The sunlight spilled across the small inn room. Aegon stirred, letting out a long yawn before stretching his arms wide. With a steadying breath, he recalled the spirituality he had left spread around him. For the entire night he had maintained a five-meter field, his awareness blanketing the room like an invisible net.
It was something he did out of habit now. Though he possessed danger awareness, Aegon preferred certainty. The field was a second guard, sensitive enough to jolt him awake at the faintest unusual noises or movements. He might be asleep, but a part of him was always listening.
The drawback showed itself each morning. As the spirituality flowed back into his mental space, a dull ache pulsed through his head; the familiar fatigue. Aegon pressed his temples briefly. Keeping that perception field active through the night always left him slightly drained, but it was a price worth paying. Better to wake with a headache than never wake at all.
"Well," he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, "time to get ready."
His eyes drifted across the room, checking the precautions he had set. The chair still braced against the door, angled so that any attempt to force it open would be met with resistance. The windows, narrow and barred with iron strips, had been inspected properly last night. His dagger lay sheathed under the bed, his sword propped against the wall within arm's reach.
Better paranoid than dead.
He stood, dressing quickly. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was already past early morning. He would need to see to his needs, eat properly, and then be on his way if he meant to make good distance by nightfall.
But first, closing his eyes, he reached through the familiar link in his mind, checking on Dreamfyre.
Olyvar stared into the dregs of his beer and thought, fuck, why is he still not here. The mug felt heavier in his hand, giving a comfort and a taunt both. Across from him was Halden, hunched over the table with his chin in his fist, grumbling at the room, the morning, the world.
They'd been waiting since first light. The plan had been plain enough: listen at the stair, see him come down, let him eat, then follow him out to the road and separate him from his purse. Yesterday they'd heard it clean; the man had told the innkeep he wanted a room for one night. One night meant leaving at first light.
Halden gave a soft snort. "Seems we're doing his liege a kindness," he muttered, voice low. "Rid the realm of one lazy arse."
Olyvar didn't answer. He kept his face empty and his eyes moving. The common room was already half full with people.
He raised the mug and took a sip. Across, Halden's cup was already bare. That made Halden shorter-tempered, which made Olyvar's job harder.
Boots on wood. Olyvar didn't turn his head. He slid his heel across and kicked Halden under the table. Halden swallowed a curse, blinked, and let his mouth slacken as if he were simply bored.
The figure came down the last steps and into sight: their man. He picked a table by the wall, and sat with his back to the hearth.
"Food," he told the innkeep when he drifted near. "Meat pie if it's fresh. Bread. Ale."
The innkeeper nodded, already moving. Olyvar watched without watching. The purse at the guard's hip looked modest, no fat jingle, but the man had paid a gold piece last night for the room and taken back silver. A fool shows coin; fools pay tribute to men like Olyvar and Halden.
From the kitchen hatch came steam and the smell of gravy. Halden's belly answered with a small growl. He coughed into his fist and bent closer. "Not easy, watching another man eat," he said, annoyed.
Olyvar gave him the briefest nod, hauled the mug up again out of habit, found it empty, and set it down. He licked a fleck of foam from the rim to fool his mouth and sat still.
The inn's boy wove through the tables, tray on one shoulder. He shot them a look as he passed: the same sour little curl of lip he'd given them last night. Penniless knights, men who owed two nights and would owe a third before noon. He sniffed, turned his head away, and poured ale for a tinker who had the decency to pay before he drank.
Halden scratched his cheek and spoke. "Yard's busy," he said. "You saw the carts. Best wait for the lane behind the stable."
"Mmm," Olyvar said. "Or the track to the river. Quieter. Fewer eyes."
"Hooves on shale," Halden countered. "No good footing."
"Then the stable wall," Olyvar murmured. "Between the dung-heap and the fence. Three steps and gone."
Halden's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You're the map of caution, Oly."
"Caution keeps us in one piece."
The boy set the guard's plate down with both hands: a pie split to let steam out, a heel of bread, a pot of something that wanted to be gravy, and a short pewter cup. The guard gave a curt thanks, tore bread, dipped it and began to eat.
