Their favourites, even as they expanded and grew, an empire in all but name.
Wunder kept him awake through the nights as he worked. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t sleep. The nightmares didn’t even bother him anymore. He was strong. He had been built to withstand such things, and he had seen horrors before he had seen his family dead at his own hands.
But there was work to do, and if he wanted to avoid waking up screaming, that was his own business.
He heard the sound of the door opening on winter mornings as Griselda clearing her throat. He only jumped the first twenty times or so, looking around for the crone who'd taught him since before he could talk. After that he just screwed his eyes shut and blocked out as much as he could until his heart rate returned to normal
When Odbuoy's would-be thirtieth birthday came around, he didn't do anything for it. He ignored the sounds of children in the street, laughing young adults coming out of pubs and bars in the evening and wee hours.
He skipped dinner. His hunger yawned inside him, but every time he went into the pantry or kitchen, he could smell the last dinner they'd eaten together. Bloody steak. Rich and delicious, hot and slightly spicy.
He smelled metal too, and smoke, and ash. The texture he could almost feel between his tongue and teeth, picking out from his gums wasn't that dinner. That had come afterwards. He couldn't even wash it out with mouthwash. It wasn't even there.
“Mr Squall,” the new President Wintersea shook his hand firmly. “I look forward to us working together.”
“As do I,” he said, making sure his face stayed still, his breathing perfectly even. As soon as she broke eye contact with him, he looked away, blinking more than he ought to be.
Maud Lowry had Elodie's face.