“You said they won’t come here!” Jace hissed.

Liut rested his chin on his palm. “I misjudged.”

Ha!? The protagonist was not supposed to make such stupid mistakes! Wasn’t Liut written to be the coolest guy in the room, always? Aside from the character growth tragedy moments, but even then he was stoically cool.

Anyway.

Staring down at the table, Jace diverted his full attention to listening. The guards were rather agitated, one marching inside while the other followed him with brisk steps.

“Oh, Kirsten, Drosel, what brings you here?” the tavern keeper chirped, surprised. “I thought you fancy lads left Woodskums for the better life,” she jeered.

“Hi, Ol’ Bathy,” the calmer one of the guards greeted.

“Those fucking Golden Guards drink their fill up the hills,” the other all but spat the words. “I’d rather swim in piss than sit with them behind one table.”

Jace curiously glanced up at Liut. Liut put his finger to his lips, urging him to listen.

“Oi! So you come to my tavern? I shall whip you, boy!”

“Don’t listen to him, Ol’ Bathy. Drosel is in a sour mood because he let a prisoner escape.”

Wide-eyed, Jace quickly shot Liut a worried look. But Liut was idly sipping on his ale; not a care could be seen on his handsome face under that hood.

“Let!?” Drosel yelled. “They hit my head and tied me up and then… then!”

“Why is he so red in the face?” one of the patrons asked his companion quietly.

Curiosity winning over fear and reason, Jace sneaked a peek to the side where the guards were. And, fuck, it was that clerk—the one Liut tied up and gagged and left in the corner while they had… some fun. It was an exhilarating experience, okay!?

“Then what!? You’ve been sputtering about it the whole time but not a single word left your mouth!” Kirsten lost his patience. “Of course, the Golden Guard gave you a dressing down!”

Drosel glared, hands in fists, but he indeed was so bright red he appeared far more flustered than angry.

Slowly, Jace put two and two together. He bit his lip and felt his own cheeks heat up.

“Guess I didn’t hit him hard enough,” Liut mused. Not a drop, not a morsel of shame in his voice.

Sending him a nasty side-eye, Jace snarked, “Guess you didn’t.” Then added, “Pervert.”

“Who cares!” Drosel found his bearing to defend himself. “They all went mad anyway! Celestial Blood? Why do we even entertain this nonsense!? Instead of sending us more people to deal with demonic creatures, they chase fairy tales!”

Now the patrons all nodded in support, murmuring among themselves. Drosel visibly relaxed once their attention was no longer on him. Ol’ Bathy ushered the guards to the last empty table, fussing over them through a short walk. Thankfully, they ended up seated as far away from Jace as possible in this enclosed space.

“Drosel, so it’s true?” someone asked loud enough to be heard over the heated conversations of other patrons. “The king really tries to find the Remnants?”

Jostled by the call, Drosel sat up straighter.

“It’s true,” Kirsten replied instead of him.

The confirmation was akin to a match thrown into a heap of hay. The voices erupted into an angry clamor, each louder than the other.

“What bullshit! That’s why the Golden Guards are here? I thought they came to help!”

“We’re fucking starving as boetchars destroy our crops and they waste manpower on this!?”

Suddenly, the tavern’s drunken buzzing grew into a public uproar.

“It all went to shit after he destroyed the Dark Brotherhood. They at least came to help when we called!”

The chorus of voices agreed.

At the mention of the Brotherhood, Jace glanced at Liut. His jaw was clenched, he was gripping his tankard so hard the knuckles turned white. Without thinking, Jace slid his hand over the table and placed it over Liut’s. The touch made Liut turn to him. Those sapphire eyes were filled with raw anger and, because Jace saw this look in the mirror more than enough times, he recognized what that rage hid underneath. Sorrow. And grief. And hate. So much hate.

Clumsily, wanting to at least somehow translate that he understood, Jace gently took away the tankard and instead laced their fingers together. A tentative, careful, touch. Jace was never good with comforting people, never understood what to say and how to act. He could donn the clown attire and make a few terribly timed jokes, or he could awkwardly pat the shoulder. He could never expresses his genuine care through words. Liut didn’t seem like a person who needed words. He didn’t seem like a person who needed anything. But Jace still, mindlessly, wanted to give at least something. 

