No peace for old men

Augustine - The Morning Before It All Changed

At just seventeen, Orion lived a quiet, simple life in the rolling countryside on the outskirts of Augustine, a city known more for its dusty roads and taverns than any real excitement. His days were mostly filled with tending to crops, repairing worn tools, and helping his family sell fresh produce and goods to cityfolk. It wasn't glamorous—but it was peaceful.

Helping him through it all was a familiar figure to everyone in town: Cyrus, or as Orion called him, Old Man Cy. He wasn't related by blood, but to Orion, he was as close to family as anyone could be. A soft-spoken man in his late 50s with more wisdom than he let on, Cyrus had been delivering goods between the countryside and the city for decades. With a weathered horse-drawn carriage and hands calloused by work, he was dependable, kind—and mysterious in a way Orion couldn't quite put his finger on.

Today was delivery day—a weekly ritual that always began before the sun had fully risen.

"Morning, old man," Orion greeted, stretching with a lazy grin as he stepped outside.

Cyrus glanced over his shoulder, already hoisting a crate into the carriage. "How long are you gonna keep calling me that?"

Orion smirked. "I don't know. How long are you gonna keep being old?"

Cyrus gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Smart mouth for someone who can't lift half these crates."

Orion watched, eyebrows raised, as Cyrus effortlessly lifted another load. "I still don't get how you do that. You're stronger than you look."

"Looks can be deceiving, Orion." Cyrus paused, his tone shifting slightly. "And strength... doesn't always look like what you think it does."

He exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Come on. Let's get moving while there's still daylight. We've got half the town waiting on us."

They made several stops—grain at the baker's, jars of preserved fruit at the general store, bundles of herbs for the healer. The final and largest delivery was always the Star Tavern, a busy watering hole near the heart of Augustine. It was noisy at any hour, but near dusk, it turned downright chaotic.

As they approached the swinging saloon doors, a group of loud, stumbling drunks staggered outside. One of them bumped hard into Cyrus, nearly knocking the crate from his arms.

"Watch it, geezer!" the drunk barked, stumbling back.

Orion stepped forward, jaw clenched. "You walked into him. Maybe if you weren't soaked in liquor, you'd know that."

The man narrowed his bloodshot eyes. "Your boy better watch his tongue... unless he wants to lose it."

Before Orion could fire back, Cyrus raised a hand calmly. "Orion. Let it go. We've got work to do."

Reluctantly, Orion backed down, swallowing his anger. He trusted Cyrus, even when he didn't always understand him. He turned to unload the rest of the crates.

But just as the last package was stacked, one of the drunks—clearly still bitter—shoved the pile with his shoulder on his way out, sending it crashing down onto Orion's back.

That was it.

Without thinking, Orion grabbed a nearby bottle and hurled it—crack!—shattering it against the man's head.

"You're dead, kid!" the man roared, stumbling toward him with murder in his eyes.

But before the drunk could strike, Cyrus stepped between them and caught the man's wrist with a firm, unshakable grip.

"You said he's just a boy," Cyrus said, voice low and cold. "So if you want to act like a man… deal with me instead."

There was a tense pause, then the drunk spat and began hitting Cyrus. Once. Twice. Again. But Cyrus didn't flinch. He didn't hit back. He simply stared, eyes locked on the man with such quiet intensity it was like staring down a storm. And slowly, inexplicably, the drunk's anger faltered—his fists lowering as a cold shiver passed through him.

The group backed off. Cyrus turned and walked away, motioning for Orion to follow.

Later, as they rode away from town in silence, Orion finally asked what had been burning in his mind.

"Why didn't you fight back? You just… stood there. Let him hit you."

Cyrus kept his eyes on the road. "Because sometimes," he said quietly, "not fighting back takes more strength than throwing a punch ever could."

Orion frowned, unsatisfied. "But you could've stopped him. You should've."

"I did stop him," Cyrus said, finally looking over. There was something in his gaze—something deep, powerful, and buried. "Just not the way you expected."

Back at the tavern, the drunk sat trembling on a bench, holding a cloth to his bleeding head. His friend leaned in, whispering nervously.

"Did you see his eyes? I've seen them before… I swear. That old man—he looks just like the guy on that old wanted poster. The one from the capital. I'd bet my last coin on it."

The drunken bravado was gone now, replaced by fear.

What Orion couldn't have known then was that today—this ordinary day—would be the last of its kind.

And the man he called Old Man Cy would no longer just be a quiet farmer… but the key to a destiny that would ignite a fire in Orion's soul and set him on a path impossible to turn from.

The journey had already begun. He just didn't know it yet.