CHAPTER 55: HELP ME!

The words were quiet, but they carried an undercurrent that made several nearby patrons shift uncomfortably in their seats. The mercenary must have heard it too, because his grip tightened even as uncertainty flickered across his features.

"Or what, half-breed? You going to—"

Jorghan moved.

His free hand came up in a blur, fingers catching the mercenary’s jaw in a strike that looked casual but carried precision.

The sound of breaking teeth echoed through the sudden silence like cracking stone, and the mercenary leader went sprawling backward, blood pouring from his ruined mouth.

The wiry one with the scar lunged to his feet, going for his sword, but Jorghan was already there. An elbow to the nose sent blood streaming down the man’s face, followed by a knee to the gut that doubled him over gasping.

Another one of their members came running towards him; Jorghan just turned to him and raised his hand.

Thud!

A slap struck his face, immediately throwing him to the ground, and he lost consciousness.

Then it was over.

Jorghan stood calmly beside their table, breathing steadily, while two of the six mercenaries were down and bleeding.

The others had hands on weapons but hadn’t drawn yet, frozen by the sudden demonstration of capability that didn’t match the humble tavern worker they’d been expecting.

The rest of the tavern’s patrons went back to their drinks and conversations as if nothing had happened.

This was Bleusmoore—violence was an unfortunate but expected part of life, and most people had learned the wisdom of not getting involved in others’ fights.

"OUT!"

Grisha’s roar shook the rafters as she emerged from the back room, her massive frame radiating the kind of fury that made even hardened mercenaries reconsider their life choices.

"Get your bleeding carcasses out of my establishment before I throw you through the wall!"

The mercenaries knew better than to argue with an angry orc.

They collected their wounded companions and beat a hasty retreat, though not before the leader shot Jorghan a look that promised future retribution.

When they were gone, Grisha turned to Jorghan with an expression somewhere between exasperation and approval.

"Been waiting for you to knock some sense into one of these idiots. Now get back to work—and try not to break any more customers unless they really deserve it."

She didn’t reprimand him or scold him. She had seen him all these years, knew he was a very patient boy, and always wondered how he was so patient with those drunkards.

Jorghan returned to his duties, though he noticed several patrons giving him a wider berth than before.

The incident would spread through the gossip networks that sustained Bleusmoore’s social fabric, another small crack in the carefully maintained facade of normalcy he’d built.

The afternoon wore on uneventfully after that, though Jorghan remained more alert than usual, half-expecting the mercenaries to return with reinforcements.

It was during the mid-afternoon lull that the cloaked figure entered.

She was small, perhaps five and a half feet tall, and her cloak was pulled so far forward that it completely obscured her features.

She moved with an odd, furtive quality—not quite nervous, but hyper-aware of her surroundings in a way that suggested someone who had learned to expect danger.

When she approached the bar, she placed coins on the polished wood without meeting Jorghan’s eyes.

"Food," she said quietly.

"Anything warm."

Her voice was thin and feminine and carried an undertone of exhaustion that spoke of long travel without proper rest.

Jorghan served her without comment, noting that her hands were pale where they emerged from the cloak’s sleeves—almost unnaturally so, as if she hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

She ate quickly, mechanically, like someone refueling rather than enjoying a meal.

Then she was gone, slipping out of the tavern as quietly as she’d entered, leaving Jorghan with the vague sense that something about the encounter had been significant even if he couldn’t articulate why.

The remainder of his shift passed without incident, and as twilight painted the western sky in shades of amber and rose, Jorghan finally untied his apron and bid Grisha farewell.

The walk back to the meadow usually helped clear his mind, the transition from urban bustle to pastoral peace providing a necessary buffer between his two lives.

Tonight, however, that peace was shattered before he’d even left the city proper.

He spotted her first—the cloaked figure from the tavern, moving with desperate haste through the narrow streets of the merchant district.

But she wasn’t alone.

Behind her, closing fast, were a dozen men in military uniforms that sent ice shooting through Jorghan’s veins.

Not because of their weapons or their numbers, but because of what those uniforms represented. Clean-cut and professionally maintained, they bore the distinctive insignia of what he had seen on earth.

[CRITICAL ALERT: HOSTILE FORCE DETECTED]

[BLOODBORNE RAGE: Initiated]

[WARNING: EMOTIONAL THRESHOLD APPROACHING]

[CARNAGE REQUIEM: READY TO ACTIVATE]

The soldiers caught her at an intersection where three streets met, professional and efficient in their coordination.

One moment she was running, the next she was surrounded, her escape routes cut off by men who had clearly hunted people before.

"End of the line, little rabbit," the lead soldier said, his tone carrying casual cruelty.

"You’ve led us on quite the chase."

The cloak was torn away roughly, revealing the girl beneath, and Jorghan’s breath caught.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with features that might have been beautiful if not for the obvious signs of prolonged suffering. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence, her dark hair hung in unwashed tangles, and her eyes—when they met his across the crowded street—held the kind of desperate hopelessness that only came from knowing exactly what awaited you.

"Please," she whispered, though whether to the soldiers or to Jorghan or to some absent deity, it was impossible to say.

The soldier’s response was a boot to her stomach that folded her over with a thin cry of pain.

AHH!!

She collapsed to the stone path, gasping, and that was when her eyes found Jorghan’s again. Tears rolled down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime on her face, and in her gaze he saw something that ignited every protective instinct he possessed.

Help me.

The words weren’t spoken, but he heard them nonetheless.