Chapter 97: Return to Torak
The next five days were a blur of pain and silence.
We moved at a crawl, sticking to creek beds and animal trails, anything to keep us off the main roads. Every snap of a twig made my heart jump. Every distant shout from a farmhand had us flattening ourselves against the dirt. We were ghosts, haunted by the one we'd left behind.
Briza's breathing was a ragged, wet sound that filled the spaces between us. The potion had saved her life, but it had left something wrong deep inside. Her skin was pale, and a fever came and went, leaving her shivering even in the afternoon sun. I checked her bandages every time we stopped, the skin around the wound angry and hot to the touch. My fault. My solution that had become her new problem.
Elara's complaining was the soundtrack to our misery.
"You've ruined me," she'd mutter, stumbling over a root. "My career. My life. All of it, gone. And for what? To run to this… this frontier cesspool?"
She never let up. Torak wasn't a city to her; it was a death sentence. A place recently scarred by war, two days from a forest that chewed up adventurers and spat out bones. She painted a picture of our future with every bitter word, and it was hard to argue with her.
I didn't have the energy for my usual jokes. The sarcasm felt like a shield I was too tired to lift. So I just walked, one foot in front of the other, half-carrying Briza, half-dragging my own guilt.
Laron was quiet. The fire in him, the earnest pride he had in his work, was gone. He just looked hollow. He'd lost his patron, his business, and nearly his partner. He followed, his rabbit ears drooping, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for threats only he could see.
On the fifth evening, we crested a low hill and saw it. The walls of Torak. They looked different now. Not like a promise of safety, but like the walls of a prison we were choosing to walk into. It was the only option we had left.
Elara let out a choked sound beside me. "There it is. Our glorious new beginning."
I stopped and turned to her. Her fine dress was torn and stained with mud and dried blood. Her face was smudged with dirt. She looked exactly like what she was: a refugee.
"It's not over," I said. My voice was rough from disuse. It sounded strange, even to me. Simple. Tired. "Our partnership is not over?"
She scoffed, but it lacked its usual heat. "What partnership? Our primary source of cash is dead. Our project is ashes."
"The partnership is us," I said, looking from her to Laron. "You. Me. Laron. The pen. The stories. That's what's left." I turned to Laron. "You have contacts here. You can get her set up with work, right? Real work, not just… this."
Laron nodded slowly, his gaze clearing a little as a practical problem was put before him. "Yes. Yes, I know a few gallery owners. People who value skill. She won't starve."
It was a small thing. A tiny thread of stability. But it was all I could offer her.
"See?" I said to Elara. "For now, you'll be okay. We just need to get through these walls. We just need to breathe."
She didn't thank me. She just wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the distant city, her complaints finally silenced by the grim reality of our destination.
We started down the hill, a broken little company. I adjusted my grip on Briza, her weight a constant, painful reminder of the cost of our survival. The witty, clever guy from another world felt like a lifetime ago. Right now, I was just a man, trying to get the few people left in his care to a place where they wouldn't die tonight.
That was the only plan that mattered.
The main gate was a chaotic funnel of life, just as I remembered from my first arrival. Carts creaked, merchants haggled, and the City Watch moved through the crowd with a tired authority. We joined the line, a tense, silent knot amidst the noise. Every glance from a guard felt like an accusation.
When it was our turn, we presented our papers like a hand of bad cards.
Laron went first, his movements precise. He showed his Merchant's Guild card and his city permit. The guard gave it a cursory glance and nodded.
Briza leaned heavily against me, fumbling in a pouch before producing a worn national identification card. The guard looked at her pallor, then at the bloodstain seeping through her tunic, and his expression softened slightly. He waved her through.
Elara presented her own national card with a haughty tilt of her chin, as if daring him to question her right to be there. He didn't.
Then it was my turn. I handed over my D-Rank guild card and the six-month city permit I'd renewed just over a week ago. It felt like a lifetime. The guard looked from the permit to my face, his eyes lingering on the fresh scars and the general look of a man who'd been dragged through hell.
"Kaizen," he read aloud. He tapped my guild card. "D-Rank. You know this only grants you temporary passage. If you lose that city permit, this won't be enough to keep you inside these walls. Get it upgraded."
It was a standard warning, but today it felt like a threat. I just nodded. "Understood."
And just like that, we were through. The massive gate passed over us, casting a brief, cool shadow before we emerged into the bustling interior of Torak.
The city was a familiar assault on the senses. The smell of baking bread, unwashed bodies, and forge smoke. The sound of a hundred different lives crashing together. After the quiet dread of the plains, it was almost overwhelming.
Laron turned to me, his ears twitching nervously. "We will head to my contact's place in the artisan quarter. It's discreet. We can get Briza proper care there."
Elara just stared at the crowded streets, her face a mask of resigned disgust.
I looked at them, my little band of survivors, and felt a profound distance open up. I had gotten them here. That part was done.
"I'll meet you later," I said, my voice flat. "I need… I need to stop somewhere first."
Laron understood, or at least, he didn't question it. He gave a short nod. "Be careful."
I didn't watch them go. I just turned and started walking, my boots carrying me on a path I knew by muscle memory. I didn't head for the artisan quarter or the guild. I moved deeper into the city, through the familiar streets, past hawkers and street performers I didn't see.
My body was moving on its own, pulled by a single, simple need. A drink. A bath. A few hours where no one was trying to kill me, and no one needed me to save them.
I pushed open the familiar, heavy door, and the sound of the city faded, replaced by the low hum of the inn. The smell of polished wood and stale ale washed over me.
I was back at the Mikaelson Inn.