Leap of Faith

Estaria was starting to get use to waking up in strange places, but none that smelled as good as here, he mused as he drifted from a dream about sentient trees.

He lay still for a long moment, blinking at the wooden ceiling above him. The faint scent of yeast and ash clung to the air—baker’s air. A wool blanket lay draped across his chest, not tucked or tied. His boots were beside the bed, untouched. So was his pack.

She didn’t kill me, he thought. Didn’t turn me in either. He wasn’t sure if that was good or just complicated.

The room was unfamiliar—clean but spare, a narrow cot against the wall, a shelf with folded linens, a chipped pitcher of water beside a bowl. Morning light slanted through half-closed shutters, painting warm lines across the floor. Somewhere beyond the door, he could hear soft clinks of metal and the low thump of kneading.

She was already up. Already working. Like nothing had changed.

Estaria sat up slowly, testing the weight of his limbs like a man checking for hidden injuries. Nothing hurt, except the soreness from sleeping rough for the past week.

The door creaked softly as Estaria stepped into the front of the bakery. The scent hit him first—fresh bread, roasted grain, and something citrusy underneath. A kettle hissed on the back stove. Dough thumped rhythmically against wood.

Leona didn’t look up. She stood at the counter, sleeves rolled past her elbows, arms deep in the rhythm of kneading.

“I was starting to think I’d need to fetch a bell,” she said. “You sleep like someone who finally stopped running.”

Estaria lingered near the doorway. “Still deciding if that’s a good thing.”

She nodded once, as if that answer didn’t surprise her. Then, without turning, she said, “Eat, and then do those dishes over there.” She nodded toward an impressive stack of pots and pans in the sink—more than seemed possible for the crack of dawn. “And eat every bite. Angel always said you were a grump until you had some food in you.”

Estaria blinked. “That sounds like her.”

“She said you argued with your stomach more than with people. Which, she noted, was saying something.”

Leona finally looked over her shoulder, her expression neutral, but her eyes warm. “There’s porridge on the table. Raspberry jam’s in the little jar. Don’t make me spoon-feed you.”

Estaria scrubbed at a skillet, the scent of toasted flour and ash mixing with the soap on his hands. The bakery was warm, steady—almost peaceful. Leona moved behind him, sliding trays in and out of the oven, her pace measured, efficient.

He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“Your sign outside has an interesting design.”

Leona didn’t answer right away.

He continued, tone casual. “Reminds me of an old sigil I saw once. Almost exact, if memory serves. Just a little curl at the edge. Funny the things that stick in your head.”

A long silence followed. Not heavy. Not pointed. Just… deliberate.

Finally, Leona said, “Bakers don’t usually need sigils.”

He set the pan aside, reached for the next.

“No,” he agreed. “But sometimes they use them anyway.”

He let the water run over his hands, eyes still on the dish.

Leona’s voice came softer this time. “Did your memory tell you what it means?”

Estaria smiled without looking back. “Not yet.”

Leona paused mid-step, then patted her apron as if genuinely just remembering something.

“Oh! That reminds me.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. “Here are the details for the caravan I mentioned. Departure time, general route, a name to give if anyone asks.”

She placed it on the counter beside him, not forcing it into his hand.

“I’m actually going with them,” she added lightly. “Figured it was time for a change of scenery. But I’ve still got a couple days’ work here before I leave.”

She offered him a smile—easy, warm, and unreadable.

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

He dried his hands and took the slip of paper, scanning the neat script. Names, times, a staging point near the city’s east gate.

“Is there anything I need to get in town before they leave?” He hesitated, then gave her a sideways glance. “I guess before we leave?”

Leona gave a soft hum of thought, then moved to a small drawer beneath the counter. She opened it, rifled through a few things, and came back with a folded list and a small cloth pouch.

“Here,” she said, handing them both over. “Just some basics—dried beans, good vinegar, a bit of smoked salt if you can find it cheap.”

Estaria glanced at the list, then the pouch. It clinked faintly in his hand.

“I can cover it,” he said automatically.

“No,” she replied, gentle but firm. “Use mine.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Your coins are a little too… distinctive,” she said. “We’d rather not startle the market.”

Estaria smirked faintly. “So you did look at them.”

Leona arched a brow in return. “I’d have to be blind not to.”

She turned back toward the oven, already working the next tray of rolls into position.

“Get what’s on the list, and feel free to add a bit for yourself. Travel’s hungry work. You’ll want to be ready.” Then, without turning, she added, “Oh and take a bath, and get some traveling clothes. I’m not sure anyone can salvage what you’re wearing.”