He didn't linger on the ale. He didn't empty it fast either. He kept his gaze loose, unfixed. Olyvar watched the angle of his shoulders, the way his fingers rested on the table when they weren't lifting knife or bread. Not a braggart, not green. A house guard with some training then, used to sleeping in mail and rising to orders.
"Companions?" Halden breathed.
"None," Olyvar said.
"A horse?"
"Didn't see him lead one in. Could be stabled, could be on foot. Doesn't matter."
Halden shifted his weight and the bench creaked. He laid his big hands flat. "When he stands, I'll stretch. You take the door first."
"No," Olyvar said. "You go. You're slower. I'll pass you at the saddle shed."
Halden's teeth showed, not quite a smile. "Always a pleasure, being told I'm slow."
"Truth is cheaper than ale."
A laugh barked from the river-men near the hearth at some tale. The guard cut the last third of his pie, ate it neat, wiped his knife on the bread and ate that too. He then drank, sitting for another breath, measuring the room.
He's careful, Olyvar thought. Careful is good. Careful men don't expect fools to try them in daylight.
The boy came to clear the plate. "Leaving, ser?" he asked, overly sweet.
"In a while," the guard replied.
He set three coppers on the table. The boy's hand hovered like a hawk before snatching them up quick. He cast another sour glance at Olyvar and Halden as he turned away… just a flash of disdain.
"Go," Olyvar breathed, and Halden pushed back from the table with a sigh. He stood, stretched like a man whose back ached, scratched at his hip, and ambled toward the door, pausing there to fumble with a strap on his scabbard. The guard rose as well, adjusted his belt, and followed at an ordinary pace.
Olyvar stayed seated two breaths longer. He slid his empty mug toward the table's edge as if he meant the innkeep to believe there'd been coin left beneath it. There wasn't. He set his hands on the tabletop, stood smoothly, and walked to the door with the same unhurried step.
Stepping out, he saw Halden already angling toward the stable. The guard was halfway across the packed dirt, heading for the lane that slipped between the inn and the hedge.
Olyvar set his shoulders, breathed once, and followed.
Suddenly, midway across the yard, the guard turned sharply and walked off in another direction. Both Halden and Olyvar froze in surprise. Their plan was already shifting under their feet. Olyvar raised two fingers in a subtle signal: hang back, don't look eager.
The man's path led toward the woods behind the inn, down toward the river. Halden smirked with dark amusement, as if to say the fool had just made their task easier. Olyvar, felt suspicion prick at him, but he followed all the same.
The woods were sparse, shafts of pale morning light cutting through the branches. People often passed here; herders, children, women gathering reeds; yet the track was quiet now. The man walked ahead, steady and unhurried. The two banished knights shadowed him, slipping from tree to tree, soft-footed on the damp earth.
They were almost at the river when, suddenly, the figure ahead vanished. One moment he was there, the next he had slipped behind a tree and was gone.
"Fuck-fuck," Halden hissed, rushing forward. "Where is he?"
Olyvar frowned hard, scanning the ground. Mud should have kept his steps. But there were no tracks, no prints, nothing to follow. His gut turned cold.
Clap. Clap.
The sound came from behind them.
Both men spun to see the guard standing a few paces back, hands together, smiling as if at a play well-acted.
"So," the man said, voice calm, amused, "two banished knights, brought low enough to rob travelers? How pitiful."
Halden gave a bark of laughter, trying to cover his unease. He slapped Olyvar's shoulder. "Told you, we didn't lose him." He stepped forward, drawing his knife, cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Boy… count today as your bad luck. Shouldn't have carried so much coin."
"Careful," Olyvar muttered, unsheathing his sword, following a half-step behind.
But Olyvar's unease only deepened. The man looked plain enough; brown hair, a rugged, handsome face, but something about him was wrong. The foreboding had been there since the moment they followed him into the trees. He tried to push it aside, but the thought gnawed at him.
Halden closed the distance, less than ten paces now. The guard still had not drawn steel. Instead, he lifted his right hand and smirked.
"I'm afraid the fight will have to wait," he said lightly. "First… feel the pain."
He snapped his fingers.
