"Hello. How much for a night?"
The innkeeper—a warm-faced woman with quick eyes and a practiced smile—studied him carefully.
"For you, dear? Twenty-five bronze a night. Breakfast's on the house," she said. "What do you say?"
Charles counted quickly. Five small gold coins—enough for a few weeks if he stayed careful. One gold was ten silver; each silver, a hundred bronze. Numbers didn't lie. People sometimes did.
He shoved two silver toward her, masking his calculations with casual confidence. Generosity first, Orsen's voice reminded him. People remembered favors.
Matilda's grin widened. "Thanks, sweetie. Dinner's on me too—starts in an hour. Sit anywhere downstairs. Your room's the second door on the left, first floor."
Charles nodded, pocketing the key. Orsen, you old bastard… wish you were here.
The room was simple but clean: a single bed, two chairs, a small table, and a cracked mirror reflecting a man shaped by sunburn, dust, and miles of struggle.
He stripped off grime-coated clothes, scrubbing at dried blood and desert sand. Relief coursed through him. Proper baths and fresh clothes could wait. Dinner first.
---
Downstairs, the common room buzzed with conversation: humans, a few dwarves, and two elves murmuring quietly in a corner. Smoke, roasting meat, and ale thickened the air.
Charles claimed an empty table. Soon, a bright-eyed girl approached.
"I'm Miranda," she said, clearly briefed. Small, maybe twenty, wavy blond hair catching the lamplight. Charles noticed her curves—not that he intended to flirt—but the world still held beauty.
He ordered steak, bread, pickled vegetables, and a mug of house beer.
Instead of Miranda, a massive one-armed man brought the tray, scowling like carved stone.
"Miranda's my daughter," he growled. "One dirty look, and you'll regret it."
Charles blinked, calm. "Noted."
The man grunted and left. The food was excellent: tender steak, fresh bread, sharp pickles, thick, bitter beer. He downed it and signaled for another round. This time, Miranda delivered it herself, curtsying. Charles focused on the table, not her. Desire flickered, but caution anchored him. Bold, yes—but not suicidal.
---
Midway through his second mug, the tavern door slammed open. Two bearfolk stomped in, fur rippling over worn armor, swords resting at their hips. Their gaze fixed on him.
Here we go.
Charles didn't flinch. He lifted his mug as if unconcerned, feeling the tension tighten. The larger leaned down, sniffing.
"We want to drink. Move," he snarled.
Charles' left hand slid under the table to his dagger, calm, measured. Years of desert survival had taught him patience. Bravado never wins—but fear never does either.
"One… two… three," the brute counted, pressing hands to the table.
In one fluid motion, Charles drove his dagger through the first man's hand, pinning it to the wood. A second blade hovered at the other's throat. The bearfolk staggered, groaning, blood seeping between fingers. Charles twisted free.
"Tell your friend to keep his weapons sheathed," he said quietly. "Or you die before you blink."
The bearfolk stared for a long moment, then stumbled back, grumbling. The tavern slowly returned to its usual hum. Silence spoke louder than words.
Clovis, the one-handed barkeep, leaned casually on the bar, observing with sharp eyes. His tone was smooth, practiced. "Minor mercenaries, eh? Strong friends, though. Keep your wits about you, lad. Streets are full of folk with more teeth than manners."
"Thanks," Charles said, neutral.
Clovis shrugged, returning to polishing mugs. "Don't mention it. Just… watch yourself. I've seen plenty not come back for their supper. Young fools and their pretty knives…"
---
He slept well that night. Clean sheets, quiet room. No chains. No sandstorms haunting him.
At dawn, Matilda brought hot water. He let it soak into his bones. For the first time since his escape, he felt human.
Breakfast was eggs, warm bread, and fresh milk. Charles lingered, savoring warmth, calm, and choice.
Gerart arrived two hours late, looking worse for wear.
"You're late," Charles smirked. "Drinking last night?"
Gerart winced. "Old friends. One drink became fifteen minutes of regret."
Charles laughed. "Fair enough. Lead the way."
---
The city tour began at the gates. The West Gate opened to desert and hostile lands. Few merchants passed this way.
"See that?" Gerart said, pointing to the walls bristling with crossbows. "Not all travelers leave in one piece. Best to keep your wits."
Charles nodded, scanning the crowd. Dust and sand from the desert clung to their robes and armor.
"And the guilds?" he asked.
Gerart scratched his beard. "Guilds run the city's blood and coin. Join one—or more if you can. Each has dues, quests, loyalty oaths. Do right, you get protection. Screw up, you pay in pain."
"Let's peek at the Mage Guild too," Charles said, curiosity pricking at him.
Gerart snorted. "Arrogant bastards. Don't talk unless you have to. Magic makes them feel important. Watch, don't interrupt."
Charles kept quiet, noting the contrast between the guilds as they passed:
Hunters' Guild: skulls, pelts, preserved heads. The faint iron scent reminded him of desert hunts.
Blacksmiths: the heat of the forges kissed his skin; weapons gleamed under polished masterwork seals.
Mercenary Guild: mosaics of battle and violence told stories of coin-for-blood contracts.
Mage Guild: towering marble, spotless floors, clinical perfection. Charles shivered; he would observe, never touch.
They passed the bank and library. Wealth and knowledge radiated from the buildings. Charles made mental notes, cataloging the city like a map in his mind.
---
"Alright," Gerart said with a grin, slapping Charles on the shoulder, "time for wine, mead, and women."
Charles smirked. Some things never change. His first taste of freedom had come from Orsen's gift—a night at a brothel at fifteen. Slaves never had luxuries.
The brothel district was clean, quiet, safe. A noble building of white marble, fountains, and erotic statues radiated wealth. Inside, a central pond gleamed. Women moved like dancers—humans, beastkin, dwarves, orcs. No elves; rare and whispered about.
Two approached: one petite, black-haired elegance, the other, a red-haired vision, curves and smoky eyes. Charles felt heat coil low in his stomach, pulse quickening. Need rose sharply, unbidden, and his body tensed. But his eyes remained sharp, scanning, measuring. Desire burned—but trust was scarce, honed by years of pain and betrayal.
Anne, the redhead, lingered, fingers brushing his arm. The touch sent a jolt through him. He wanted her, desperately. Yet his mind stayed alert, instinct warning him not to fall too fast. A predator's caution. He hesitated… then followed, careful to mask the hunger twisting inside him.
---
Behind the closed door, her robe fell. Charles froze, heart hammering. Years of obedience whispered in his bones—collars, cold nights alone. Wanting her felt forbidden, thrilling, dangerous.
"You're allowed to want this," she said softly. "No chains, no orders. Just you. Just me."
His breath caught. Desire screamed, but caution clung to him. Slowly, he let fingers trace her back, tasting warmth and silk. The ache in his body fought the vigilance in his mind, but tonight, hunger won just enough. Her lips met his, and for the first time in years, he let the past fall away—just for tonight.