Chapter 77: The Ones Left Behind (Part 1 of 2)

  The road narrowed after Blackrun. Not in width, but in intent. Traffic thinned into smaller groups—pairs, trios, sometimes a single figure walking too fast or too slow. The land here had learned to give less. Watch posts stood closer together, manned by guards who looked tired enough to mistake movement for threat.

  Laurent was halfway through the second day past Blackrun when it happened. They rushed him badly. Five of them. Too thin. Too light. No formation worth naming. One carried a rusted blade; another gripped a club wrapped in cloth to hide the cracks. The rest had nothing but hands and hunger.

  They saw his age. His posture. The sword at his hip. Easy target.

  Laurent stepped forward once.

  “Stop,” he said, slow and clear.

  They didn’t. The first swung wide and wild. Laurent shifted aside, hooked the wrist, and put him down with a controlled shove that stole breath without breaking bone. The second rushed, tripped over the first, and caught the flat of Laurent’s guard across the shoulder. The others hesitated—just long enough.

  It was over in moments. No blood. No deaths. They lay groaning in the dirt, fear finally overtaking hunger. Laurent stood there, breathing steady, anger contained but close enough to feel. He remembered Captain Corin Halevar—the calm authority, the way violence ended before it multiplied.

  “Get up,” he said. They stared. He repeated it, sharper. He walked them to the nearest town with walls low enough to be honest: Ashcliff.

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  The guards took the group without comment. Hunger-driven banditry. No resistance after capture. Routine.

  The jail sat behind the hall—stone, narrow windows, a door that closed too often and opened too rarely. Laurent turned to leave. Movement caught his eye. Someone sat against the far wall behind the bars, knees drawn in, head lowered. Too thin. Too still. Clothes hanging loose in a way that spoke of time, not travel.

  Laurent slowed. The posture bothered him. Not the weakness—the familiarity. He stepped closer. The man lifted his head.

  “…Raymond?” The name left his mouth before he decided to say it.

  The man stared back, eyes unfocused—then widening in shock.

  “Oh—” He scrambled to his feet, gripping the bars hard enough that his knuckles went white. “You… you’re—Laurent? I thought everyone died. I thought you were dead.”

  “Long story,” Laurent said.

  Raymond laughed once, sharp and broken, then stopped, eyes wet. “I thought I was the only one left.”

  The guard’s gaze flicked between them. Their language. Not the local dialect. Not anything he recognized. Something else entirely.

  “You know him?” the guard asked Laurent, slower now.

  “Yes,” Laurent said. “From before.”

  Raymond said something else—fast, emotional. The guard didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. His expression shifted—uneasy, suspicious, uncertain where to place it.

  “What’s he in for?” Laurent asked.

  “Petty thievery,” the guard said, already bored. “Food. Mostly. No warrant filed. He can work, but”—a shrug—“can’t speak worth a damn.”

  “How long?”

  The guard frowned. “Couple years. Maybe three. Lost track.”

  Laurent reached into his pouch. “I’ll warrant his release.”

  The guard eyed the coins. “One crown.”

  Laurent paused. Too much. And nothing at all. He paid.

  The door opened. Raymond stepped out unsteadily, blinking like the light hurt. Laurent caught him by the shoulder before he fell.

  “You okay to walk?”

  Raymond nodded too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. Don’t leave me here.”

  “I won’t,” Laurent said. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  Laurent glanced west. “Rimewatch.”

  Raymond frowned. “Ri-me what?”

  “Never mind,” Laurent said, already turning. “Just follow me.”

  They stepped back onto the road together. Behind them, the jail door of Ashcliff closed again. And the town returned to forgetting.