The cacophony of the 'Rusted Flagon' was a special kind of torture. Laughter and clinking mugs bounced off the smoke-stained rafters, sharp and ceaseless. It was the sound of a city trying to forget and a warrior who refused to.

Streamers in emerald and storm gray fluttered in the autumn breeze through the open shutters. Outside, fiddlers played brisk war tunes lightened by pipes and the townsfolk's merry voices.

But at the far end of the tavern, beneath the mounted weapons, a shadow lingered, Laurent Vayne.

His third—or fourth—tankard of whiskey trembled slightly in his scarred left hand. His right never strayed far from the worn sword at his side. Nor had he removed his half-cloak despite the heat of the fire. The silver raven clasp caught the light, a badge of status he hated more than the noise around him.

The air was thick with spilled ale and roasted meat. Laughter erupted from a nearby table, brash and oblivious. Laurent scowled into his drink.

Fools. Every one of them.

Everywhere, the city's colors draped with thoughtless cheer. Day of Valor, they called it—a week of parades and drinking to honor the strength of Kaelenmar's walls. But all Laurent could see was the price. The screams in the northern quarter were followed by a heavy silence.

A celebration atop graves. His daughter's grave.

Narek, the stout young barkeep, slid another tankard his way. The lad moved with weary grace, pity lingering behind his calm eyes.

"Another, Lord Vayne?" he asked, voice low.

Laurent grunted. "Don't call me that."

The title stung like a fresh wound. A gilded cage, like the mansion the king had gifted him—a reward for 'heroism.' A monument to his failure.

"Habit," Narek sighed, wiping down the scarred bar. "It's a lively night. Good to see spirits high. The King's decree for extra rations and free ale worked its magic."

Laurent scoffed. "Magic? It's poison. They drink to forget. They celebrate because they've already forgotten how close we came to ruin. How many died." He took a long swallow.

How I failed her.

He still saw Amelia's face, grinning with that fierce faith in him. 'You'll keep us safe, Pa.' He'd believed it, too. His arrogance cost her life.

"They toast to stone walls and steel blades, forgetting the faces of the dead." He stared into his drink.

"It's gratitude," Narek offered gently. "To honor the fallen. To show the darkness we're still here."

"Honor?" Laurent barked, slamming the tankard down. A few patrons glanced over, then quickly away. "It meant they're dead. And we let them die. This night should be spent reinforcing the walls, not dancing on graves."

But no one mourned with him. It wasn't their daughter buried beneath the rubble.

"I rebuilt the bulwarks," he muttered. "Trained the new recruits until they bled. And what's my reward? A holiday. A mansion. A fucking title."

Narek nodded, wiping the spill. He'd heard this before. "The King meant it as thanks."

"The King can shove his gratitude up his royal arse," Laurent growled, draining the tankard in three hard gulps. He tossed a handful of silver onto the bar and rose. The stool scraped sharply, but no one noticed. They were too busy laughing.

He pulled the hood of his dark cloak over his head, a futile attempt to become invisible and stalked toward the door, his large frame parting the crowd like a ship through water. The cool night air was a relief, clearing some of the alcoholic fog from his head but doing nothing for the ache in his chest. The streets were still alive with music and laughter, colorful lanterns casting a sickeningly festive glow on the cobblestones. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and started the long walk home. Home to that cold, empty mansion that felt more like a tomb than a house.

He chose the back alleys, hoping to avoid the worst of the revelers. The shadows here were deeper, the sounds more muted. It was in one of these narrow, winding lanes, lit only by a sliver of moonlight, that he heard it. A sudden scuffle. A muffled cry of fear.

His hand went instinctively to the hilt of the longsword at his hip. Years of instinct took over, overriding the drink and the grief. He rounded a corner piled high with refuse and saw two figures silhouetted against the far wall. One was large and menacing, a knife glinting in his hand. The other was pinned against the brickwork. A mugging.

Pathetic scum. Preying on the weak while the city pretends to be strong.

He didn't think, didn't weigh the options, just acted. With two long, silent strides, he closed the distance.

The mugger's focus was absolute, his low, guttural threats directed entirely at the figure trapped against the grimy brick. He never saw Laurent coming, never heard the scuff of a boot on stone that was drowned out by the distant festival music.

The first indication of a third party was a grip of iron closing around his knife wrist. A shock of pain lanced up the mugger's arm as his fingers were forced open, the blade clattering uselessly to the cobblestones. Before he could even process the loss of his weapon, a fist like a blacksmith's hammer connected with the side of his jaw. There was a sickening crack of bone and the man's head snapped sideways. He crumpled without a sound, a heap of limp limbs and shattered confidence.

