The rain had turned the streets into a river of brown sludge that reflected the flickering lights from the windows. The villagers parted as the cart approached, revealing the grim cargo.
Leading the somber parade was a tall woman that was on a horse back. Her fiery red hair flowed like a banner in the wind. Even though the rain was coming down in sheets, it was evident that her armor was splattered blood, the deep red marks standing out vividly against the gleaming metal.
She and a burly man separated from the group of guards, who continued making their way toward the barracks at the back of the village.
The woman dismounted her equally exhausted horse, her movements precise and practiced, revealing a body that bore the weight of recent battle. She walked through the mud, her boots leaving a trail of crimson prints, as made her way toward the inn.
The burly man with the big sword slung over his back followed her. His face was a mask of grit and grime, his eyes bloodshot, and his steps heavy with fatigue. Despite his towering frame, weariness was palpable in his slumped shoulders.
"Honey!" The innkeeper rushed toward the burly man, grasping his hand. "Are you alright?" she inquired, her tone blending relief with worry.
"Don't you see, woman? I'm still alive." Unlike his crude response, the captain held his wife tightly, his large hand caressed her face.
Elling leaned in and whispered softly into Hamon's ear, "That's our guard captain."
"What happened?" she asked, her voice trembled as she looked at the cart.
The captain looked at the cart before he turned to face her, his expression was grim. "Bandits, love. But not just any bandits. They were... they were more organized, more... equipped than any I've ever seen. It was like fighting an army."
His wife's eyes grew wide with fear. "What do you mean?"
The captain took a deep, ragged breath. "They had horses, weapons, and armor that could rival the soldiers from the capital. We were outmatched, and outnumbered."
He then turned toward the red-haired woman. "If it weren't for Lady Vera, we would all be food for the crows by now."
"Is she the important person from the capital?" The innkeeper whispered to her husband.
"Well, she—"
"Is there a hot bath here?" The woman—Vera—walked past the couple into the inn. Her voice was sharp, clear, and commanding. She didn't look at anyone in particular, but everyone knew she was speaking to the innkeeper.
The innkeeper nodded, quickly followed after her. "At the end of the corridor my lady, We will have a hot tub waiting for you for instance."
Watching his wife and Vera disappear inside, the captain suddenly turned toward another pair, Hamon and Elling.
"Chief," the captain greeted as he walked toward them.
Hamon turned to look at Elling with a rising eyebrow. "It's the first time I meet a village chief who is a drunkard."
Elling chuckled, slapping Hamon's shoulder. "Forgive me my friend, I drank too much that made me forget to introduce myself properly."
The drunkard extended his hand toward Hamon. "Elling Vilhelm, chief of Wildberry."
He took the offered hand firmly. "I look forward to more surprises you have for me, Elling."
"I can say the same to you, my friend."
With a nod to the captain, Hamon chose to step away and let them handle their matters. As he walked back to his table, the delicious aroma of his meal greeted him once more.
He sat down and took a sip from his mug, the warm liquid sliding down his throat and providing a brief respite from the cold.
He contemplated what to do next, perhaps he should stay here for a couple of days, as it seemed like something interesting seemed to be unfolding. Besides, he had no specific plan anyway, since the empire had yet to launch its invasion and Malic had not yet begun their recruiting of mercenaries.
…
The warmth of the room, a full belly, and the exhaustion of a long ride had taken their toll. Hamon felt his eyelids grow heavy, and before he knew it, he was slipping into sleep.
It was the best rest he had in two months, allowing him to lose himself in his dream and fully lower his guard. So when a sudden gust of wind brushed against his face, his eyes snapped open, and his hand shot out, clamping around the wrist of his attacker.
The room was still dark, with just a faint light of the moon peeking through the shuttered window. His attacker was a young man, no older than seventeen, gripping a dagger that trembled in his unsteady hand.
"You're the stable boy," Hamon muttered in surprise, his grip firm but not crushing. "Haa… I knew giving that kid a gold coin would bring trouble," he sighed.
