Guard Crandon, Bryony thought. The name sounded a lot like Landon or Randon. As the thugs shuffled past him and out the door, she kept her eye on him while also trying to see past to the crumpled figure in the corner. “For the Scribe’s sake,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice so everyone still gawking at the bloody scene could hear, he said, “Does anyone know this man?”

No one said anything, including Bryony, who was still considering her options, none of them particularly appealing. But then the ungrateful server woman stepped forward, “His wife was here earlier. I’m not sure if she still is.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, passing by Bryony as she tried to use locks of curly brown hair to shadow her face. But then returning to her. “That’s her, there. At the bar.”

All heads turned in her direction now. I guess there’s nothing for it. She stood. “Aye, the drunk brawler is my husband. Unfortunately.”

“Do you have a place you can take him to get cleaned up?” the city guard asked.

“We have a room upstairs,” she said. “And of course we’ll pay for the damages to this fine establishment. And a bit extra for the owner’s troubles.”

“That sounds fair. Do you agree, Ferrick?”

Only upon hearing his name did the man who’d served Bryony from behind the bar pop his bald head up. He nodded once, quickly. “And I’ll have you out of your…” He frowned, as if just noticing who Bryony was and remembering the fact that she and her supposed husband had arrived separately and procured their own sleeping quarters. “…rooms at first light.”

“Of course,” she said amiably. “Guard Crandon, would you mind carrying my dear husband upstairs for me. When he’s like this, he’s heavier than a corpse at midnight.”

He nodded. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

Ludo

He felt like he was floating. Despite the pain throbbing through his face, his ribcage, his arms and legs—pretty much everywhere—it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. The truth was, even a table full of empty mugs couldn’t numb him anymore, and for him any relief lasted substantially less time than for most men. This was why he’d picked the fight with the thugs. Why he hadn’t fought back when he could’ve snapped their necks one at a time as easily as breaking twigs.

Because, for those moments of agonizing bliss, he’d forgotten about his brother.

Now, as he floated, it all came back to him in a blaze of heat. The flames all around him. His brother’s cries. That dark figure, wreathed in flames, running into his already burning house, the flames seeming to swirl around him as though obedient to his every command.

I should’ve been in there. Not him. Me. I was the one who was supposed to die.