It was over in two seconds. Brutal and efficient. The alley fell into a sudden, ringing silence, broken only by the far-off revelry and Laurent's own heavy breathing. The stench of stale whiskey on his breath mixed with the coppery scent of freshly spilled blood in the air.

He stood over the unconscious form for a moment, his broad chest heaving. The brief, violent outlet did nothing to ease the coil of rage in his gut; it only sharpened it. He kicked the discarded knife, sending it skittering into a pile of refuse where it belonged.

Filth.

Only then did he turn his attention to the figure. They were still pressed against the wall, their eyes wide, staring not at him, but at the crumpled form of their attacker. Their cheeks, soft and full, were pale in the dim light and their chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths. They were soft all over, a stark contrast to the hard, unforgiving lines of the city and the even harder lines of the men who stalked its alleys.

Laurent grunted, a sound somewhere between a cough and a growl. "He won't be waking up anytime soon."

His voice was rougher than he intended, slurred slightly by the drink. He took a half-step closer and watched as the figure flinched, their gaze finally snapping to him. He saw the fear there, simply redirected from one large, intimidating man to another. He couldn't blame them. In this light, with the stench of liquor rolling off him, he knew he didn't look like a savior. He looked like a threat.

The thought soured his mood further. He couldn't just leave them here. The unconscious thug might have friends. The city, for all its celebratory noise, was still full of shadows.

His duty was done. He should leave. He should go home and fall into his waiting stupor. Instead he took a staggering step forward, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the wall, his large frame unintentionally looming. The world spun. He fought to keep his balance, the drink and the sudden violence churning within him. He managed to focus on the person before him, his mind sluggishly processing that he couldn't just leave them here.

"You can't stay here," he stated, the words coming out as a command rather than a suggestion. "It's not safe."

He didn't wait for an answer. Logic, filtered through a haze of alcohol and grief, dictated a single course of action. Protect. Get them away from the danger. His mansion was the safest place he knew—a fortress he'd helped design. It was cold and empty, but it was secure.

He reached for them, his movements clumsy but determined. "Come on. I'll take you somewhere safe."

Without waiting for them to agree, or even to process what was happening, he moved to lift them. He hooked one arm under their knees and the other around their back, preparing to scoop them up as he had done with countless wounded soldiers on the battlefield. But they weren't a wiry, half-starved soldier. They were soft and solid and heavier than he'd anticipated.

A grunt of genuine effort escaped him as he hoisted them into his arms. The unexpected weight, combined with his own unsteadiness, made him stagger for a moment. He had to plant his feet wide to keep his balance, his muscles, accustomed to hauling armor and weapons, straining with the unfamiliar, yielding weight of their body. Their thick thighs pressed against his arm, their soft stomach against his chest. They felt... substantial. Real. A startling anchor in his sea of ghosts and bitter memories.

He started walking, his stride uneven but purposeful, away from the scene of the mugging and into the labyrinth of side streets. He held them tightly, a grim, drunken warden carrying his charge away from one danger and into the ambiguous safety of his own presence.

This is half witted at best, Laurent. You're drunk. What are you doing?

The thought was a flicker of sober reason in a mind clouded by drunkenness. He ignored it. He was a warrior. He protected people. That was his function. It was the one thing he had left, even if he was a failure at it. He would get them home. To his home. He would see them safe. Then he could go back to being miserable in peace.

The walk was a blur. The festive lights of the main thoroughfares bled into the darkness of the residential districts. He navigated by instinct, his boots thudding a heavy rhythm on the stone. The body in his arms was quiet, their initial fear seemingly replaced by a stunned sort of stillness. Or maybe they were just too smart to struggle against a drunk giant carrying them through the night.

By the time he reached the towering, wrought-iron gates of his mansion, a fine sweat had broken out on his brow. He fumbled with the latch, the simple mechanism feeling impossibly complex to his liquor-addled fingers. Finally, it clicked open. He shouldered the gate wide and marched up the stone path to the heavy oak doors of the house.

He kicked the door open—no point in fumbling for keys—and stepped into the cavernous, dark foyer. The air inside was cold and still, smelling of dust and disuse. He carried them through the echoing space, past shrouded furniture and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow him from the shadows. His destination was a sitting room off the main hall, one of the few places not covered in white sheets.

He intended to deposit them gently onto a large, velvet chaise lounge. But as he bent over, the world tilted violently. The combination of the exertion, the alcohol and the sudden shift in posture sent his head spinning. His knees buckled.

With a groan, he didn't so much place them down as collapse with them. He fell sideways, his massive frame landing half on the chaise, half on top of them. The world went dark at the edges. His last conscious thought wasn't of his daughter, or the festival, or the dead man in the alley. It was a muddled, confused awareness of the soft body beneath him, the scent of their hair and the profound, overwhelming exhaustion that finally pulled him under into a drunken, dreamless sleep.