"Since the war, I've roamed the world, yet the void within me endures. I live without purpose, still chained to a blessing I never asked for."
-----------------
"You want some advice, boy?" Nisheena said, her voice carrying the authority of
someone who'd survived in Baelur longer than most. "Stay out of it."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"With respect, lady Nisheena, I don't think we can afford to—"
"The wanderer isn't some noble hero from your bedtime stories," she
interrupted. "He's dangerous, unpredictable, and his presence here will bring
nothing but trouble."
"He's a king's blessed," Kael said stubbornly. "They're sworn to protect the
innocent."
Nisheena laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what you think? Let
me tell you something about the king's blessed, child. They don't leave the
royal palace unless there's a war to fight or an enemy to kill. They're weapons,
not protectors."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more
menace than any shout.
"So ask yourself. what kind of war brought him here? What kind of enemy is he hunting?"
The table fell silent. Even Kael seemed to deflate slightly, though his expression
remained defiant.
"More importantly," Nisheena continued, "if he's here without the king's
permission. if he's broken his oath. then maybe Tarkun doing us all a favor
by keeping him chained up."
"You don't mean that," Kael said, but uncertainty crept into his voice.
"Don't I? A rogue king's blessed is more dangerous than an entire army. At
least we'd see an army coming."
She straightened, surveying the faces around the table. Fear, confusion, and a
growing understanding of just how precarious their situation had become.
Good. Fear kept people alive.
"My advice?" she said.
"Pray Tarkun has the sense to kill him quietly and bury the body where it won't be found. And pray the capital never learns he was here."
Before anyone could respond, she turned and walked back toward the bar,
leaving the men to digest her words. She had work to do, bottles to clean, and
a business to run. Whatever happened in Tarkun's dungeons was beyond her
control, and she'd learned long ago not to waste energy on things she couldn't
change.
But as she reached for another glass, she found herself thinking about the
wanderer's book of poetry, about verses that spoke of journeys and loss and
roads that led away from home. What kind of warrior carried such things?
What kind of story was he hiding behind that weathered face?
The sound of the inn's door opening pulled her from her thoughts. She looked
up, expecting to see another patron seeking warmth and ale, but the figure
that entered made her breath catch in her throat.
He was tall and lean, with dark navy hair that fell in tousled waves around
sharp, pale features. His eyes were an unusual shade of teal, striking against his
alabaster skin, and they held an intensity that made her feel as though he
could see straight through to her soul. But it was his clothing that truly set him
apart. a long black robe that resembled priestly vestments, adorned with silver
crosses that caught the lamplight. Multiple earrings glinted along his ears, and
cross pendants hung from his neck like talismans.