⁂

Estaria’s boots scuffed against the cobblestones as he made his way through Tidalrest’s morning bustle. The list from Leona felt heavy in his pocket, though it weighed nothing compared to the memories pressing down on him.

Eight weeks. Had it really only been eight weeks?

The morning he and Angel celebrated her pregnancy felt like it belonged to another lifetime. He could still see her face, lit with joy. The way she’d grabbed his hands and placed them on her still-flat belly, both of them laughing through happy tears.

A cart rattled past, jarring him from the memory. The scent of smoke followed—probably from a forge, but that didn’t matter. His body remembered it anyway. Jeremiah’s shouting. The fire licking up the walls. Angel’s scream—

He turned down a quieter alley and braced a hand against the cool stone wall. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

You’re safe, he told himself. They’re safe. He’d gotten them out. Gotten Sara and the girls onto that ship. No more running for them.

His fingers drifted to his belt, brushing the hilt of Angel’s dagger. The touch struck something in him. Not pain—something deeper. Purpose. Her dagger had been sharp and practical, like her. She used to tap it on the table when she was thinking, humming under her breath.

He held on to that memory until the ache dulled.

Keep moving.

He pushed off the wall and started walking again. Tidalrest bustled around him—fishmongers calling prices, carts squeaking under crates of goods, bells chiming in shopfronts. Children laughed in a side alley, chasing something with sticks.

He passed a flower cart and didn’t see the color. Passed a boy playing a lute and didn’t hear the song. Passed two traders murmuring in low foreign dialect and didn’t really process the words.

The word Streacresh tugged at him anyway—like a splinter under the skin. The sigil had stared at him from the ledger like it was waiting for him to catch up. Then he saw it on Leona’s bakery, tucked in plain sight. The extra curl. The hidden mark.

And still, she’d offered him help. Shelter. A place on the caravan.

What game was she playing?

He hated not knowing.

He realized, distantly, that he’d been walking for nearly an hour, just letting his legs carry him, while his mind tried to pull everything into place, obsessing over the angles, replaying the same handful of moments until he wore grooves in them.

It had gotten him this far. That had to count for something.

He thought of his childhood—spending a week rebuilding a broken chicken coop because one board wasn’t level. Spending two days tracking down a dog that bit Clara’s ankle.

Angel used to tease him for it, but she’d also leaned on it. Said it made him relentless in all the right ways.

And maybe it had. Until now.

Now, people like Leona tilted the board when he wasn’t looking. People with secrets and half-truths and kindness that might be genuine, might be calculated. He couldn’t predict them. Couldn’t control the next step. And that—itched. Not like fear, exactly. More like a pressure behind his ribs.

And underneath it all, a quieter thought stirred: I don’t know what I’m doing.

That was the worst part. The girls were safe. He’d done what he set out to do. But he wasn’t sure what came next. The certainty that had driven him across half the continent was gone now, hollowed out and left behind in the harbor with the ship.

He didn’t even notice the sailor until the man passed him.

“Gods, you smell like you lost a fight with a chimney.”

Estaria blinked. Looked down at himself—at the ash-streaked sleeves, the dried mud on his boots, the faint bloodstains still stubborn around the cuffs. Right.

Leona had told him to take a bath.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, and turned toward the public bathhouse. Maybe, just for an hour, he didn’t need to carry the whole world with him.

Maybe he could let go—just a little.

The bathhouse wasn’t far, tucked between a butcher and a small apothecary. He didn’t plan to linger, just rinse off the worst of the smoke and keep moving. But as he stepped inside and the heat hit his face, some part of him exhaled. The weight behind his ribs eased, if only by a breath.

Estaria handed over three copper pieces to the attendant, who barely looked up from her ledger. The word made him twitch, but she just waved him toward the men’s side with a bored gesture.

The changing room smelled of wet wood and mildew. Hooks lined the walls, most empty this time of day. A few pieces of clothing hung limply, dripping onto the wooden slats beneath. The attendant had given him a thin, scratchy towel that had probably been white at some point in its long life. Now it was a dispirited grey, fraying at the edges.

He stripped quickly, grimacing at the state of his clothes. The ash had worked its way into every fiber, and dried sweat had left salt rings around the collar and sleeves. Even his boots seemed to reproach him, caked with mud and looking decidedly worse for wear.

