By Zephyria 
“I swear by all the gods of Stohl, it’s certain. Would you trust a prescription from a doctor in Atania?”
“If that’s the case…”
A crackling sound came from inside the hearth. Silver frowned and rubbed the workbench with his fingertips.
That guy is trying his best in his own way to save me. Well, considering the mess he made, it’s only natural, but…
The thought returned to him. The short lifespan of the ash tree.
“Hey, about your name.”
Silver spoke impulsively. The man looked up.
“My name? Why all of a sudden?”
Even as he spoke, the man’s hands kept moving. He took a cup from the workbench drawer, washed it clean, and dried it.
“Which name are you asking about? As you know, I have several.”
“…Dick-head. The name I gave you. Thinking back, I don’t think that name is quite right.”
It felt unsettling to call someone who wouldn’t live long ‘Dick-head.’
“You said you hated that name and asked for a new one. What, are you fine with it as it is? Should I keep calling you Dick-head?”
“No! I still decline that name.”
The man shot back immediately. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back a laugh.
“It’s a terrible name. It mocks a person’s physical weakness. I’m truly glad you’re feeling a pang of conscience now.”
“It’s not exactly a pang of conscience…”
“Anyway, give me another name. Put some effort into it this time.”
“You name it. I hate racking my brain.”
Silver crossed his arms and glared at a knot in the workbench.
“If it’s more than four letters, I can’t remember names or anything. My biological father’s name was more than four letters, so I always called him by a nickname.”
“Biological father? You have a father?”
The man asked back, pausing as he removed a straining cloth from an earthenware pot. Silver was dumbfounded by the expression of wide-eyed surprise.
“Are you an idiot? Are there people in this world born without fathers?”
“I know that. But somehow…”
The man trailed off, seemingly searching for the right expression.
“How should I put it… you give off a strong vibe of a lonely wild beast. Like a wolf that grew up on its own without anyone’s care. That’s what I meant.”
“Bullshit. You just saw me as some dockside brat who grew up without a father, didn’t you?”
“Not quite. I just didn’t see you as someone who learned manners from a father.”
“That part’s true.”
Black Weasel and Silver were closer to friends. They happened to share blood by chance, but they were the kind of relationship that traded punches every three hours. A ceasefire only occurred when they enjoyed alcohol, hallucination herbs, and gambling.
“He was a piece of shit who failed miserably at being a father. He’s been dead for three years, but since I only ever called him by nicknames, it took me a few days to remember his real name. I’m not even sure if it’s accurate.”
“Sons and fathers usually don’t get along.”
The man tilted the earthenware pot into the cup. Silver blinked. Wait, what is this? I feel like I’ve been in a similar situation before…?
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
It felt like stepping on a fishbone while walking barefoot. The source of the déjà vu was none other than Wolf. Just like now, long ago one night, he had talked with him about their fathers.
— My fathers were on the streets. The neighborhood hyung who was a legend in the alleys. The bookstore uncle who turned a blind eye when I secretly looked at anatomy books. The grandfather at the antique shop who nagged me whenever he saw me. They were all good fathers.
The Attendant had said that. But the guy in front of him…
“What about you? How was your relationship with your father?”
Silver asked cautiously, as if testing the edge of a blade with his thumb. The man shrugged.
“It was shit. Ordinarily, I’m just one of the many sons who get along poorly with their fathers. It was the only thing I had in common with the Quick-Die-Rat.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“Until I came to this island. At least he was breathing.”
The man picked up a leaf of a medicinal herb scattered on the workbench and crushed it.
“If luck is on my side, that man is probably dead by now. Oh, and my mother too.”
The ill will was blatant. Silver could clearly see what kind of people his parents were. A rough couple who bragged about murder and plunder as heroic tales, and who beat their children like a blacksmith hammers iron under the guise of teaching manners. Such warrior couples were common in Stohl.
But is this guy really from a fallen tribe?
Somehow, it felt like he had just been on a sightseeing trip and drifted here after getting unlucky with a storm. Since he was a guy who fabricated his name, Silver wondered if he hadn’t fabricated his background as well.
