The innkeeper’s fingers drummed on the counter as he studied Kaelen.
Kaelen didn’t blink.
Rowan’s jaw slackened. He’d imagined coin flowing like water.
The innkeeper’s head tilted.
Kaelen’s hand rested briefly on Rowan’s shoulder, a weight to silence him.
Kaelen gave a short nod.
The innkeeper leaned forward.
He snapped his fingers. From the far corner, a man slumped against the wall stirred. His mug was empty, his eyes glazed, but his boots still muddy from the road.
Rowan stiffened, eyes darting between the man and Kaelen. The drunk wasn’t dangerous - just broken, sad, a little desperate.
Kaelen stepped over, silent as shadow. The drunk blinked up at him, words slurred.
Kaelen’s grip found his collar. With one smooth motion, he hauled the man to his feet. No cruelty, no flourish. Just inevitability. He guided him toward the door, each step firm but not brutal. The drunk muttered curses, then pleas, then fell silent as Kaelen pushed him gently into the night air.
Rowan exhaled, shoulders relaxing. For a moment he thought it might end there.
Then the tavern door slammed open.
Two soldiers barged in, armor clinking, laughter loud and sharp. Their boots splattered mud across the rushes. The drunk Kaelen had tossed stumbled between them. One soldier shoved him hard enough that he sprawled into the muck outside. The other snorted.
They stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room, daring someone to object.
The innkeeper’s jaw tightened. He flicked a glance at Kaelen.
Rowan’s heart hammered. He gripped his staff, unsure if he should step forward or stay back. Kaelen moved neither fast nor slow. He simply turned, placed himself between the soldiers and the rest of the room, and stood.
His voice was level.
The taller soldier grinned, teeth yellow.
Kaelen didn’t rise to it. He let the silence sit heavy, his gray eyes fixed steady on theirs. Not challenging. Not submissive. Just unblinking.
Rowan swallowed hard. He remembered Kaelen’s words in the forest:
The silence in The Bent Yoke stretched, thick as old ale. The two soldiers squared their shoulders, boots grinding into the rushes. The taller one leaned in, his voice a sneer.
Kaelen didn’t flinch.
The second soldier spat on the floor, eyes flicking to the innkeeper.
The innkeeper’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. Rowan gripped his staff, knuckles white, heart pounding.
The taller soldier stepped closer, looming over Kaelen.
Kaelen met his gaze, voice even.
A tense beat passed. The room held its breath. Then, with a bark of laughter, the soldier shoved past Kaelen, heading for the bar. The other followed, but neither looked back. The threat hung in the air, but for now, it was only words.
The innkeeper exhaled, shoulders sagging.
Kaelen nodded, eyes still on the soldiers.
Rowan let out a shaky breath, pride and relief mingling in his chest.
Kaelen glanced at him, a hint of approval in his eyes.
The night wore on. The soldiers drank, loud but not violent. Kaelen kept watch by the door, Rowan at his side, learning the rhythm of vigilance. The innkeeper passed them a heel of bread and a mug of thin ale.
The night ended quietly, the last laughter fading from The Bent Yoke as the lamps guttered out. Kaelen and Rowan found their rest in the small room above the tavern, the sounds of Mirefield settling into silence below.
Days passed in a steady rhythm. For two weeks, Kaelen and Rowan worked as tavern guards, their lives marked by routine and small lessons. Each evening, they stood watch at the door, keeping peace among the drinkers, learning the faces and tempers of the regulars. Rowan grew in confidence, his stance firmer, his eyes sharper. Kaelen taught him how to read trouble before it started, how to speak quietly and act quickly when needed.
The pay was meager, but it bought bread, stew, and a roof. The villagers came to know them - not as heroes, but as men who did their work without cruelty or pride. Rowan learned the value of patience, and Kaelen found a rare comfort in the quiet respect earned by honest labor.
But they needed a little more coin before leaving. Kaelen approached the innkeeper, now more a friend than a stranger after weeks of honest work.
The innkeeper nodded, understanding.
Kaelen thanked him quietly. He had been saving what he could, knowing the road ahead would demand every copper. For the next days, he and Rowan kept their posts, working with purpose, preparing for the journey that would soon resume.
The outside world shifted in ways that could not be ignored. Kaelen noticed the change first in the faces of the villagers - less wary, more resigned. The routine of work at The Bent Yoke had dulled the edge of vigilance, but it could not erase the sense of purpose that had brought him and Rowan here. Growing accustomed to comfort, to the slow rhythm of tavern life, was dangerous. It was not the mission.
