Gai spent the following week making his rounds atop the walls with Anders, whose company he’d grown to value more than he cared to admit. There was something about Anders—an effortless charm that somehow made guard duty feel less like a chore and more like an inside joke he was lucky enough to be in on. He had a knack for turning even the dullest moments into something memorable, spinning stories with lively hands and bright-eyed expressions that left Gai grinning or doubled over at the sheer absurdity of it all. His humour always landed, sharp-witted but never cruel.

  The walls of Arieruro Castle themselves were old, their stones marked by generations of storms and sieges. Deep furrows and weather-beaten cracks hinted at the years—and disasters—they’d survived. Moss claimed corners where sunlight rarely reached, softening the edges just enough to remind Gai of how long these fortifications had stood. Now and then, as he and Anders paced along, Gai would let his hand trail across the rough surface, as if the cold stone might share a secret or two.

  Their patrol route took them high above the kingdom’s sprawl, offering a sweeping view no one ever really got used to. Mornings started with fine mist curling up from the harbour, wrapping around outbuildings and bobbing ships so thickly it looked like you could vanish just by stepping forward. “Take a look at that mess,” Anders said one morning, pausing halfway down the wall to lean against a crenelation. He nodded toward the shrouded town below. “Makes you wonder what’s hiding out there—smugglers sneaking ashore? Or maybe something worse: auditors.” He flashed a wicked grin as Gai snorted out a laugh.

  Come nightfall, everything changed again. The sky opened up wide overhead, packed with more stars than seemed possible, each one brighter than the last. The ocean’s distant rumble echoed up from below—a steady backdrop for their late-night walks. On some nights when things were especially calm, Anders would stop in his tracks, tip his head back, and whistle low under his breath. “Ever seen this many stars before?” he’d murmur quietly, careful not to break the silence too much. Gai would simply shake his head, still stuck in that same quiet awe.

  Anders wasn’t Gai’s only source of entertainment through those long shifts; Edgar often wandered over when free from other duties. He brought his own brand of humor—calm, dry as old parchment, and just as likely to catch you off guard. “Well look who it is—the wall’s most dedicated sentries,” Edgar called one evening as they met near the north tower. “So—seen anything worth reporting? Or is it all just blank stares into nothing tonight?”

  “Endless void,” Anders replied without missing a beat, though his tone was mock-serious. “But I think I saw a particularly suspicious seagull earlier.”

  “Oh no,” Edgar deadpanned, feigning shock as he adjusted the strap of his cuirass. “Not another rebellious bird uprising! When will they learn?”

  These exchanges made even the longest hours bearable—enjoyable, even—and Gai found himself smiling more often than he had in the last year.

  Each day ended with drill training in the parade grounds surrounded by towering stone walls that seemed to loom higher as twilight descended. Here, under the fading light of day, Gai and his fellow guards practiced tirelessly under the watchful eyes of their lieutenants. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the space as wooden practice swords collided with dull thuds or sharp cracks. The air was alive with shouted commands—“Hold your stance!” “Watch your footwork!”—and bursts of concentrated effort.

  Originally scheduled at the completion of night patrols, these drills had recently been rescheduled due to complaints from some of the castle’s affluent occupants. Apparently, the clamour of training disturbed their morning routines—a grievance voiced by one lord who had dramatically declared over brunch that “the racket woke me with a terrible headache!” The guards had begrudgingly moved their sessions to the afternoon in response.

  Though his late-night patrols often took him past the more privileged corners of the castle, Gai rarely saw much of its noble residents. When he did, it was just a glimpse—a lord or lady gliding out of a carriage, dressed to the nines, their robes flashing with gold or crimson in the torchlight before slipping away into halls he’d never set foot in. Every motion seemed rehearsed, down to the tilt of a head or the wave of a gloved hand.

  Later that night, seated around a sturdy wooden table in the guards’ mess hall, Edgar broke Gai’s reverie with his usual blunt charm. “Eat up, kid,” he said gruffly while ladling thick stew into Gai’s bowl. “I won’t be making your food forever—you’d best be paying attention to my recipes.”

  “I am,” Gai replied earnestly between mouthfuls of hearty bread dipped in broth.

  “You’re not,” Edgar countered with a knowing smirk as he leaned back in his chair. “But that’s fine—it’s your stomach that’ll suffer when the rosters change.”

  The mess hall was hardly fancy—just big enough for a few dozen guards to crowd in at once, with thick beams overhead streaked dark by years of smoke and spilled ale. Old shields and weapons hung along the walls, their paint faded and edges nicked, all of it bearing the marks of too many years and too little polish. The smell in the air was impossible to mistake: bread hot from the oven mixing with the rich scent of stew, and the sharper notes of roast meat. It was a small place, but it felt like home after a long shift.

  Though guards were expected to prepare their own meals using ingredients from designated stores (carefully monitored by sharp-eyed kitchen maids), there was an unspoken tradition among them: whoever cooked also critiqued—and Edgar was merciless when it came to culinary standards.

