Hanon walked ahead through the crowded streets, his steps quicker than usual, a faint crease between his brows. The evening lamps were being lit one by one, giving light to the dirt roads and the faces of passersby.
"I'm sorry, Aeloria," he said at last, voice low with regret. He slowed enough for her to fall in beside him. "I wasn't thoughtful enough back there, and as a result, I gave him the chance to belittle you. Please forgive me for losing my temper."
Aeloria looked at him, puzzled. "It's all right. Truly. I don't understand why you reacted so strongly. I could have turned him down myself."
Hanon's gaze flicked away, toward the deepening shadows between buildings. "You can't be sure how persuasive some men become when they want something. And besides…" His voice dropped to a near whisper, more to himself than to her. "I didn't want you speaking with him alone."
"What? I didn't catch that last part," she said, raising a brow.
He shook his head quickly. "It's nothing important." He gestured down a narrower alley where the crowds thinned and the noise faded. "There's a good inn just this way. Clean, quiet, fair prices. We can stay there until tomorrow's meeting."
They turned into the alley, walking side by side. The buildings here were older, leaning slightly toward one another overhead, their signs giving off creaking noise in the evening breeze.
Hanon cleared his throat. "You were badly wounded when I found you, so I cared for you in my own room. But you are well now, and we're traveling together, and… you're still a woman. It might be better if we took separate rooms."
Aeloria fell silent as they walked, thoughts drifting back.
In Runevale, long before the name "cannibal" clung to her like a shadow, young men had flocked around her—nobles, warriors, even common soldiers. All of them eager, all of them trying every trick to draw her close. Rama I Almon had been no different, bold words and bolder looks. Even that merchant tonight had been on the verge of the same game.
Yet Hanon… never once. Not a lingering touch when he bathed her in those early days, not a stolen glance when she was helpless and bare. His hands had been quick, careful, almost clinical—cleaning, then withdrawing as though fire scorched his skin. Never taking advantage. Never pressing.
'Is it because he doesn't see me as a woman? Because my eyes don't look humane?'
She glanced at him sidelong. His profile was calm again, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders.
"Were you thinking the same thing?" Hanon asked quietly, pulling her from her thoughts.
Aeloria blinked. "I don't know how many coins you have left," she said, choosing practicality over the deeper questions. "But I doubt your purse is bottomless. Separate rooms would just waste coins. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time we've shared one."
Hanon hesitated. "I truly don't mind paying extra."
'Why is he pushing this so hard?'
"A single room is fine," she said firmly.
Hanon exhaled through his nose, a faint look of disappointment—or perhaps relief—crossing his face before he hid it.
'Read the room, Aeloria. I'm a man too. There's only so many times I can keep holding myself back.'
"Very well," he said with a neutral tone. "If you insist."
He led the way again, that same quiet disappointment lingering in the line of his shoulders.
'Why does he look almost… sad about it?'
They walked on until a modest three-story building came into view—smaller and plainer than the grand hall they had left, its sign painted with a simple sleeping fox. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the faint sound of a lute drifted out into the night.
Inside, the common room was cozy rather than lavish: a few scattered tables, a crackling hearth, and the smell of stew. Eyes turned their way as they entered—curious, appraising—but no crude remarks followed.
They approached the counter where a stout, middle-aged overseer polished a row of tankards.
"One room for the night, please," Hanon said.
"That'll be twenty copper coins per night," the man replied, looking up with a practiced smile. "Ninety for a full week, if you're staying longer."
"We'll only be staying two nights," Hanon said, fishing one silver coins from his pouch. It bore the stamped profile of a lion, worn smooth from years of handling.
He placed it on the counter. The overseer paused, squinting at the lion's mane on the silver. "Lion-mark? You're a long way from the High Plains, traveler. We don't see this weight of silver much in Norco." he said and slid a small ledger toward him as he counted a few copper coins after which he handed it to him.
Hanon smiled, "I've been to many places, so I do possess different coins of the same value."
"I see. Your name, sir? For the records."
Hanon gave the necessary details in a quiet voice. The overseer scribbled quickly, then beckoned a young maid waiting nearby.