The soap she’d given him was another matter entirely. He turned the yellow-white bar over in his hands, frowning. The scent reminded him of the time Angel had tried to make herb-scented soap, attempting to mask the harsh lye with lavender. It hadn’t worked then either.

Estaria hesitated at the edge of the large communal pool. Steam rose from the surface in lazy curls, obscuring parts of the room in a shifting haze. The heat had already fogged the few high windows, creating strange patterns where condensation ran down the glass.

He’d never been in a bathhouse before, let alone one where men and women bathed together. Back in Appledale, they’d had a tin tub by the fire, used one at a time, with water hauled from the well. This felt… foreign.

A splash and giggle drew his attention to a woman holding her child, probably no more than four years old. The little one kicked his feet in the water, sending ripples across the surface while his mother tried to keep him still enough to wash his hair. The scene brought a slight smile to Estaria’s face, reminding him of Beth’s enthusiasm for anything involving water.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped down into the pool. The heat made him gasp. His muscles, sore from days of walking and sleeping rough, began to relax almost immediately.

He dunked his head under the water, scrubbing at his scalp with the harsh soap. When he came up for air, wiping water from his eyes, fragments of conversation drifted across the pool.

“…husband saw it clear as day…”

The voice came from two women at the far end, their heads close together in conspiratorial discussion. Something about their tone caught his attention.

“…two tails, can you imagine? A dragon with…”

Estaria’s heart skipped a beat. Captain Mei’s ship - they had to be talking about the dragon he’d seen at the docks. He moved slightly closer, pretending to be focused on washing his arms while straining to hear more.

The women sat in the shallower part of the pool, one with graying hair piled high on her head, the other younger with a long dark braid. The older one gestured animatedly as she spoke, sending small splashes of water with each movement.

“…never seen anything like it in all my years at port…”

He inched closer still, careful to keep his movements casual. The little boy’s squeals of delight provided good cover for his slow approach, but he still felt awkward. Was this proper bathhouse etiquette? Should he just swim right up and join their conversation? The whole situation felt uncomfortably intimate.

Estaria’s careful maneuvering came to an abrupt halt when he met the older woman’s sharp gaze. Her eyes crinkled with amusement as she gave him a deliberate once-over, making him acutely aware of his state of undress.

“What’re you inching your way over here for, handsome?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of playful accusation.

Heat crept up his neck that had nothing to do with the water temperature. Well, subtlety clearly wasn’t working. He cleared his throat and pushed off from the bottom, letting himself drift closer.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—well. I overheard. And, uh…,” he fumbled, clearing his throat and continuing more confidently. “I was wondering if you knew of any good clothiers? I’ve been traveling south Gaiadra, and well…” He gestured vaguely toward where his ruined clothes hung. “I don’t think there’s much saving them.”

The two women exchanged glances, the younger one’s braid dripping steadily into the water. For a moment, he worried they’d press for more details, but then the older woman’s face softened.

“Oh, you poor dear. Those roads can be brutal on clothing,” she said, nodding sagely. “There’s a shop three streets over from here - turn right when you leave, then take the second left past the cooper’s. Look for the blue awning. The seamstress there does good work, won’t charge you half the port for it either.”

The younger woman added, “Just don’t let her talk you into anything fancy. She’ll try, but stick to the practical stuff in the front of the shop.”

“Thank you,” Estaria said, already backing away. “I appreciate the help.”

“Not at all, dear,” the older woman called after him. He heard her turn back to her friend. “Now what were we talking about? Oh yes, the dragon. I really wanted to see him, but Harold said the ship left about an hour ago. Doesn’t that just figure?”

Estaria sank deeper into the water, letting it cover his shoulders. The tension he’d been carrying since watching Sara and the girls board the Dragon’s Wake finally began to ease. They were safely away, beyond his parents’ reach. The knowledge settled into his bones along with the warmth of the water.

He took his time with the harsh soap, scrubbing away days of travel dirt and worry. The water around him turned slightly grey as ash finally released its hold on his skin. His hair, when he ran his fingers through it, no longer felt stiff with dried sweat.

The little boy’s mother gathered her child, who protested leaving with a theatrical wail. Other bathers came and went, their quiet conversations mixing with the gentle splash of water against stone. Estaria closed his eyes, letting himself float. For the first time in days, he felt clean. Whole.

When his fingers started to wrinkle, he reluctantly pulled himself from the pool. The air felt shockingly cool after the heat of the water, and he quickly wrapped himself in the threadbare towel. His old clothes looked even worse now that he was clean, but they’d have to do until he found the clothier’s shop.

