Only once he was alone again did the weight of the day finally settle on Osric's shoulders.
His legs were heavy, his shoulders stiff, every step reminding him that the day had been far longer than it had any right to be. The adrenaline that had carried him through blood, grief, and old memories had finally burned out, leaving only dull aches and the weight of dried blood clinging to his coat.
By the time the familiar sign of the small inn came into view, Osric was running on habit alone.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the warmth washing over him immediately. The smell of cooked grain and broth filled the air, replacing the iron and rot that had followed him since the farm. A few patrons glanced his way, then looked away again. No questions. No interest. Exactly how he liked it.
Osric exhaled slowly and made his way inside, already knowing what he needed next: food, water, and a place to sit long enough for his body to remember how tired it really was.
Osric took a seat at one of the small tables and set his sword carefully against the wall within reach.
Before he could speak, a familiar voice reached him.
"Welcome back, Osric. You come here every day now. What can I help you with?"
He looked up.
The young woman—the innkeeper's daughter—stood with a tray tucked under her arm. Average-looking, plain clothes, tired eyes that missed little. She smiled easily, like someone used to listening more than talking.
Osric paused for half a heartbeat.
"How do you know my name?" he asked.
She tilted her head slightly. "I hear things. Even in a small inn like this." Her smile turned a little wry. "Your name's been going around lately. People say you're an up-and-coming adventurer. There are already a few rumors."
Osric absorbed that quietly.
"Hm," he said. "I'll take the usual. And I need a bath after. Can you wash my coat too?"
She didn't seem surprised by his calm tone. If anything, she looked more interested.
She kept staring.
'Why is she still staring at me?'
"Did you hear me?" Osric asked.
She blinked. "Oh—yes. Sorry. I'll take your coat and bring your meal."
As she reached for it, Osric felt the faintest tightening in his chest—not from her, but from the words she'd said.
Rumors.
'That's bad.'
Getting attention in Ashbrook was dangerous. Especially if Ruben or the others heard about it.
Still, he didn't react outwardly.
And he didn't care about her interest either.
Osric had never cared much for romance—not as a child, not now. Strength came first. Everything else could wait. Revenge most of all.
By the time he finished eating, bathed, and left his coat behind to be washed, nearly an hour had passed.
He placed twelve copper on the counter before leaving.
It stung.
But not like it used to.
Outside, the night air felt sharper against his clean skin.
He wasn't done yet.
⸻
Osric changed direction and headed toward the nearest smithy.
The same old man who had sold him the iron sword looked up as he entered.
"I need my sword polished and sharpened," Osric said, setting it down. "And I want a dagger."
The smith eyed him for a long moment, then grunted.
They haggled briefly.
Not much.
Osric paid eighty-five copper for a solid iron dagger and another ten for the work on his sword.
'More than I earned today,' he thought.
'Still worth it.'
A backup weapon meant fewer mistakes. Fewer chances to die.
He waited until the work was done, took his freshly sharpened sword, and left without another word.
⸻
By the time Osric reached his small wooden hut, exhaustion hit him all at once.
Tomorrow, he would rest.
The day after that, he'd take another mission.
He checked his coin one last time before putting it away.
One silver.
One hundred eight copper.
Enough to breathe.
Not enough to slow down.
Osric lay down on his thin blanket and fell asleep almost immediately, the day finally claiming its due.