The Wanderer arrived at the tavern a short while later.
He had expected a low-life hole, reeking of cheap ale and stale sweat, but the structure before him was surprisingly refined. A polished wooden sign hung above the entrance, neatly carved with the name The Hand of Justice.
As he stepped toward the doors, a large, muscular man blocked his path. The Wanderer adjusted his cowl, tilting his shoulder forward to expose the Bradford crest. The guard raised an eyebrow, sizing him up for a moment, before stepping aside to grant him entry.
Inside, a low, melodic tune filled the air. The Wanderer glanced around, scanning the corners for a bard or a musician, but found no one holding an instrument. The source of the music remained entirely hidden.
He made his way to the counter, where the barkeep was busy wiping down the polished surface. Noting the newcomer, the man turned to him. "What can I get you, sir?"
"Anything to make the day pass," the Wanderer replied.
The barkeep slid a large ceramic cup of dark ale across the wood. "Tough day, huh?"
The Wanderer gulped half of it, before slamming the cup back down onto the bar, his expression hardening. "It’s bitter to see murderers roaming this city freely."
The barkeep frowned. "We don’t discuss politics here, stranger. If you insist on bringing that noise inside, I'll have to ask you to leave."
The Wanderer let out a long breath upwards, tears filling his eyes. "Pardon me," he muttered. "I'm just a weary veteran ranting."
The barkeep paused, his hand slowing on the cloth. "You were part of the Valorian army?"
The Wanderer looked away toward the far wall, as if he remembered a horrific memory. "Was," he said quietly. He took another sip, then adjusted his cloak, drawing attention to his missing limb. "Until the Draemiran bastards took my arm, and my pride as a warrior." He struck his chest firmly with his fist. "Now, those same people are taking refuge in the very city I defended with my own flesh and blood."
The barkeep said in a softened tone. "I lost a cousin to the Draemiran fronts myself," then reached below the counter and slid a fresh drink forward. "Here. This one's on the house."
The Wanderer raised the cup in a nod of gratitude, and the barkeep moved down the counter to tend to a few other customers.
"Valorian lives are worth less than a refugee's these days," a voice muttered from a couple of stools down.
The Wanderer turned his head slightly, leaning toward the speaker. "I thought we weren't allowed to discuss politics in here," he whispered.
The man stood up, picking up his drink, and moved into the stool right next to the Wanderer. He caught the barkeep's eye and called out, "I think our friend here is an exception, right?"
The barkeep turned the other way and continued cleaning, ignoring the conversation.
The man turned back to the Wanderer, smirking. "See? He doesn't mind a brave veteran venting."
The Wanderer looked at the man. “I wish ignoring problems could solve them.”
The man laughed, lifting his cup. “I’d drink to that.” He gulped his drink down, wiping his mouth. “So tell me, how did you end up with Duke Bradford?”
“Lady Bradford recommended me,” the Wanderer said.
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? You know Lady Bradford personally?”
“Not really,” the Wanderer replied, keeping a casual tone. “But let’s just say our opinions align.”
The man smiled, tapping the Wanderer’s back. “If that’s the case, I might be able to recommend you for something else.”
The Wanderer hid a smile behind his ceramic cup, taking a slow sip. “I doubt you have a better job for a crippled man.”
The man ignored the comment. “Do you want to actually do something about the current situation? The infestation of refugees plaguing Valoria?”
“What can we do?” the Wanderer said, his voice sounded bitter and defeated. “The king himself approved their stay.”
The man leaned back. “The king might have, but not all the nobles agree. And they have their own influence.”
The Wanderer’s expression turned serious. “I don’t disagree... but this is too risky.”
“Is regaining your pride as a warrior not worth the risk?” the man countered.
The Wanderer stared down into his cup for a moment. “What do you have to offer?”
The man stood up, cutting off the conversation. “Not here, not now, my friend.” He narrowed his eyes, the friendly facade dropping instantly. “We need to trust you first.”
“We?” the Wanderer asked.
“A man publicly ranting about refugees the very first time he walks into a bar is a bit... suspicious, don't you agree?”
The Wanderer began to sweat. He held his breath, forcing his muscles to stay relaxed. “Hey, you approached me,” he said nervously. “I’m just having a drink.”
“Relax,” the man said. “I’m just saying... if you ever try to run your mouth to Duke Bradford, or maybe Captain Zeek...” He suddenly raised his voice for everyone to listen. “...everyone here will testify to your traitorous words against our king!”
The Wanderer looked around. The entire tavern had gone dead silent. Every customer was staring directly at him, with cold stares.
The man lowered his voice again, leaning down to the Wanderer’s ear. “But... if you prove your worth, your rewards will be far beyond your imagination.”
Under the cover of the dim bar light, the man slid a dagger across the counter, pushing it under the Wanderer’s hand.
