If Barston were an item on a fine, banquet feast, spread out across long, ornate tables, then it would most certainly be some jellied meat of sorts.

  Perhaps hog, duck—or eel.

  It would likely be the last picked cloche of the entire spread, though those that tucked into it (likely those who had arrived late, or, had not asserted themselves for finer picking) would find it a hearty enough appetiser, if not a little lacking in nutrients.

  You see, Barston certainly wasn't the most desirable of locales, but to those that knew it well they knew it fondly. They had sweated for it. Bashed fingers with hammers on its rafters; scraped knees on its slate; smeared blood on its beams in a bar brawl. Like all dwellings, it was made whole by those that kept it—and luckily (or unluckily, dependent on your point of view thus far) for them, Sludge was now its steward and keeper.

  It dawdled into the town square on the back of a wagon bound from Dunden. Red heraldry, inoffensive driver, not a lot of small talk. Mav Keddery had been kind enough to arrange transportation, and for the entire morning journey, Sludge had stared at the cloud formation overhead like a young lad contemplating the end of a formative summer.

  All in all—a long road that had led back to its point of origin. Circular, or cylindrical, and for whatever reason Sludge had felt itself feeling contemplative in return, though it did not understand why or how it felt so. Something had shifted within it. The cold pang still hung in its gut, its slithering folds—but upwards, inside it, a warmth had begun to creep into its chest and ribcage.

  It was small, soft, just a dim glow, but Sludge felt it. Warming, like the fire it had felt out on the mire. Axe resting across its lap, Barston folk muttering over the crackle, Mera sharpening her knives. The old trapper—his eyes kind and ever watchful.

  As the cart clattered on the cobbles, Barston townsfolk trickled out to meet it. A washerwoman hung jerkins and cloth on a railing. Two old drunks sat on the stone steps of the bell tower.

  There was a sadness that clung to the air like the sweet smell before rain, though Sludge would’ve been oblivious to it if not for that soft heat in its lumberjack belly.

  Things smelled better with the warmth.

  The carriage sighed as it stepped off.

  The tavern door creaked open; window shutters unfastened. Four burly men had stepped out, a woman in leather and hide wrappings followed. Other folk had taken to leaning from windowed archways, children peered from between fences, even the dog sat softly with its paws in tow.

  And then—a familiar face.

  The Butcher. Forehead split and bandaged, face blotchy red and crackled, lips chapped and flecked and dry. He had one arm wrapped in a sling and the other clutching a cane as he hobbled through the tavern crowd.

  “Butcher …” huffed Sludge. “Thought … dead.”

  The podgy man nodded slowly at him, though his movements were laboured and pained. “Aye,” he replied with a rasp. “Still don't make much sense how I crawled outta that place. Came to in a sea of green and red. Cold, I was. Half thawed.”

  He smiled. “Never thought I'd be seeing you again, Axe.”

  “No,” replied Sludge, shaking its head. “Didn't think… but—”

  The lumberjack's eyes tightened at the corners, lips curling to show teeth. The kind of smile that Mav Keddery had spent a lifetime practicing.

  “Happy.”

  The pastiche was by no means rehearsed, but for Sludge it was enough. For the first time in its existence it had felt something more than hunger, rage, violence, fear. Slithering through the muck and the mire, rampaging through the crossroads as an axe-wielding slaughtering machine. It felt different now.

  The soft glow in its ribcage pulsed.

  Brave souls all, chimed a voice—spacious and heady. The cold pang in Sludge's gut recoiled deeper at the sound of it.

  “Brave…” repeated Sludge. “Souls…”

  “Aye,” said the Butcher. “And they'll be avenged, each and every one of them. The old man, Mera, countless men and boys from this town that fought braver than knights I've ever known. Bravest souls I've ever met.”

  “Follow you into the pits of H?l-pax, that they would.”

  The Butcher heaved himself forward, resting his cane by his leg as he reached out his free hand to clutch Sludge's shoulder.

  “But there's plenty of time for that, Axe. Plenty of blood been spilled already. Been a longer road for you, friend. Our boys are with the wind now. Though they'll be with us always.”

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  He clasped his fist to the heft of his chest.

  “In here,” breathed the Butcher.

  Sludge did the same. “Here.”

  The Butcher smiled. “Come now, friend. Every man, woman, child and dog in Barston owes you a tankard and two. Get this man an ale!”

  And so they drank, heavily, for hours on end—just as Sludge had done on its first foray into town all those weeks ago—though this time there was no lingering fear to sweeten it.

  The tavern swallowed them whole. Sludge stooped to clear the lintel. A cheer went up—not raucous or brash, not forced. Earned by each of them. Tankards were already sliding across the scarred oak, foam spilling over knuckles.

  There was a chatter to the air like a soft summer evening. One that wouldn't feel out of place in a house or a home; where folk had known each other better and as equals.

  Smoke hung low beneath the rafters, thick with peat from the bog, and pig grease, and old stories. Candles guttered in chipped sconces; the hearth roared loud enough to bully the chill from the room. Barston had not changed, not really—but it felt fuller now. Denser with Sludge around. As if the walls had been shored up by its breath alone.

  “Axe!” someone barked.

  “No—the Lumberjack!” corrected another.