Agony exploded in both men's skulls. Olyvar staggered, clutching his head, vision blurring. Memories jumbled, thoughts turned to mud. Halden fell to one knee, growling incoherently.
"Ha… Ha-den…" Olyvar gasped, the words breaking apart.
"Fuuuck—fuuck—" Halden groaned, spit flying as his body convulsed.
The man only smiled. "Ah. Too much." He snapped his fingers again.
The pain ebbed, leaving both men sprawled on the earth, gasping like drowning men. Fear widened their eyes.
Halden's fear twisted into fury. He forced himself upright and roared, "You cunt—" But before he could lunge, the man snapped again. Halden collapsed, screaming, clawing at his head, the sound raw and animal.
"Stop! F-fucking stop!" Olyvar shouted. His sword slipped from his hands, his knees refusing to hold him. His whole body shook. He had laughed at ghost tales all his life, sneered at witches and spirits, called them stories for children. Now he watched one unfold before him.
Cruel and real.
The man tilted his head, his smile calm, almost gentle. He raised his hand one last time, and snapped.
Halden's screams died to ragged groans, then silence. He lay shuddering, chest heaving.
Olyvar stared, horror stamped onto his face.
The man stepped closer, looking down at him. "Now," he said softly, pleasantly, "let's begin with introductions."
Olyvar huffed, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. His heart pounded like a war drum. Across from him, Halden sprawled on the ground, pale, his eyes wide and wild. The man… the sorcerer, no, the demon… stood over them, smiling with calm cruelty, as if this were no more than idle play.
Olyvar tore his gaze away from the smile and forced words past his cracked throat. "M-me… Oly-Olyvar Crenn!" He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. He jabbed a trembling finger at his companion. "And h-he… Halden Toller! We-we are banished knights… we only wanted coin."
He no longer cared for pride or pretense. He did not know what stood before him… demon, sorcerer; only that he had to cling to life and escape.
The demon tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips. "By robbing," he finished smoothly, as if savoring the word.
Both men nodded frantically, shame and terror writ across their faces.
"Is that all?" the demon asked, brows lifting in mock puzzlement.
"Yes," Olyvar rasped. "Yes, that's all…"
The smile returned, sharper now. Slowly, before their eyes, the guard's rough travel-worn garb shimmered, fading like smoke until it was gone. In its place was a black tunic of fine make. Olyvar's hands shook as he stared at the sorcery. His stomach turned, bile burning his throat.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the demon tossed four gold coins to the ground. Two landed before Olyvar, two before Halden. They gleamed in the patchy sunlight.
"Here," the demon said lightly.
The banished knights looked at each other, searching desperately for sense, for comfort. None came.
"Pick it up," the demon ordered. His voice was not raised, but the command dug into their bones.
Olyvar snatched the coins up at once, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped them. Halden followed, his thick fingers fumbling to obey.
"Good," the demon murmured, his smirk deepening. "Now that you've taken my coin, you've entered a transaction with me."
Olyvar froze, clutching the gold as if it burned his skin. His breath hitched. "W-what…"
"You both will go north," the demon continued, calm as ever. "You will wait for me at White Harbor. I will come and find you."
Relief flickered between Olyvar and Halden. Their shoulders sagged, foolish hope whispering that they had been spared.
But then the demon's smile sharpened, crueler. "Ah, yes… one more thing."
Sudden agony ripped through their chests. Both men cried out, clutching at themselves as if knives had been driven through their heart.
"You are cursed," the demon said, watching them writhe. His tone was pleasant, almost amused. "Defy me, and the curse will finish what it has begun." A chuckle slipped past his lips.
Olyvar's face turned the color of chalk. Sweat drenched his back. Halden gasped like a drowning man, his fury from earlier swallowed whole by despair. Both turned hollow eyes to one another and saw only their own horror reflected back.
"Treasure those gold coins," the demon said as he stepped past them. "They've cost you dearly."
And with that, he turned. His form blurred at the edges, his black tunic fading into the light until, with a shimmer, he was gone.
The woods were silent again. Only the rustling of leaves and the ragged panting of two broken men remained.
***
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