  “Next time,” he added after tasting his own stew critically, “try not burning the onions first thing—they’re supposed to soften up for flavor.”

  Gai grinned despite himself; moments like these made even grueling shifts worthwhile.

  “So, where are we stuck tonight, Anders?” Gai asked, poking the last of his stew around the bowl before scooping it up with a hunk of bread. He leaned in, eyes bright, clearly hoping for something more interesting than the usual.

  Anders leaned back in his chair, his chainmail clinking faintly with the motion. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he exchanged a knowing look with Edgar, who was already shaking his head with a grin so broad it threatened to split his weathered face in two. “Old Town,” Anders replied finally, his voice carrying a mischievous lilt.

  Gai blinked, sitting up straighter. “And where is that? Obviously not in the castle.” His brows knitted together in genuine confusion, but there was an undertone of anticipation in his voice as well.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Definitely not, lad,” Anders chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. “Today is payday, and we’ve no shift tonight. And do you know what that means?”

  Gai shook his head slowly, unable to suppress a small smile as Anders’ excitement became infectious.

  “It means,” Edgar interjected with a gleeful bark of laughter, “we’re going to do what every good soldier does when he’s got coin in his pocket and time on his hands.”

  “And what’s that?” Gai asked, tilting his head like a curious pup. His question hung in the air for only a moment before Edgar and Anders erupted into hearty laughter.

  “Go and piss our money into the street!” Edgar bellowed, slapping Anders on the back so hard that the older man nearly spilled his mug of ale. Their laughter echoed through the mess hall, drawing a few amused glances from the other tables.

  Gai couldn’t help but laugh along with them, though he didn’t entirely understand what lay ahead. He had heard stories about Old Town—about its bustling markets and rowdy taverns—but this would be his first time stepping into the city since his arrival months ago.

  That evening, they slipped out of the castle together, passing beneath the massive stone gates that marked where royal privilege ended and the rest of the city began. The gates stood tall, iron bars weathered to a dull shine from years of hands and history. Once through, the city opened up before them—a maze of winding cobbled lanes and old, timbered buildings that leaned together like old friends after a long night.

  Old Town was farther on, past newer neighbourhoods where tidy houses lined up neatly and streetlamps glowed in even rows. There, the stones underfoot were smooth from generations of careful sweeping, and bright flowers spilled out of window boxes. But as they moved deeper into Old Town, things changed quickly.

  The ground grew rough; the cobblestones now cracked, uneven, shaped by centuries of feet. Houses here were taller and seemed to droop under their own age—beams jutting out at odd angles, shutters hanging crookedly, ivy crawling along the walls wherever it could get a foothold. The air smelled like damp earth mixed with everything from roasting meat at food stalls to punches of spice drifting out open windows, and always that sharp tang of spilled ale warming on stone.

  Even so, the place buzzed. Merchants called out their prices from wobbly carts piled high: cloth in every colour fluttered over baskets of herbs and produce; trinkets caught glints from swinging lanterns above, whilst fiddlers played quick tunes that had people grinning and tapping their feet as they passed by.

  “This way,” Anders said over his shoulder, leading them down a narrow alleyway that twisted like a serpent between leaning buildings. The sounds of merriment grew louder with each step until they emerged into a small square dominated by a weathered sign swinging above an open doorway: The Boar’s Hat.

  The tavern was everything Gai had imagined—and more. Its wooden beams were blackened with age and smoke; its windows fogged from within by heat and revelry. Inside, lanterns cast warm pools of light over rough-hewn tables crowded with patrons. The air was thick with laughter and song—the clinking of tankards harmonizing with off-key melodies belted out by drunken singers.

  Anders pushed open the heavy door without hesitation, holding it just long enough for Gai to slip inside before letting it swing shut behind them. The trio wove through tightly packed tables toward an empty corner booth where they could sit somewhat comfortably despite their armour.

  “Over here,” Edgar called out as he plopped down onto one of the benches with an exaggerated groan. He stretched out his legs beneath the table and grinned up at Gai and Anders. “Don’t just stand there gawking—sit!”

  Anders dropped a small leather pouch onto the table with a satisfying jingle before sliding into place beside Edgar. “Drinks are on me tonight,” he declared grandly.

  A barmaid appeared almost instantly—as if summoned by some unspoken ritual involving coin hitting wood—and offered them a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes. “What’ll it be?” she asked briskly.

  “Ale!” Edgar said loudly before pointing at Gai with mock seriousness. “And get some for this lad here—he needs it.”

  “Yes sir,” she replied dryly but efficiently, setting down three flagons brimming with frothy amber liquid before disappearing back into the crowd.

  Gai stared at his mug for a moment before lifting it cautiously to his lips. The ale was bitter but not unpleasant; its warmth spread through him like firelight chasing away shadows.

  “You know,” Edgar began after draining half his mug in one go, “when I first heard Anders would be partnered up with you…” He paused dramatically before breaking into a wide grin. “…I thought you’d be some prissy noble twat.”

