Chapter 23 Crossing the Bridge

### Chapter 23: Crossing the Bridge

The road ahead bustled with life. Farmers guided oxen-drawn carts stacked high with harvests, merchants barked about their wares, and travelers in bright, dust-covered garb ambled toward the massive stone bridge spanning the river. Beyond the bridge loomed a large town, its walls towering in the distance, banners flapping in the breeze. The sight filled the air with an undeniable hum of anticipation, but Trill's focus remained sharp. Every step closer to the bridge was a step toward the unknown.

Bren walked beside him, her expression unreadable. She had said little since their last camp, but Trill could feel the weight of her gaze now and then. He hadn't pressed her; they both carried burdens that words alone couldn't lighten.

As they neared the bridge, the crowd thickened. A bottleneck had formed where guards in polished steel inspected travelers. Their spears gleamed in the late morning sun, and their eyes darted sharply from person to person. Each inspection felt deliberate, their questions precise. Trill's jaw tightened.

"Identification," barked a guard at a weary-looking merchant, who fumbled through his satchel to produce a parchment. The guard examined it, grunted, and waved him on.

Trill frowned. This could be trouble.

"They're thorough," Bren murmured, her voice low enough to avoid being overheard.

"They're looking for something—or someone," Trill replied. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, his gaze scanning for any sign of extra danger. "Stay close."

Bren's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Don't worry. I always do."

When their turn came, Trill stepped forward, his back straight, his demeanor calm. Two guards stopped them with raised hands. One was a tall man with sharp features and an air of authority; the other was younger, his stance less sure but eager. The senior guard scrutinized Trill immediately, his eyes narrowing.

"Identification," he demanded, holding out a gauntleted hand.

Trill's mind raced. He had no documents, no seal or parchment to prove his identity. He started to respond, but Bren cut in smoothly, stepping forward with a disarming smile.

"He doesn't have it yet," she said, her voice warm but firm. "We've just arrived. He's heading to the local mercenary guild to register. I'm vouching for him."

The senior guard's eyes flicked to Bren, then back to Trill, clearly suspicious. "A mercenary, is he? Seems quiet for one of your lot."

Bren's tone shifted, a touch more assertive. "Quiet because he's deadly. Believe me, you'll want him in your town when trouble comes knocking."

The younger guard chuckled nervously, but the senior one wasn't so easily convinced. His gaze lingered on Bren's face, then dropped to her well-worn armor, the scars it bore testament to battles fought. The corners of his mouth twitched into a sly grin.

"If he's so skilled, let him prove it." He jabbed his thumb toward an open area beside the bridge, a makeshift training ground where guards practiced drills. "I'd hate for someone unworthy to waste the guild's time."

Trill glanced at Bren, whose expression remained steady, though he caught the slight tension in her jaw. She leaned closer to him, her voice a whisper. "Just show him enough to satisfy his ego. No need to kill anyone."

Trill smirked faintly. "Understood."

The guard gestured for a wooden practice sword to be brought forward, but Trill raised a hand, shaking his head. "I'll use my own," he said. The confidence in his voice was unshakable, and it made even the seasoned guard pause.

Unsheathing his blade, Trill stepped into the circle. It gleamed faintly, a weapon that wasn't just well-maintained but clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. The crowd grew quiet as travelers and merchants stopped to watch.

The senior guard stepped forward, tossing aside his helmet and cracking his neck. "Fine by me," he said, twirling his own blade. His stance was solid, practiced. "Let's see what you've got."

The two squared off, the air thick with tension. Trill didn't move immediately, his stance relaxed, sword held low. The guard, clearly eager to impress, charged first, his blade swinging in a wide arc. Trill sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid, economical.

"Too slow," Trill said, his tone almost bored.

The guard growled, attacking again, this time with a series of quick, calculated strikes. Trill parried each one with ease, his sword moving like an extension of his arm. The clash of metal echoed across the bridge, drawing more onlookers.

Bren watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But inside, she felt a strange sense of pride. Trill wasn't just good; he was exceptional. Every move was precise, every strike deliberate. He wasn't showing off, but he didn't need to. His skill spoke for itself.

The guard's frustration grew with every failed attempt to land a blow. He lunged, overextending, and Trill seized the opening. In a single, lightning-fast motion, Trill's blade swept upward, knocking the guard's sword from his hand. It clattered to the ground, and before the man could react, Trill's blade was at his throat.

The crowd erupted into murmurs, a mix of awe and disbelief. Trill stepped back, lowering his sword, and sheathed it with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Satisfied?" he asked, his tone as calm as ever.

The guard picked up his sword, his face red with embarrassment. He gave a curt nod, stepping aside to let them pass. "Welcome to town," he muttered, avoiding Bren's gaze.

As they crossed the bridge, Bren couldn't help but glance at Trill, who walked beside her as if nothing had happened. She waited until they were out of earshot of the guards before speaking.

"Impressive," she said, her voice laced with genuine admiration. "But do you always have to humiliate people?"

Trill smirked, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. "He asked for it."

Bren shook her head but couldn't suppress a smile. "Still, you didn't have to be so... precise. You're going to make enemies with that attitude."

"Maybe," Trill replied. "But I prefer to make them think twice before crossing me."

The rest of the walk to the town gates was uneventful, the bustling crowd of travelers resuming their chatter now that the spectacle on the bridge was over. Bren couldn't help but replay the fight in her mind, the way Trill had moved with such ease, such confidence. It was like watching a predator stalk its prey—a dangerous beauty she hadn't expected to admire.

As they approached the gates, Bren turned to Trill, her tone more serious. "You know, we're not exactly low-profile anymore. That little display back there might come back to bite us."

Trill shrugged. "Let them come. I've dealt with worse."

Bren sighed, though there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "You're impossible."

"And you're still here," Trill countered, his voice tinged with a rare warmth.

Bren didn't respond immediately, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than she intended. She couldn't deny it anymore. Trill was more than just a skilled swordsman, more than just an assassin. He was... something else. And as much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to trust him.

But trust was dangerous. Trust could get you killed.

As they passed through the gates and into the bustling streets of the town, Bren pushed the thought aside. There would be time to figure it out later. For now, they had work to do. And whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

For better or worse.