Liut stared at their joined hands. Lips in a thin line, he pried himself away from Jace’s hold and turned his head so the hood was the only thing Jace saw.

Staring down at his open palm, Jace bit down on his lip hard enough so it would hurt. Right. What was he doing? Liut didn’t need him. From Liut’s perspective, Jace couldn’t possibly fathom even a fraction of the horrors he’d experienced. For Liut, this sorry attempt looked laughable.

Jace should stick to his role. It was better for both of them that way.

“Lads, lads!” Ol’ Bathy’s booming voice shook Jace out of his thoughts.

Thankfully, the commotion was still grand enough to allow Jace to refocus on it instead of spiraling in his mind. He watched as Ol’ Bathy set down the tray with drinks violently enough that the bang from it managed to calm down the racket. “Be quiet, we don’t want troubles here,” she warned.

“How much worse can it get, Ol’ Bathy?” the man with a bushy black beard and a rusty sword at his belt questioned. “One Black-Armored Storm can’t help us all. It’s the king who needs to step up.”

Another round of agreement followed, though now considerably quieter.

Jace wanted to gauge Liut’s reaction, but he once again reminded himself that he should leave personal matters out of this.

“Step up? Why would he care, he swims in gold far up on his Gilded Hills!” another patron exclaimed.

“And have you seen the reward the king promises for the Remnants? That amount of money can feed my family for years!” his companion added.

Jace fidgeted in his seat.

“Is it true, Kirsten? Will he pay?”

Kirsten, being made the center of attention, tilted his chin up and puffed his chest, the town’s crest on his breastplate in full view.

“Seeing as how frantic the Magistrate is, I think it’s true. Fairy tales or no, the king is obsessed with these Remnants.”

“Then we ought to fucking find him those Remnants and take the gold!” A blonde youth with a sickly-thin face sprang up from behind his table.

“Aye!”

“The lad’s right!”

The older man by his side, maybe his father since they looked alike, dragged the boy down with a sharp tug on his tattered vest.

“Idiot! They don’t exist! What will you bring to get the reward!?”

“But,” the youth protested, “didn’t Kirsten say Drosel let one of them escape?”

Everyone fell silent, all eyes once again on the guards.

This time, it was Drosel who cleared his throat to reply. His eyes misted over from the drink, cheeks dusted red.

“Yes,” he drunkenly nodded. “The Golden Guards chased down someone they considered to be a true Remnant.”

A wave of whispers and exclamations washed over the tavern. Huddled over their tables, everyone gossiped and plotted around the newly confirmed information.

Watching over the ruckus, Drosel hiccuped. He put down his tankard with a loud bang, and the crowd quieted down, sending him questioning glances.

“What else, Drosel?”

Drosel, swaying and holding the table for support, stood up from his seat.

“Fuck the Golden Guards!” he roared.

At first silent at the sudden outburst, the crowd then laughed and yelled out their agreement. A few men stomped their tankards in support.

Ol’ Bathy was the only sober one. Deathly pale, her eyes kept drifting to the door as if she was afraid the king himself would run inside and hang them for treason.

Fired up and clearly led by alcohol and wounded pride, Drosel continued:

“And fuck the king in his Gilded Peaks!”

The stomping grew even louder, the sound of heavy boots hitting the floor joining the thick noise of wood knocking wood.

“But the gold? We need it more than them!” Drosel yelled and picked up his drink, ale splashing over his sleeve.

The clamor of ‘aye’s was so loud Ol’ Bathy grasped her heart.

“Nevron the Delusional be damned, but why not take his gold anyway?” Drosel asked, hardly able to shout over the trampling. “Whoever wishes to help us find that fucking Remnant, let us share the reward equally!” He rose his tankard high to the ceiling.

The loud cheering was deafening. Cups of ale rose, the eyes of the drunken men shone with greed and the promise of gold.

Jace tugged his hood lower and hugged his own drink closer to his chest. It might be his last one, after all. Even Liut couldn’t fight off a crowd of hungry, desperate men of this size.

And why would he?