“You have until tomorrow,” the man whispered. “Bring me the blood of a dead rat. If you don't, don't bother coming back here. We will find you.”
The Wanderer took the dagger reluctantly, then slid it beneath his cloak and stood up walking out of the tavern, under the heavy stares.
He arrived back at the Bradford manor, the tension still pulling tight in his chest. As he crossed the main hall, he caught sight of Zeek standing near the courtyard entrance. The captain was deep in conversation with a man dressed in slick clothing that screamed nobility.
Before the Wanderer could take another step, Zeek’s eyes locked onto him. The captain gave a subtle gesture of his chin to get out of sight. The Wanderer lowered his head, pulling his cowl tighter, and slipped away toward his room.
A few hours passed in the quiet of his night. A sudden knock on his door, followed by a muted voice. "Your dinner is ready."
The Wanderer opened the door a crack. "I already ate-"
The man standing in the corridor cut him off, forcing his way into the room. He closed the door quickly behind him, his movements fluid and hurried.
"Captain Zeek sent me," the man whispered, scanning the small room.
The Wanderer stepped back, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why would he send you?"
The man leaned in, whispering. "He told me to say the name Skida so you would trust me."
The tension was relieved a bit, the Wanderer opened the door again, looking left and right down the empty hallway to ensure no servants were lingering, then shut it tight. He turned back to the messenger. "There is a lot I need to report to him."
"I can't stay here long," the man replied, crossing his arms. "So make it quick."
The Wanderer explained the encounter at the tavern in brief.
When he finished, the messenger looked at him in disbelief. "You’ve put yourself in a massive amount of trouble. Why on earth would you make up such dangerous lies about being a veteran?"
The Wanderer's voice hardened. "What did you want me to say? They were already backing me into a corner."
The man let out a sigh, rubbing his head. "Fine. I’m sure Captain Zeek can fabricate a record to back up your story and background as a veteran if they look into it. But the ultimatum..."
"They want me to kill a refugee to prove my worth," the Wanderer said.
The messenger stared at the floor, calculating. "Meet me at dawn at the refugee camp. We will figure out a way around this by then."
The Wanderer gave a firm nod. "Understood."
"I must go now," the man said, already reaching for the door handle.
The Wanderer called out to him. "Who was the man Zeek was talking to earlier today? The noble in the hall."
The messenger paused, looking back over his shoulder. "That’s Lady Bradford’s brother, Timothy." He opened the door a fraction. "Remember. At dawn."
At dawn, the Wanderer slipped through the morning mist, a silent shadow cutting toward the refugee camp. He began circling the perimeter, his eyes scanning the quiet rows of tents, when a hand suddenly pulled him backwards into a tent.
Instinct took over. The Wanderer slammed his head back, his skull connecting with his captor's face.
"Stop, stop!" a voice groaned.
The Wanderer paused. It was the messenger from the night before, stumbling backward and clutching his face.
Before the Wanderer could apologize, the flap at the rear of the tent opened, and Captain Zeek stepped inside. "You damn idiot," Zeek hissed in a whisper. "Why on earth would you weave such a reckless lie?"
The messenger straightened up, wiping a smear of blood from his nose. "We managed to pull some strings and plant the evidence," his voice nasal. "On paper, you're officially a Valorian veteran who was severely injured on the front lines. But we can't exactly approach Lady Bradford to confirm your story without exposing everything."
Zeek stepped closer. "You put the entire operation at risk with this stunt. Couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut until we discussed a plan?"
The Wanderer matched Zeek's stare. "I didn't know what I was walking into when I entered that tavern. Neither did you."
Zeek let out a sigh, the anger giving way to practicality. "Fine. What's done is done."
"What about the assassination they asked for?" the Wanderer asked. "The sun is rising."
"I made a deal with one of the refugees," Zeek said. "He’s already been moved. He will hide at my personal residence until this whole thing blows over." He reached into his coat and pulled out a cloth soaked in blood, handing it over. "Wrap this around the dagger."
The Wanderer took the bloody cloth, but looked at them with a furrowed brow. "They told me they would find me. If they're watching, they'll know a faked death when they see it."
The messenger, still holding a sleeve to his bleeding nose, gave a grim smile. "Exactly. We’re certain they sent someone to tail you this morning. If we want them to buy the lie, we need to make it look believable."
The Wanderer's eyes narrowed. "How?"
"You should probably start running," the messenger replied.
Before the Wanderer could process the words, the messenger took a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs: *"HELP! MURDERER! IN THE CAMP!"*
The sudden roar of the alarm shattered the morning quiet. The Wanderer pulled his cowl over his face, threw open the tent flap, and bolted out.
Behind him, shouts echoed through the camp. Sleepy guards scrambled for their spears, and panicked refugees began pouring out of their tents, locking onto the hooded figure sprinting away from the scene.