The tavern door creaks as you push it open, the smell of oil and old smoke washing over you once more. Shadows writhe in the dim candlelight. You scan the corners, tables, alcoves. Hiacynt is gone.
You stride forward, ignoring the stares. A pair of men gambling over dice pause, one eyeing the bruised swell of your knuckles. The low strum of the lute falters, then picks up again with a different tune—less curious, more cautious.
Your guide follows a pace behind, muttering under his breath:
—This is a mistake. He’s not worth it. Men like that—cowards—they disappear for a reason.
You shake your head.
—He knew something. Maybe still does.
The guide clicks his tongue in frustration.
—You saw his face. That wasn’t guilt. That was a man drowning in his own shame. He’s already lost.”
—I want to hear him say it,— you reply, jaw set. —I want to hear the reason.
A chair scrapes behind you. The tavern keeper steps into view from the kitchen doorway, a thick wooden club in his fist. His eyes narrow the moment they find yours.
—You again,— he growls.
You hold your ground.
—I’m not here for a fight. Just answers.
—I don’t give a damn why you’re here.— He slaps the club into his open palm. —You were warned.
Your guide reaches for your sleeve.
—Let’s go. Now.
You don’t move.
The tavern keeper snarls and lunges.
You twist and bolt toward the door. Behind you, the club whizzes past your ear and smacks into the wall. The patrons erupt into shouts and movement, some ducking, others jeering. You throw the door open and stumble into the street.
The air hits you like a whip—cooler now, the wind alive with grit. You turn just as the keeper charges halfway through the threshold, eyes gleaming with fury.
—I don’t want to see your face around here again!— he roars.
Then he slams the door behind him with a finality that echoes down the empty street.
You stand there breathing hard, hands clenched, your pulse still racing from the burst of adrenaline. Behind you, the city lies quiet, as though nothing had happened. The night resumes its hush.
Then—a shuffling noise. Fast and low, just beyond the edge of the alley.
You spin, hand instinctively dropping toward your belt. The guide tenses beside you.
Hiacynt steps from the shadows, head bowed, eyes fixed somewhere near your boots. He looks like he’s been standing there the whole time, deciding whether to run or stay.
—I didn’t want to leave you,— he says quietly.
The words are soft, barely more than breath. But they slice deeper than any blade.
You stare at him, chest heaving.
—Then why did you?
He still won’t meet your eyes.
—The ambush… we were overwhelmed. I thought you were dead. When I didn’t see you among the bodies, I told myself maybe you escaped. But I didn’t go back. I was afraid of what I’d find. Or who might be watching. I told the others it was suicide to search.
You take a step closer.
—So you lied. You gave up.
He flinches.
—Yes.
Silence stretches between you, taut and aching.
Your guide crosses his arms, watching without comment. This isn’t his fight.
Hiacynt swallows, shoulders trembling.
—I don’t expect forgiveness. But I wanted you to know. I see you now, alive, standing in front of me. And I feel the weight of it. I carry it every day.
You say nothing. The words sit heavily on your tongue. You don’t know yet if they’re anger or mercy.
Hiacynt lifts his gaze, finally meeting yours.
The wind kicks up around you, carrying dust across the stones like whispers from the past.
You wait. He falls into silence.
You face him.
—That’s it?
He doesn’t answer. He won’t meet your gaze.
—Look me in the eye!—
—I can’t.—
You draw your sword.
The sound of steel echoes in the narrow alley.
—I’ll kill you right here, right now, you dog!—
Hiacynt straightens. He doesn’t flinch. His voice is raw.
—Do it if you must.—
The blade trembles in your hand.
You stab your friend.
The sword slides through flesh like wet cloth. He gasps—one short breath—and collapses in your arms. Blood runs hot over your hands, but his eyes are calm, almost grateful. You let him fall, and the silence that follows is endless.
You sheath your sword and say:
—The time of revenge has passed. You can go.—
Hiacynt blinks at you, stunned. Your voice is quiet, bitter with restraint.
You turn away before he can answer. You don’t want to see his face.
You already know what it says.
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