  “Well you can't have one without the other!” laughed a third, slapping the bar.

  The innkeep—a broad-shouldered woman with iron-grey plaits and a burn scar puckering one cheek—squinted up at it. “You look like you could drink as man or beast. What would it be?”

  Sludge considered. “Like… thirsty.”

  She grunted approval and filled a mug the size of a small bucket with a skrrt, skrrrt, skrrrrrtt of the barrel tap. “Fair answer.”

  The ale was darker than before, thicker. Barston’s own. Like Mav Keddery had said to it the morning prior—ale and festivals and full bellies and cheer. It slid down hot and bitter and alive, and the glow in Sludge’s chest brightened with it. Around it, people talked—not at it, not about it—but with it. About Axe. About Skaggad falling; ripped apart clean in two by his bare hands alone.

  Later in the low-evening, a cooper named Teln spoke of barrels that had been split in a raid a few weeks ago. Bandits from the north, staves burned or stolen. “Got wood enough in the north stand,” he said, tapping his temple. “If someone cleared the rot. Need hands. Strong ones. An axe like yours—mill would do it too. Just say the word.”

  A girl—no, a young woman now, Sludge realised dimly—showed it a puckered scar along her forearm. “Ridge snapper out by the mire,” she said, not accusing. “Squirted its ink and then flung a barb right at me while I was picking mussels.”

  “Sorry,” Sludge rumbled. “Protect… next time.”

  She smiled. “Don’t be sorry. But now that Skaggad is in ruin, less greenskins will mean them marsh nasties will feel bolder. Be worth some of us keeping watch.”

  A man with soot in his beard asked about dredging the mire with frog nets. A swineherd wanted to know if the western wood could be huffed for truffles. An old woman pressed bread into its hands “for later,” and patted its wrist like it was a nervous horse, “though the grain stores need looking it.”

  They told it things. Not heroic things. Not brave things.

  Small things. So—many—things. Gods, there were a lot of things for Sludge to consider.

  About how the bell tower leaned worse now that the stones were cracked in the downpour. About how the south field had gone fallow after the Barston boys didn’t come back to till it. That made Sludge sad. About wolves from the north, bold enough to take some of the suckling pigs in daylight. About a shed by the tannery that might serve as a storehouse if patched right. About the old watch-post on the hill—burned, yes, but the foundation still sound. It needed repairing, of course it needed repairing.

  Sludge listened.

  It did not know how long it listened. Time softened at the edges. The cold pang in its gut stirred, but it was different now—patient. Waiting its turn as the slow warmth slid around ale and tall tales.

  The Butcher sat nearby, breathing heavy but steady, nodding along to the talk. At one point he raised his mug.

  “To the fat of the land,” he said. Belching loudly afterwards.

  A few brows furrowed. Someone snorted. “You’ve had all of that old fella!”

  The Butcher smiled, thin and knowing, as the crowds chortled along with him. “Aye, but you'd have no bacon either without this cleaver!”

  Later—much later—the tavern thinned to a small huddle by the bar. The Butcher dozed softly in and out of napping. Children were carried home asleep over shoulders. The dog curled by the hearth. The innkeep banked the fire down to coals. Above the hearth, the mounted boar head stared out—one glass eye shimmering.

  Sludge remained. Happy, smiling, warm glow in it's ribcage.

  As the evening drew long, Teln, the cooper, came back with a scrap of charcoal and a thin sheet of parchment, drew lines on the tabletop. Sludge had a long yard of ale sloshing about its insides, but it could still make sense of the patterns.

  “You see, here’s the square. Here's us. Here’s the well, the tower, the hog pens. If you set something stout and solid here—say a storehouse, barracks, I don’t know—keeps folk central. Safe. Feels like we're on top of things. Something to see far on the horizon.”

  Sludge stared at the lines. “Build…?”

  “Aye,” said the cooper. “Or rebuild. Same thing, mostly. Nowt a few hammers and nails can't fix. No end of decrepit structures in this town, pard. Never really had much stewardship to follow suit.”

  Outside, the rain finally came. Soft. Steady. The smell of wet earth crept in through the shutters, rich and promising. Sludge found it beautiful, the way it trickled down guttering, caught and pooled in the slate of tiles, pit-pattered in puddles.

  When Sludge stood to leave, the room quieted—not with fear, but with a held breath. It paused at the door, staring out at the raindrops, axe slung across its back.

  “I stay,” it said.

  There were no cheers this time. Just nods. Smiles. A quiet relief, heavy as a stone settling into place.

  The glow in its chest burned brighter, steady now. Like a hearth that would not go out easily, one that burned long and slow; well stacked, with a careful hand to stoke it.

  Outside, Barston slept—bruised, bent, but breathing.

  And Sludge, steward and keeper, stood watch beneath the rain, its eyes already measuring where the first beam would go, tracing its eyes across imaginary rooftops that had yet to be built.

  If Barston were the last picked meal laid out on a feast table, it would most certainly be a jellied meat of sorts—but it would be well made from premium cuts of hog, well pressed with caring and careful hands. Set long in a hearty store. A touch of smoke, a hint of herbs, a rich, gelatinous texture.

  And though its taste would not be to everyone's liking—those that savoured it would find it mighty fine indeed.