One evening, as the lamps flickered low, a local informant slipped into the tavern, his voice hushed and urgent.
Rowan stared, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes.
But the tavern regulars barely reacted. Most nodded, some even praised the king’s wisdom, calling the decision genius.
There was no scuffle, no protest. People were used to it. The king’s word was law, and questioning it was a risk few would take. Even those who suffered found ways to justify the pain, convinced that obedience was safety.
Kaelen felt the old urgency return - a reminder of why he could not stay, why the journey to Greyharbor mattered. The world outside was changing, and not for the better. To grow comfortable here was to forget the mission, to lose sight of the fight that still waited beyond the tavern walls.
The plan to stay another week unraveled quickly. On the sixth night, as dusk settled over Mirefield, a familiar face appeared in the tavern’s doorway - a figure both Kaelen and Rowan recognized from their past travels. The air shifted, tension rippling through the regulars as the newcomer’s gaze swept the room.
Kaelen stiffened, his hand drifting toward his belt.
Rowan glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
Kaelen nodded, voice low.
The door swung open and in strode the Officer, the Captain. His presence filled the room, the regulars shrinking from his gaze. Something about him had changed. Then he reached for his drink, hand clinked against a glass with a shine. Rowan and Kaelen kept to the shadows, careful not to draw attention. Luck favored them; the Officer was not here to hunt, only to drink and boast. He did not seek them out.
The Officer raised his glass, voice booming over the quiet.
He drained his drink, then continued, pride swelling in every word.
With a silent glance, Kaelen motioned to Rowan. They slipped quietly into the inn's back room, hearts pounding, breath held as the Officer's voice echoed through the tavern. For now, they were safe, hidden behind the battered door, waiting for the moment to pass.
Behind them, left on the accounting table a note
The morning air was heavy with mist as Kaelen and Rowan slipped out of Mirefield, the village still sleeping, unaware of their quiet departure. The road to Greyharbor stretched before them, winding through patchwork fields and hedgerows glistening with dew. Each step away from the tavern felt like shedding a skin - leaving behind the comfort and routine that had threatened to dull their purpose.
They walked in silence at first, the memory of the Officer's presence lingering like a shadow. Only the distant sound of a cart and the soft calls of waking birds broke the hush. Rowan glanced back once, eyes searching for any sign of pursuit, but the village remained still.
As the sun climbed, the world around them changed. News traveled fast along the road: the king’s decree about women in childbirth had reached even the smallest hamlets. At a crossroads, a group of villagers gathered around a
Kaelen watched, his jaw set.
Rowan nodded, anger simmering beneath his quiet.
They pressed on, passing fields where scarecrows leaned and laundry hung limp in the breeze. The road grew busier as they neared Greyharbor - merchants, farmers, and travelers all moving with the same weary determination. At a bend, a woman with a swollen belly struggled to carry a basket. No one offered help; a constable watched from the lane, his hand resting on the hilt of his baton, eyes cold.
Kaelen paused, weighing risk against compassion. He stepped forward, offering his hand. The woman hesitated, then accepted, her gratitude silent but clear. The constable’s gaze lingered, but he said nothing. Rowan helped with the basket, his defiance quiet but firm.
When they parted, the woman pressed a sprig of dried lavender into Rowan’s palm.
Rowan tucked it into his satchel, the gesture a small rebellion against the king’s decree.
The day wore on, the road winding through villages and fields marked by the king’s proclamations. Each sign was a reminder of the world they fought against, and each act of kindness a promise to resist.
As dusk fell, Kaelen and Rowan found shelter beneath an old oak, its roots tangled and strong. They shared bread and quiet words, the bond between them forged anew by the journey and the resolve to keep moving forward.
As they packed beneath the old oak, the lights of Greyharbor flickering in the distance, Rowan broke the silence.
Kaelen shook his head, checking the contents of his satchel.
Rowan frowned, curiosity piqued.
Kaelen nodded, pulling a small scrap of cloth from his pack, marked with a faded symbol.
Rowan studied the cloth, awe and anxiety mingling in his eyes.
Kaelen met his gaze, voice low.
Rowan nodded, determination settling in.
Kaelen offered a rare, approving smile.
Rowan looked to the horizon, where the lights of Greyharbor flickered in the distance.