The changing room had filled up while he bathed. Men in various states of dress nodded to him as they passed, going about their business without any of the awkwardness he’d felt earlier. He dressed quickly, grimacing at the feel of dirty cloth against clean skin.

Outside, the late morning sun had burned away the fog that typically clung to Tidalrest’s streets. Estaria paused at the top of the bathhouse steps, orienting himself. Right at the street, second left past the cooper’s, blue awning. He could smell fresh bread from somewhere nearby, and his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since this morning.

The morning sun warmed Estaria’s face as he paused before a shop window. His hair hung limp and dark, still damp from the bath, making his skin look pale—too pale. Too recognizable. He touched the strands thoughtfully, remembering how his mother had always insisted it be styled just so, every strand in place.

If he cleaned up, he’d stand out in the lower quarter. Maybe it was time for a change.

Across the street, the reflection of a barber’s pole caught his eye—red and white stripes spinning lazily in the breeze. The shop behind it was small but clean, with a worn wooden floor and faded pictures of hairstyles on the walls. The barber, an older man with careful hands, listened to Estaria’s request with quiet professionalism.

“Lighter, you say? I can do that. Won’t last more than a week or two, mind you. The dye we use here isn’t meant to be permanent.”

“That’s fine,” Estaria said, settling into the chair. The leather creaked beneath him.

The process took longer than he expected. The barber worked methodically, first cutting away the excess length, then applying a pungent mixture that made Estaria’s eyes water. The chemical smell reminded him of cleaning day at the manor, when the maids used strong solutions on the marble floors.

“There now,” the barber said finally, turning the chair so Estaria could see himself in the mirror.

The stranger in the mirror stared back at him—sandy-haired, unfamiliar-eyed. For a moment, Estaria wasn’t sure what he saw—only that it wasn’t the Valens boy anymore.

He wasn’t sure he liked it.

He knew he was still himself. But looking at that reflection, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was slipping—bit by bit—out of the shape he’d always known.

After paying, he stepped outside, blinking against the sunlight. The clothes had to go.

They were only a few days old, but two nights crammed into a hunter’s blind with a smoldering fire had steeped them in smoke. He tugged at the collar, scowling, and ran his fingers over the subtle embossing on the fabric—the Valens sigil, stitched like a brand into the weave.

He resisted the urge to rip it off right there in the street.

Turning toward the directions the bathhouse women had given him, he walked into a gust of wind from the docks. It tossed his newly lightened hair into his eyes, the shorter sides prickling in the breeze, the longer top flopping awkwardly. He ran his fingers through it, trying to coax it into place, but gave up before he reached the clothier.

He’d just have to live with it.

The blue awning was easy to spot, fluttering above a clean, narrow storefront. Inside, clothes hung in neat rows, sorted by type and size. The seamstress approached with a measuring tape draped around her neck, her eyes assessing him like he was a puzzle to be solved.

“Something practical,” he said before she could speak. “For traveling.”

She pursed her lips but nodded, pulling out several items in rough-spun wool and cotton. The fabrics felt coarse against his skin as he tried them on, nothing like the fine linens and silks he was used to. The shirt hung loose around his shoulders, while the pants clung uncomfortably to his legs.

“The fit isn’t quite right,” he said, twisting to see himself in the shop’s mirror.

“At these prices?” The seamstress raised an eyebrow. “You want perfect fit, you pay perfect fit prices.”

Estaria thought of the gold Leona had given him. He could afford better, but better meant standing out. Standing out meant being remembered.

The new clothes itched, but they fit the role. One more thing to replace. The seamstress gave him directions to a cobbler down the street.

She directed him to a small workshop tucked between a chandler and a cooper. The smell of leather and polish filled the air, mixed with the sharp tang of metal tools. Boots lined the walls, from rough work boots to finely tooled riding boots.

The cobbler, a woman with strong hands and quick eyes, watched as Estaria examined his current boots.

“Those are quality,” she said. “But they’ve seen better days.”

“I need two pairs,” Estaria said. “Good for long distance walking, but nothing too fancy.”

She nodded and began pulling options from the shelves. Each pair she presented was sturdy and well-made, though lacking the decorative stitching and fine leather of his old boots. Estaria tried them on one by one, walking the length of the shop until he found two pairs that fit well.

“The leather will need breaking in,” the cobbler warned as she wrapped his purchases. “Wear them around town for a few days before any serious walking.”

