Daian immediately covers his mouth and nose with his right hand, eyes narrowing in disgust. The stone surfaces inside the box may have once been gray and white, but now every inch is black and thick with layers of soot and waxy, molten splotches that aren’t soot.

The bottom of the box’s interior is piled high with scorched bones, mostly large femurs, skulls, and portions of rib cage; the rest has been burned to black ash.

Daian turns to the young man, demanding, “What is this?”

The husker meets his judging eyes with a hard, resolved expression.

“Ice for those can afford it, fire for the rest,” he says.

Daian has no answer for that. It’s simple enough to him. Instead of replying he puts his hand to his chest and unsheathes his dagger.

The husker shuffles backward, eyes widening as if the blade is meant for him.

Daian turns back to the box and crouches low before its open door. He extends his arm inside and begins prodding among the bones with his dagger. He hooks ribs and the inside of skulls with the tip of the blade and holds them up to examine them before slinging each burned-black remnant aside.

Eventually there are only ashes left to explore. The edge of Daian’s blade scraping against stone sets the husker’s teeth on edge behind him, but Daian is determined to sift every inch of the space. In truth he expects to find nothing, especially since he has no idea what he’s even looking for to begin with. He’s mostly going through the motions to punish the husker.

Then his blade touches metal, and Daian’s entire mood shifts.

He taps the blade against the sudden obstruction, the report confirming there’s something metallic buried there. Scraping it free of the ashes and remains, Daian discovers a small circular object that looks to be a coin of some kind. He picks it up and smooths both blackened sides with his thumb, cleaning them the best he can. The coin is copper, but it’s no currency he’s ever seen, from Crache or beyond.

There’s a face hammered into one side. Not the visage of a historical figure or even any distinct person. It’s a vague face crudely rendered with a wild beard, shaggy hair, and hollows for eyes.

It’s the face of a Savage.

Daian finds another, identical coin while sifting among the rest of the black ash. He sheathes his dagger and stands, holding up both coins for the husker’s inspection.

“What are these?”

The young man shrugs. “One of ’em must have swallowed some coins. I dunno.”

Daian nods. “Or they each had one of the same coin in their bellies. Just like they had the same marks on their skin.”

“I suppose. What does it mean?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself about.”