The young man stared at him with wide eyes, his chest rising and falling with panicked breaths.
"Let go of me!" he demanded, swinging his free hand in a desperate attempt to strike Hamon.
With a swift and surprisingly controlled movement, Hamon released his wrist—only to drive a kick into his stomach. It seemed he used too much strength as the force sent the young man flying backward, crashing through the wooden wall behind him with a loud crack.
"Great. Another coin for the damage." Hamon sat up, rubbing the back of his head in annoyance.
Stepping over the shattered wood and plaster, he entered the other room, his gaze never leaving the boy sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. A candle had toppled over during the struggle, its flickering light casting jagged shadows across the space.
Hamon knelt beside him and tapped his face. "Hey, don't make me pay for your funeral too."
Getting no response, he tapped again. "Hello? Just so you know, I'm terrible at delivering bad news—especially when I'm the cause of it. So, I may—"
Hamon suddenly felt another gust of wind behind his back, this one hundred times deadlier and faster than the young man's attack.
He rolled away just in time as the edge of a sword whistled through the air where his neck had been.
He sprang to his feet to find the red-haired woman from earlier standing near the bed, sword drawn and poised to strike.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was flat, but Hamon caught the subtle tension beneath it—caution, perhaps even surprise, that he had managed to dodge.
He considered explaining himself, even gesturing toward the stable boy, but then an idea struck him.
"That was a good swing," he said with a smile. "For a woman."
"Oh?" Vera's grip on her sword tightened as she stepped into a more open space, away from the bed. "And that was a good dodge—for a cockroach."
Hamon mirrored her movement, his eyes never leaving her blade. "Thank you for the compliment."
"That wasn't a compliment." She lunged, her sword flashing toward his stomach. "It was an insult!"
With no weapon to protect himself, Hamon had no choice but to duck away. "There's no difference when it comes from a beautiful woman like yourself."
Vera's eyes narrowed. She struck again, her blade carving a precise arc through the air. "You're one of a kind, aren't you?"
"What kind?" He smirked, sidestepping her attack with ease. Despite his playful tone, he knew he was treading a fine line.
"A shameless kind." Her voice was icy as she thrust forward—faster this time.
Her expression remained cool and sharp, but Hamon could feel the shift in the air around her. Playtime was over.
The sword shot forward like lightning. Hamon barely avoided it, but not entirely—the blade grazed his shoulder, leaving a thin red line.
In a swift motion, he caught Vera's wrist, his grip like iron. His thumb pressed into the soft joint at the base of her hand, forcing her fingers to release the sword.
Then he slid his leg between hers and swept her off balance, sending them both tumbling onto the bed.
Using both of his hands and his weight, he pushed her down, keeping her still.
"I take back my words," he admitted with a grin. She was stronger than he expected—stronger than most knights he had faced. They had never landed a blow on him, not even a scratch. Her skill might even rival that of the Queen's Guard back in his homeland. But still, it didn't make any difference for him. "You are not bad for a knight."
"I'm asking again, who are you?" Even in such a situation, the woman's face didn't change—her sharp eyes stared emotionlessly at him. However, Hamon could still see a trace of annoyance in her red irises.
He let her go, pushing himself upright as he reached down to pick up her sword.
"Hamon." He bowed with exaggerated politeness.
Vera rose as well, keeping her distance.
"That was rude of me." He smiled, turning the hilt toward her in a gesture of truce. "It was an accident that I burst into your room."
He glanced toward where the young man had been, but the stable boy had already vanished.
"I understand," Vera replied, accepting her sword.
Only then did the sounds of stirring voices from outside reach them—their commotion had finally drawn attention.
Vera sheathed her sword with a swift motion. "Looks like we've got an audience."
Indeed, the door to the room was thrown open, and the innkeeper, her husband, and a few villagers armed with makeshift weapons stood in the doorway. Their faces were painted with a blend of surprise and bewilderment.