The girl led them across the common room and up the narrow wooden stairs. At the top landing she turned left down a dimly lit corridor lined with doors with markings on them. After passing the third door, she stopped at the fourth, took out an iron key, and handed it to Hanon.
"This is your room, sir. I hope you both rest well." She offered a polite bow, then turned to Aeloria with a quick, curious smile—almost conspiratorial—before hurrying away.
'What was that about?' Aeloria wondered, brow furrowing slightly.
Hanon unlocked the door and stepped inside. A small hearth in the corner crackled softly, casting flickering light across the modest space and chasing away the evening chill. A sturdy table with two chairs sat in the center, a single oil lamp burning low upon it. Against the far wall, beside the window that overlooked the alley, stood a good-sized bed—wide enough for two, covered in a thick quilt and clean linen.
They entered and set their packs down in the corner near the door. The floorboards gave a familiar groan. Hanon closed the door behind them and slid the bolt, then stood for a moment surveying the room as though weighing something unsaid.
...
Meanwhile, across town, a rider dismounted beneath the flickering torches of the inn Aeloria and Hanon had just left.
The man swung down from his horse with easy grace—tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair falling in loose waves to his shoulders. He tied the reins to a post and stepped through the doorway.
Every conversation in the crowded common room faltered and died. Heads turned; mugs paused halfway to lips.
"Isn't that… Ramius?" a merchant whispered, wine sloshing unnoticed in his cup. "The brilliant strategist from Runevale. They say he can look at a man once and know what he'll eat for supper a week from now."
Ramius paid the stares no mind. He crossed the room with calm strides and stopped at the counter, offering the overseer—a stout woman whose eyes widened the moment she recognized him—a gentle, disarming smile.
"Good evening. I'd like a room for a few weeks, if you have one available. I'd be grateful for your help arranging it."
The overseer flushed faintly. "O-of course, sir. One moment."' To think I'd ever speak to the man half many noble women sigh over,' she thought, hurriedly signaling a maid to prepare the best room upstairs.
Ramius glanced back toward the door. "My horse is tied outside. Would you have someone see to him? Water, feed, a good brushing—he's earned it."
She nodded eagerly. "At once, sir."
A short while later, Ramius stood alone in a spacious upper room—far finer than most, with a wide bed, a writing desk by the window, and a private hearth already laid with fresh logs. He removed his cloak and gloves, tossing them over a chair, then sank into the seat by the window and stared out at the lantern-lit streets below.
'How do I even begin to find her? My bride to be…
His thoughts drifted to the noble ladies who fluttered around him at court—beautiful, polished, each one eyeing his title and wealth like a prize to be claimed for her family. None of them wanted him, only what he could give.
'I want someone who sees me, not the gold or the name. This way, my children won't have to worry about any squabbles with other family members. And more importantly… I refuse to let that potato-headed brute Orin find a bride before I do. If he beats me to it, I'll never hear the end of his gloating.'
A faint smile tugged at his lips. 'Though with the mood he's been in since Aeloria vanished, he's hardly in any state to court anyone. I'll search for both—Aeloria and a woman worthy of the name wife.'
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"You may enter," Ramius called.
The door opened and a young maid stepped in, balancing a tray carefully. She was perhaps nineteen, with dark hair neatly braided, clear blue eyes, and a pleasant, gentle figure. She had been warned twice by the overseer: no mistakes, no clumsiness—the guest was likely the wealthiest man in Norco tonight.
"Pardon me, sir," she said with a small curtsey. "Your supper."
She crossed the room and set the tray on the small table: a bowl of rich stew, warm rice and meat, a wedge of cheese, and a cup of swamp wine.
Ramius watched her in silence, a sudden thought taking shape as he watched her.
He watched the way she held the tray—steady. The way she kept her eyes down—disciplined. She didn't smell of the heavy, cloying perfumes of the court; she smelled of soap and hard work. She was a blank slate, a woman who wouldn't bring a family of leeches with her.
'Now that I consider it… there's no rule saying my bride must be noble-born.'
The maid straightened, noticing his quiet stare. "Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?"
He looked up at her fully, expression serious but not unkind.
"Tell me," he said, voice steady and sincere, "would you consider becoming my wife?"