Side Story 3: The Night the Brave Was Denied

  Ray had thought himself past such weaknesses.

  He was the Brave now. Chosen by prophecy, burdened by the world. He had crossed borders without rest, slept in stables, bled in nameless fields, and fled his own homeland with nothing but a sword and a destiny snapping at his heels.

  But even the Brave was still a man.

  And tonight—after rumors, glares, whispers, and a day spent teaching until his mind burned—he was tired.

  Not just physically.

  The kind of tired that pressed behind the eyes. The kind that made silence too loud. The kind that made loneliness feel heavier than armor.

  Back in his rented room, Ray sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.

  “…Damn it.”

  He didn’t need love. He didn’t need romance. He just needed—

  Something adult.

  Something normal.

  After a long moment of internal debate, he stood and went downstairs.

  The inn caretaker was wiping the counter when he approached.

  “Um,” Ray said, carefully neutral, “I wanted to ask—do you know of any… services in town? For adults.”

  The rag stopped moving.

  Slowly, very slowly, the woman lifted her head.

  Her eyes narrowed.

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  Then sharpened.

  Then froze him in place like a blade at his throat.

  “…We don’t provide that kind of service here,” she said flatly.

  Ray blinked. “Ah—no, I didn’t mean here, I just meant—”

  Her glare intensified.

  “And even if we did,” she continued, voice cold, “we wouldn’t entertain you.”

  The air around them went stiff.

  Ray opened his mouth to explain.

  She cut him off.

  “Don’t ask again.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Ray stood there, stunned, realization creeping up his spine like ice.

  “…They think—”

  He stopped himself.

  He didn’t finish the thought.

  Later that night, wrapped in a cloak and pulled low beneath a hood, Ray slipped out of the inn.

  If he was going to be judged anyway, he might as well seek answers himself.

  The red-light district was quieter than he expected—lamps dimmed, laughter muted, doors half-closed. He picked one establishment that looked… normal. Warm light. No shouting. No spectacle.

  He stepped inside.

  The owner, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper instincts, looked up once—

  —and immediately sighed.

  “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Ray stiffened. “You recognize me?”

  “Everyone does,” she replied. “Hero or not, you’re hard to miss.”

  “I’m not here for trouble,” Ray said quickly. “I just want—”

  She raised a hand.

  “I don’t care what you want,” she said. “I care what you bring.”

  She leaned back, arms crossed.

  “And right now, you bring guards, gossip, and a reputation I want nowhere near my girls.”

  Ray swallowed. “I’m asking for adult companionship. Nothing illegal. Nothing—”

  She cut him off again, this time not unkindly, but firmly.

  “I don’t sell trouble,” she said. “And I don’t clean up heroes’ messes.”

  A pause.

  “…Also,” she added, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “given what people are saying? I wouldn’t touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.”

  That one hit.

  Ray bowed, stiff and automatic.

  “I understand.”

  He left without another word.

  By the time he returned to the inn, the streets felt colder.

  He climbed the stairs, step by step, shoulders slumped, disguise discarded halfway through. No one stopped him. No one spoke.

  Back in his room, Ray shut the door, slid down against it, and buried his face in his hands.

  “I didn’t even do anything…”

  His voice cracked.

  No answer came.

  Eventually, exhaustion won. He dragged himself to the bed, didn’t bother undressing properly, and collapsed face-first into the pillow.

  “…This is hell,” he muttered.

  And for the first time since being named the Brave, Ray fell asleep not from fatigue alone—

  —but from defeat.