Estaria left the shop carrying his packages, feeling strange in his new clothes and lighter hair. Every window he passed showed him a different person - someone unremarkable, forgettable. Just another traveler in a port town full of them.

His skin itched where the rough fabric rubbed against it, and the pants felt impossibly tight across his thighs … but no one looked at him twice, so mission accomplished. The boots, at least, promised to be comfortable once broken in. He would need them to be, for what lay ahead.

⁂

Estaria stood across the street from Leona’s bakery, staring at the faded sign above the door as if it might blink first. The earlier lightness he’d felt—the clean skin, the anonymity—had begun to fade the moment the sea breeze carried the scent of bread and memory back to him.

It had been nice, not having to calculate every word. Nice not to wonder what was truth and what was bait. But he wouldn’t find Streacresh by disappearing into a quieter life.

So he crossed the street and opened the door.

The bell above the entrance gave its usual jingle. Leona didn’t look up, too focused on pulling a tray from the oven. The scent of honey and rosemary filled the warm space.

Heat and fresh bread enveloped him. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since morning. The wooden floor creaked underfoot as he stepped toward the counter.

Leona moved quickly behind it, her back to him as she arranged the loaves on cooling racks. Her gray-streaked hair was tied back in its usual neat bun, and flour dusted her apron.

“Welcome to Leona’s! I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she called over her shoulder, sliding another tray into place.

Estaria waited, letting the familiarity settle over him. Shelves lined with bread stretched along one wall, while glass cases displayed pastries and sweets. Afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in its golden beams.

When she finally turned, her practiced smile froze. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by a quick glance at the door.

“Oh! I didn’t expect…” Her voice dropped. “You’re back sooner than I thought you’d be.”

“Got everything you asked for,” Estaria said, keeping his voice low as he reached into his pack.

He set a carefully wrapped bundle on the counter, followed by a leather pouch that clinked softly.

“The change is all there,” he added. “Plus a few extra Klindon mint coins. A small thanks.”

Leona’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the mention of the mint. Her hands moved quickly, tucking both items beneath the counter.

“That’s very thoughtful,” she said. Her voice held its usual warmth, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Would you care for some bread? Fresh from the oven.”

His stomach grumbled in answer. He gave a small, sheepish smile. “I think so.”

That night, Leona went out and didn’t return until late. Estaria didn’t peg her as the type to slip off for mead at the local tavern, so he spent the next day imagining increasingly ridiculous reasons for her absence. A secret lover? Selling him out to his mother? Setting up an elaborate trap involving chickens and tripwires?

To his surprise, the mental exercise made the work go faster.

He found himself enjoying the rhythm of the bakery—not just the kneading and sweeping and shutter-tying, but the absurd parade of imagined betrayals that filled the silence. He remembered Angel’s stories—the way she’d once insisted the baby birds in the orchard were half-dragon, because their ‘mother’ was late and obviously off chasing treasure.

It made him smile, sometimes, when Leona wasn’t looking.

She worked as she always had: calm, steady, efficient. She handed him tasks without commentary—carry in the flour, cover the herbs, tie the shutters tight. They moved like people who had done this for years, and that unsettled him more than it should’ve.

By the second morning, the bakery looked like it had never existed at all. The shelves were bare, the tables cleared, the fire long dead. A place in hibernation.

She hadn’t said when the caravan would leave. He hadn’t asked. Not directly.

Instead, he watched.

That morning, she wrote a letter. Sealed it. Slipped it into her apron without comment. At one point, she adjusted a crate near the back door—one that didn’t need adjusting. Just for a moment, his eyes caught the mark. The curl.

The same one he’d seen on the bakery. The not-quite-right sigil that made his Resonance tighten in his chest.

Cresher.

He wasn’t even sure what he was to her. A stray she’d taken in out of loyalty to Angel? A tagalong she meant to pass off to the caravan and forget? Or something worse—a liability she hadn’t yet decided how to contain.

He needed a plan. But every time he tried to form one, it slipped through his fingers. So he kept his hands busy. Tried not to seem restless. But his thoughts circled like wolves around a fire—never close enough to act, never far enough to rest.

That night, when she sorted the gold, he lay still on the cot and listened to the faint clinks of coin on wood. She was careful—deliberate. He imagined her setting aside each Klindon piece, cataloguing them in silence.

That, at least, confirmed something.

She knew the gold was dangerous.

Which meant she knew exactly who she was dealing with.