The inn's common room was chaos barely contained.
Refugees huddled at tables, faces hollow with exhaustion. Soldiers drank in corners, armor still bloodstained, eyes distant.
Children cried. Women whispered prayers. Men argued about defenses and whether the walls would hold.
Don descended the stairs slowly, his yellow eye tracking every detail.
The noise faded slightly as heads turned. Not many, but enough.
The boy with red hair. The one who'd arrived with Princess Diana's group. The one who'd killed demons with conjured blades and eyes that glowed wrong.
Some stared with curiosity. Others with fear. A few with desperate hope that maybe someone strong enough existed to save them.
Don ignored them all.
Near the entrance, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"—don't care if you're tired! The warehouses need to be stocked NOW! Weapons, food, water, medical supplies—everything!"
Martha.
The scarred woman from the dungeons stood before six soldiers, issuing orders with the authority of someone who'd commanded before.
The soldiers snapped to attention.
"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"
Martha nodded sharply. "Then get moving. I want those warehouses filled by nightfall. Dismissed."
The soldiers saluted and hurried out.
Martha exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. Then she noticed Don near the stairs.
Their eyes met.
"Don." Her voice was carefully neutral. "You're up. Didn't expect to see you moving so soon."
"I heal fast."
"So I've noticed." Martha's scarred face was unreadable. "Looking for something?"
"Princess Diana. Do you know where she is?"
"Governor's Palace. Discussing war strategy with Aldric and his council." Martha's lip curled slightly at the Governor's name. "Has been for the last two hours."
"Thank you."
Don moved toward the door, but Martha's voice stopped him.
"Don."
He paused, looking back.
Martha studied him, her scarred face showing something complicated—gratitude, worry, recognition.
"Don't mourn the dead. They died fighting. That's more than most get. Remember them, yes. But don't let their deaths drag you down."
Don's jaw tightened. His yellow eye burned brighter.
"Fighting or not," he said, his voice flat and cold, "they're still dead. Dead is dead."
He turned and walked out before Martha could respond.
Behind him, the scarred woman watched him go, expression troubled.
That boy carries too much. Far too much for someone so young.
Outside, Millhaven revealed itself in harsh afternoon light.
The city showed its hierarchy in layers.
The outer districts where the inn stood were cramped and desperate. Wooden shacks leaned against ancient stone walls. Streets were mud mixed with worse things. People wore clothes patched beyond recognition.
Their faces were hollow, eyes empty from knowing hunger as a constant companion.
Children sat in doorways, too thin, too quiet. Old women wept over empty pots. Men gathered in tight groups, speaking in low voices about demons and death and whether the walls would hold.
Don walked through it all with steady steps.
As he moved inward, the streets improved. Mud gave way to packed earth, then gravel. Buildings grew from one story to two, from wood to stone. Shops appeared with goods displayed, though prices were climbing as fear drove demand.
The people here looked better. Fed, if not well-fed. Clothed properly. Still afraid, but with something to lose.
And as Don approached the city center, wealth became obscene.
Mansions rose three stories high, white stone gleaming. Gardens with flowers and ornamental trees surrounded estates that could house fifty families each. Streets were paved with clean cobblestones. Guards in pristine armor stood at corners, weapons polished, faces showing softness of men who'd never seen real combat.
Merchants in silk robes haggled over prices that would feed the outer districts for weeks. Nobles in carriages passed by while refugees six streets away died of thirst. Women wore jewelry that could buy entire blocks. Men laughed over wine while soldiers bled on distant walls.
Don stopped walking.
A question formed in his mind—sharp, cold, undeniable.
What's the difference between humans and demons?
["None,"] Madness whispered, materializing beside him. ["Humans eat each other just as efficiently. They just use different teeth. Slower teeth. More polite teeth. But the result is the same—the strong feed on the weak, and the weak die grateful for the privilege."]
Don said nothing.
But he didn't disagree.
The Governor's Palace rose before him like a monument to everything wrong.
White marble. Gold trim catching the sun.
Towers serving no defensive purpose, existing purely to display wealth. Gardens with fountains—actual fountains, water flowing freely—while the outer districts rationed water by the cup.
Don approached the main gate where four guards stood in armor so clean it had clearly never seen combat.
One stepped forward. "Halt. State your business—"
"Don!"
Ashwood appeared from inside the gate. "Let him through. He's with Princess Diana's group."
The guards stepped aside.
Don nodded his thanks. Ashwood fell into step beside him, voice lowering.
"Your timing is excellent. Princess Diana is discussing the war situation with Governor Aldric. Your presence might be useful—you're from the capital, after all."
"I appreciate the thought," Don said carefully, "but I actually came looking for Diana to request supplies. Since you're here, maybe you can help instead?"
Ashwood raised an eyebrow. "Supplies? What kind?"
"Mana restoration potions. Stamina potions. A proper weapon. Armor if you can spare it."
Ashwood stopped walking. "That's… quite a list. What are you planning?"
Don's expression didn't change. "Something dangerous."
The levity drained from Ashwood's face. "I see. I can't authorize that without the Princess's approval. Follow me."