After a long moment of silence, Sulien finally stood.
The wooden chair scraped softly against the tavern floor as he pushed it back into place with mechanical precision, as if even leaving a trace of disorder behind him would be unacceptable. He adjusted his gloves once, then twice, ensuring the seams aligned perfectly with his fingers before finally looking at the man across from him. His expression remained calm, but beneath that calm was something quieter and more demanding—an urgency he didn't bother explaining.
"Then prepare yourself," Sulien said, voice steady, almost casual. "I won't wait for stragglers."
There was no threat in his tone. No raised voice. No intimidation.
And somehow, that made it feel more absolute.
The man didn't respond immediately. He just watched Sulien as he turned away, the chair creaking faintly behind him as he left the table. His fingers remained wrapped around his untouched drink, the surface of the liquid trembling slightly from how tightly he was holding the cup. His expression was difficult to read, caught somewhere between disbelief and something heavier he refused to name.
Hope was dangerous.
So was regret.
By the time Sulien reached the door, the man exhaled slowly and gave a small, almost reluctant nod—not enough to be seen by anyone else in the tavern, but enough for himself.
It was not agreement.
Not yet.
But it was no longer refusal either.
That night, the carriage rolled through the darkened roads with a steady rhythm that almost felt soothing if one ignored the fact that Sulien had not actually relaxed once since leaving the tavern. The world outside was reduced to passing silhouettes of trees and uneven stretches of road, occasionally broken by the distant glow of villages they would never enter. Inside, the faint sway of the carriage did little to settle his thoughts. If anything, it gave them more space to spread out.
Sulien leaned back against the cushioned seat, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh in a pattern that wasn't quite intentional but also not accidental. Every few moments, his gaze dropped to his gloves as if checking whether they were still there, still intact, still separating him properly from the world.
They were.
That didn't help.
His mind kept circling the same person.
The mercenary.
He had been exactly as described in the novel—at least on the surface. A broken weapon left to rust. A man whose talent had not disappeared, only been buried under exhaustion, alcohol, and a deliberate attempt to become irrelevant. In the original story, Sulien remembered, this man had appeared much later in Aiden McFerrin's journey. Not as a hero, not as a savior, but as something quieter and more important.
A foundation.
A trainer.
A man who taught Aiden how to stop surviving and start fighting properly.
Back then, Sulien had thought of him as a supporting character with a convenient role. Someone introduced when the plot needed a stronger weapon in the protagonist's hands.
Now, sitting in the dim interior of a moving carriage, he found himself thinking about that interpretation differently.
Because that man hadn't just been useful.
He had been necessary.
Without him, Aiden's growth would have been slower. Less controlled. More chaotic. The kind of growth that came from desperation instead of guidance. And yet, despite his importance, the novel had never given him a life beyond that role. Only fragments. Only results.
And then there was his death.
Sulien's fingers paused briefly against his thigh.
In the original timeline, the Miasma Crypt Order had launched their assault on the capital without warning. It was not a clean battle. It was a massacre disguised as war. Even the strongest defenders had struggled to hold the line. That mercenary—this man—had been stationed at one of the outer defensive points. He had not been the strongest fighter there, nor the most important, but when the formation collapsed and retreat became necessary, he had stayed behind.
Not because he was ordered to.
Because he chose to.
That was how he died.
Not as a legend. Not as a name remembered in songs. Just as another body among many, buying seconds with his life so that people he barely knew could survive long enough to matter in the next chapter of history.
And Aiden had remembered him.
That was the part Sulien couldn't ignore.
Even if the world treated him as disposable, the protagonist hadn't.
Sulien exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the seat. The ceiling of the carriage swayed slightly with each bump in the road, but his eyes stayed fixed on it as if it might offer an answer.
Now he was here.
Alive.
Recruited early.
Pulled out of his future before it could properly happen.
That meant something had already changed.
And changes like this never stayed isolated.
The timeline has already shifted.
The thought came uninvited, cold and simple.
The question is whether I just improved it… or broke it.
By the time morning came, the carriage slowed near the outskirts of a small village. The sun had barely risen, its light weak and pale, stretching across the fields like something unsure of itself. At the edge of the road stood the mercenary.
He looked worse than the night before.
Not physically injured—but drained in a way that sleep hadn't fixed. His posture was straight, but it lacked conviction, as if even standing upright required effort he wasn't sure he wanted to spend. A small bag hung from his shoulder, packed with whatever little he had decided was worth carrying into a new life.
Or an attempt at one.
When he saw the approaching carriage, he didn't move immediately. Only after a long pause did he inhale deeply and step forward, as if forcing his feet to obey.
No hesitation now.
Just resignation dressed as resolve.
The carriage stopped in front of him.
Sulien stepped down first.
The mercenary looked at him for a moment before speaking. "I'm here."
It wasn't a question.
Sulien nodded once. "Good. Then get in."
That simple response made the man pause slightly.
"That's it?"
Sulien glanced at him. "If you were going to change your mind, you would've done it last night."
"…Fair point."
He climbed into the carriage without further argument.
The journey resumed with the same rhythmic creaking of wheels, though the atmosphere inside had shifted. The mercenary sat across from Sulien, studying him in a way that was subtle but constant, like a man trying to decide whether the situation he had entered was real or just another poor decision he would regret later.
Sulien, meanwhile, had returned to his earlier habits.
Gloves adjusted. Sleeves checked. Posture corrected.
Flinn eventually broke the silence first.
"So," he said, leaning back casually against the window frame, "you always recruit people like this? No ceremony, no explanation, just 'get in' and hope for the best?"
Sulien didn't look at him. "You came."
"That's not an answer."
"It is. Just not the one you wanted."
Flinn let out a short laugh, more amused than offended. "Right. I forgot I'm dealing with a man who thinks conversation is optional."
Sulien finally glanced at him. "It is."
That earned another chuckle.
For a moment, Flinn studied him more directly. Not the way a subordinate would, but the way someone tries to understand a dangerous tool before deciding how closely they should stand near it.
"You know," Flinn said slowly, "most people hesitate before killing."
Sulien blinked once. "Most people die because of that."
"Comforting."
"It's not meant to be."
A pause.
Flinn tilted his head slightly. "And you? Do you ever hesitate?"
The question lingered longer than it should have.
Sulien looked down at his gloves.
"I don't have the luxury," he said finally.
It wasn't entirely true.
But it was close enough.
Flinn hummed softly, unconvinced but no longer pressing.
"Interesting."
Sulien ignored him, reaching into his coat and wiping his fingers again anyway. There was no visible dirt. No blood. Nothing that required cleaning.
Still, he did it.
The mercenary across from him watched quietly, eyes narrowing slightly, but said nothing.
Outside, the world kept moving.
Inside, something unspoken had already begun to shift.
And Sulien—whether he liked it or not—was no longer the only one aware of it.