The man glanced at Silver.
“Then what about your mother? Somehow, I feel like your mother also…”
“She died a long time ago. That’s enough, let’s stop the background checks.”
“Right. It’s not a particularly pleasant topic anyway.”
The man’s hands moved again. He squeezed the straining cloth hard, letting the last drop fall into the earthenware pot. The color of the medicine was as black as ink. All the liquid in the pot was transferred to the cup. The smell of baking bread wafted from the hearth.
“Almost done. Just wait a bit.”
The man opened the hearth door. The savory scent of bread poured out. The puffed crust of the bread had split along the lines cut by a knife, and white steam rose in curls.
The man placed the bread on a cutting board and cut it in half. He served it with a lump of cheese wrapped in cloth and a jar of butter. He also took out some salted meat wrapped in oil paper from the bottom shelf of the cupboard and sliced it thinly with a knife. As he placed the meat on the still-hot griddle, the fat sizzled, releasing a salty aroma.
Finally, the man took out a bottle of ale and poured it into two glasses. It was a weak liquor with almost no foam.
“Here, let’s eat.”
The bread tasted plain. The crust was hot, but the inside was appropriately moist. The man sat opposite him and picked up his share of the bread. For a while, only the sound of the knife hitting the butter jar and the sound of slicing meat echoed in the kitchen. Silver lifted his ale glass and glanced at the man.
“You know. About your name.”
“Yeah. My name.”
“How about Field Mouse? It’s better than Stuffy Field Mouse.”
“Is that the name you came up with after all that effort? Field Mouse?”
The man let out a short laugh. Silver took a sip of the ale.
“I told you, I can’t remember names longer than four letters. Stuffy Field Mouse only stayed in my head because it was a funny name. I don’t have a talent for poetry. This took quite a bit of effort.”
Silver set down the ale glass and picked up the bread. As he scooped butter with the tip of the knife and spread it on the bread, crumbs scattered on the floor.
“Field Mouse is a decent name. They’re fast and clever animals, so it’s used quite often in names. It’s not like ‘Roundy-Mouse’ which is for eating.”
“No, Field Mouse doesn’t suit a pirate captain. It doesn’t have to be as intimidating as Charcoal Fire Bear, but it should be a name that others won’t look down on. Hmm…”
The man swallowed his bread and rested his chin on one hand. His gaze lingered over Silver’s shoulder. He had an expression as if he were opening the drawers of his mind one by one, searching for something. Eventually, he took his hand off his chin and looked up.
“That’s it! Wolf! Call me Wolf.”
“What?”
Silver froze as he was bringing the bread to his mouth. It felt as if a cold wind had suddenly poured over his entire body.
“Wolf? Why that name of all things?”
An unintentionally harsh tone came out. The man’s expression stiffened subtly. The corners of his eyes, which had been relaxed just a moment ago, narrowed slightly.
“No special reason. It just came to mind, that’s all.”
The man tore off a piece of bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. An awkward silence passed, the kind that usually occurs when someone pretends to be nonchalant to buy time and cover up a slip of the tongue.
“Grable (Wolf). It’s exactly three syllables. Do you dislike it because it overlaps with your real name, Tennen Grable (Silver Wolf)?”
“Pick another name.”
Silver spoke curtly.
“The man who killed my biological father was named Wolf. In the Atanian style, Wolf.”
At those words, the man’s eyes shifted left and right. He looked as if he had been hit by an unexpected blow.
“That… I never imagined. If I’ve touched a wound…”
“Wound my ass.”
Silver frowned and took a bite of the bread.
“Do I look like some brat who’s going to whimper and cry because his dad died? My biological father was the kind of piece of shit who was unlikely to die of natural causes anyway. His job was a contract killer. You understand what I mean, right?”
“So the problem was the guy who killed your father?”
“He was my friend. Once, I trusted him as a friend.”
“So…”
The man trailed off. He lifted the ale glass, took three or four gulps, and set it down. The ale remaining halfway in the glass sloshed back and forth.
“You feel a sense of betrayal toward that friend? Was this guy named Wolf an Atanian?”