  Anders laughed so hard he nearly choked on his drink. “Aye! Like all them uptight bastards who strut around like they’ve got sticks up their arses!”

  “Like the one with the funny hairdo that looks like his mother still does it?” Edgar added, his voice dripping with playful derision as he leaned back on his stool. His words were punctuated by a loud belch that erupted from his lips, earning a few chuckles from nearby tables and a scowl from the barkeep. He smirked, unbothered, and reached for his half-empty mug of ale.

  “That’d be Raimondis,” Gai cut in, grinning as he thumped his mug down so hard a few drops of ale leapt onto the table. He wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve and shot Anders a look. “You know, Lord Daddy’s Little Commander—the one who parades through the barracks like he’s heir to the whole damn garrison just because the family coin keeps his boots clean.”

  “Right, him,” Edgar snorted, nearly sloshing his drink with an overzealous wave. “Swear on my boots, I heard he got flattened in the coliseum—by a squid. A bloody squid!” He slapped his coin pouch on the table for effect, loud enough to catch a passing barmaid’s eye even as she dodged drunks and flying elbows. “Three more over here!” he called, flashing three fingers above the crowd.

  “A squid?” Gai echoed with mock offense as he leaned forward. His expression twisted into exaggerated disbelief as he reached for his freshly refilled mug—delivered by what seemed like magic from behind him—and took a long swig. Setting it down heavily, he leaned closer across the table toward Anders and Edgar. “That squid is sitting right next to you, Edgar!”

  Edgar froze mid-motion as he pretended to search under the table for some imagined jellyfish-like creature. “Where? I can’t see no stinkin’ jelly anywhere,” he said in mock confusion, craning his neck and squinting at every corner of their little table.

  “It was Gai, you muddled twat!” Anders barked out between fits of laughter, slapping Edgar on the back hard enough to make him lurch forward. “He knocked that prissy puss right on his arse in front of everyone! You should’ve seen it—the poor sod didn’t know what hit him.”

  “No way,” Edgar stretched out the words incredulously as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His brow furrowed as if trying to piece together some great mystery. “You mean to tell me our Gai—this sorry lump sitting here—got one over on Raimondis? That’s good though! Real good! Too many times these so-called nobles get handed everything on a silver platter.” He punctuated his statement by draining what remained of his second flagon in one mighty gulp.

  “What do you mean by that?” Gai asked cautiously, though curiosity danced behind his eyes. He could tell Edgar was leading somewhere with this line of talk.

  Edgar wiped foam from his moustache with the back of his hand before answering. “I mean they don’t earn nothing.” He gestured broadly for emphasis before leaning forward conspiratorially. “See, most blokes like us? We fight tooth and nail for every damned rank we get. Years in service—years of blood and sweat—just to make it to something respectable like the royal guard.”

  Anders picked up where Edgar left off, nodding fervently. “Exactly! Meanwhile, these noble pups skip all that hardship—the mud-stomping marches, the crap rations—and they waltz straight into cushy posts because their family’s rich enough to grease palms at court.” He spat onto the floor near their table in disgust before continuing. “And what’s worse? They get promoted ahead of us. Ahead of men who’ve actually earned their stripes.”

  “Yeah,” Edgar added grimly as he turned back to Gai. “Mark my words: that Raifartmis or whatever he calls himself will end up commanding his own unit before he’s even finished polishing his first sword.”

  “But I eliminated him from the tourney,” Gai said slowly, as if testing how much weight those words carried.

  Before anyone could respond, a sudden thunderous applause erupted from across the room, drawing all three men’s attention toward a small stage at one end of the tavern. A group of acrobats had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and were now leaping onto the stage with practiced ease. Their brightly coloured costumes shimmered in hues of gold and crimson under the flickering lantern light as they began their performance.

  “Come on then!” Anders shouted above the growing noise as he jumped to his feet without waiting for an answer. “Let’s get up there and see what all this is about!”

  The three pushed through the crowd shoulder-to-shoulder until they reached a spot near enough to see every twist and turn of the performers’ movements. The acrobats moved with breath-taking precision—flipping through rings of fire, balancing impossibly atop one another—and their feats drew gasps and cheers from even the most hardened drinkers in attendance.

  For a moment—just a moment—all thoughts of Raimondis or noble favouritism or anything else faded away as Gai watched one performer somersault high into the air before landing gracefully on her partner’s shoulders. His mouth hung open slightly as he clapped along with everyone else.

  When it was over and applause filled every corner of the room once more, Anders turned to his companions with flushed cheeks and an infectious grin plastered across his face. “Well,” he said breathlessly as they stumbled out into the cool night air moments later, “that was worth sticking around for.”

  Edgar laughed heartily as he adjusted his belt and stretched lazily. “Sure was,” he agreed before glancing meaningfully toward Gai. “But we’d best start heading back now lest we be late for our shift tomorrow.”

  Gai chuckled softly but nodded all the same. Together they began their walk back through streets lit only by moonlight and dim lanterns—but even then, echoes of laughter lingered among them like old friends refusing to part ways just yet.