Chapter 39: Fucking Hangover
Morning.
I woke up alone in bed.
Not exactly shocking, I remembered she left sometime in the middle of the night. Didn't say a word. Not even a "fuck you." Classy exit.
For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, and then… my body remembered it was hungover.
Oh, fuck.
The killer headache hit first, sharp and deep like a dagger to the brain. Then the dry throat, like I'd swallowed sand and tried to wash it down with more sand. And finally, that sheer bone-deep exhaustion you only get after drowning your liver in whatever the hell Erik calls "the strong stuff."
I groaned, rolled to the side, and let myself fall right off the bed onto the cold wooden floor. Too much effort to care about looking dignified.
Clothes… where the hell… ah. My pants were half under the bed. I dragged them over and started rummaging through the pockets.
There. One of my ten potions.
I popped the cork and downed it in one go. The soothing yet bitter yellow-green sludge coated my throat, warm at first, then spreading out into this familiar energy that wrapped around my entire body in a glow. For a few seconds I just lay there, letting it do its thing, groaning as the magic flushed away the hangover, the headache, the sandpaper throat, all of it.
And then the glow faded.
Just like that, I shot up to my feet like I'd just respawned. Reborn. Brand new. Lust sated, three full rounds of smashing Freya will do that and feeling like I could punch through a wall.
Perfectly healthy. Ready for whatever the hell this day wanted to throw at me.
And then the system decided to throw something at me.
The countdown screen popped up out of nowhere.
66 hours, 13 minutes, 42 seconds… 41… 40…
Right. That little detail.
By late afternoon today, the creatures would be here. The mission was clear: Freya lives, I live. Freya dies… well, I instantly become a very dead Dragonborn.
So yeah. Whether I liked her or not and believe me, "liked" wasn't the word I'd use, I had to be with her when this thing went down.
I threw on my clothes, strapped my sword to my side, and stepped out into the hallway of the Mikaelson Inn. My head was clear now, my body still humming with that post-potion buzz. The countdown was still ticking in the corner of my vision, 66 hours, 11 minutes, 51 seconds, like a smug reminder that the universe was still holding a gun to my head.
The smell of cooked meat and yesterday's ale clung to the air as I descended the creaking stairs. Erik was behind the counter, polishing a glass that didn't need polishing. His eyes flicked up at me, narrowed just a little, and that squeaky-but-somehow-low voice of his broke the morning quiet.
"Sleep well?"
I stopped at the counter, leaning my arm against the worn wood. "Yeah. Like a baby."
He kept cleaning the glass, his long fingers moving slow. "Mm-hmm. You and my daughter seem to have… talked things out."
I didn't bother hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Talked. Yelled. Drank. Yeah, a lot happened."
His pale, sunken face didn't change. "You hurt her, and I'll know about it. Don't think your sword's fast enough to stop a father's hands."
I raised both hands in mock surrender. "Noted. No need to sharpen the pitchfork yet, old man."
Erik snorted and went back to wiping down the bar, the conversation done. I stepped outside into the streets of Torak.
The city was already alive. Hawkers shouted from market stalls, their voices competing with the clang of blacksmith hammers. Somewhere, a pack of kids darted between carts, laughing like they had no idea a swarm of monsters might be knocking on the city gates in a matter of hours. The air carried that faint electric tang before a storm, only this storm was going to have claws, teeth, and probably more eyes than I cared to count.
As I made my way down the cobblestone main street, a few faces turned toward me.
"Hey! You're that adventurer, right? The one who nearly died running around the city!" a portly fishmonger called from behind his stall, holding up a wriggling trout as if that made the recognition more official.
I gave him a quick nod but kept walking.
Another man, a wiry fellow with a crooked nose, gave me a look that wasn't quite friendly. "Heard you also stirred up trouble with the Iron Fangs," he muttered loud enough for me to hear. "Better hope that sword arm of yours holds up."
I didn't slow down for him. If I stopped to respond to every idiot with an opinion, I'd be here all week.
Crossing through the central market, I passed a group of guards in the city's silver-trimmed armor. One of them, a younger recruit I vaguely recognized from the gates, gave me a nod and a smile. "Morning, Kaizen."
"Morning," I replied, not breaking stride.
The streets narrowed as I cut toward the guild district. The buildings leaned closer here, shadows pooling in the alleys, the smell of old stone and damp wood mixing with the distant scent of fresh bread from a bakery up ahead. My boots thudded against the uneven cobblestones, and every so often, my eyes flicked to the countdown in my vision.
66 hours, 8 minutes, 33 seconds.
At last, the guild hall came into view, the familiar tall, heavy-timbered building with its banner flapping lazily in the breeze. The usual flow of adventurers came and went through its doors, some geared up for jobs, others laughing and nursing morning drinks on the benches outside.
I spotted her almost immediately. Freya Mikaelson, still wrapped in that ever-present plate armor, her black hair cascading down her back like a shadow you could touch. She was at the far end of the reception area, speaking to one of the guild's other receptionists. Her stance was as rigid as ever, like she was carved from steel instead of flesh.
I didn't go to her. Not yet. Instead, I lingered near the entrance, just inside the hall, watching from a distance. She hadn't noticed me or if she had, she didn't care enough to show it. Either way, I wasn't in the mood to have round two of last night's verbal sparring match.
For now, I'd watch. Observe. Keep her alive.
And wait for the world to start burning.