Thornmere hamlet

The second afternoon after the bandit ambush dawned bright and clear. The countryside had grown more open, the dense tree line giving way to low, golden fields, where distant farmsteads dotted the land like scattered ink drops on parchment. Liam sat inside the carriage, his eyes half-lidded, the warm breeze filtering in through the small side window. It carried with it unfamiliar scents: dried herbs, livestock, the distant aroma of freshly baked bread, and the oily tang of tanned leather.

Yra, seated across from him, had her back pressed against the wood panel, one leg bent, the other stretched. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't asleep. She had been listening to the creak of the wheels and the slow rhythm of hooves for some time.

"Not much longer now," she murmured without opening her eyes. "Another half hour, perhaps. You can feel it in the air when a town like Thornmere draws near."

Liam gave a faint nod and turned back to the window.

Rold, sitting beside Yra, adjusted the strap of his axe and glanced outside. "You ever been to a trade hub before?"

Liam met his gaze. "Not unless Emberglow counts."

There was a pause. The three exchanged brief glances. It was Yra who spoke again, her tone quieter, more measured than usual. "It doesn't. Emberglow was a hamlet at best. Thornmere's... different."

"How so?" Liam asked.

Rold rested his elbow on his knee and spoke with the thoughtful air of someone recalling lessons long digested. "It began as a merchant camp. Three trade routes crossed here, old ones, carved before the First Accord. At first, it was just peddlers, carts, and tents. But trade brings coin, and coin brings roots."

"The peddlers set up permanent stalls," Yra continued. "Then came caravan houses. Then fences, then buildings, then taverns, and brothels, and guards. Eventually, someone built a wall, then a gate, then began to tax the traffic."

The archer, quiet for much of the ride, finally added her voice. "By the time the lords in the west noticed, Thornmere was too profitable to break. Now, every noble with half a crest wants a piece of it."

Liam absorbed the words, gaze distant. "So it's independent?"

Yra gave a tired smile. "In theory. In practice, it serves whoever pays best, which, more often than not, is the town itself."

As they crested a hill, the view opened.

Before them, Thornmere spread out like a fan. The outer ring was made of sturdy stone and timber walls, not elegant, but functional. Smoke curled from hundreds of chimneys. Tiled rooftops interlocked like scales, and tall warehouses stood near the southern gate. The eastern gate, where their convoy was heading, bustled with lines of wagons, guards, livestock, and travelers.

Charlie, seated atop the lead cart, raised his hand and signaled a slow descent. The horses responded with trained obedience, and the line of carriages followed suit.

The gates were tall, reinforced with iron bands. City guards in blue tabards moved among the lines, checking documents and asking questions. When it came time for Liam to step forward, he presented his forged papers as instructed by Charlie beforehand.

The guards scanned them, asked a few questions, then paused.

"You are Liam of Emberglow?" one of them asked.

Liam nodded cautiously. "Yes."

The guards exchanged a glance, then gestured him aside.

"You will need to answer a few questions. A precaution. Emberglow was recently reported lost."

Liam kept his expression neutral and complied. He was taken to a small stone outpost beside the gate where a senior officer questioned him. The conversation was brief. They asked about how he left Emberglow, if he had family, and what business brought him to Thornmere. He gave calm, prepared answers.

When it was over, the officer gave a nod. "You are clear. Thank you for your patience."

Exiting the post, Liam saw Charlie waiting beside the cart.

"Thought you might try and vanish without your belongings," Charlie said with a dry smile.

Liam allowed himself a faint chuckle. "I would not abandon a load worth more than the fare I paid."

Charlie handed over the pack. "Fair enough. You headed to an inn?"

"Yes. Preferably something modest but clean."

Charlie pointed down the road. "Try the Lily Rest. North quarter. It's quieter there."

"Thank you."

They clasped hands briefly.

"Take care," Charlie said. "This town looks civilized, but it has teeth. Keep your wits."

Liam nodded and turned away.

As he walked, he slipped another coin, a gold one, into his pocket. He had found it not far from the gate, fallen in the dust beside a cart. A quiet windfall. .

Thornmere Hamlet buzzed with wealth and noise. Rich fabrics fluttered from market stalls, and coins clinked endlessly between merchant hands. Liam moved slowly through it all, weaving between perfumed nobles and armored mercenaries with the grace of someone half-present. His red eyes flicked from sign to sign, looking for one name:

Lily Rest.

That Charlie talk about . He hadn't pressed Liam about Emberglow when he easily could have, and for that, Liam respected him. There were no probing questions, no forced sympathies. That meant Liam didn't have to lie or perform. He could breathe.

Tch. Another gold.

He crouched slightly, lifting the small glinting coin tucked near a wagon's broken spoke and flipped it into his inventory. That made twenty gold coins collected so far.

Thornmere Hamlet really was a rich town.

Everything could be bought. People walked with coin-heavy pouches and light heads. It was the kind of place where even a nobody like him could gather a small fortune, if he was lucky, smart, and fast.

He walked forward again without stopping, slipping through alleys and over bridges, before finally reaching his destination.

Lily Rest.

The inn didn't appear in the game version of Elyndra he remembered. But that was fine. Not everything in this world needs to match the game, he told himself. This is reality now.

The building itself looked rustic but solid. Wooden beams, mossy stone base, dim lanterns swaying on crooked hooks. Warm light and chatter leaked through its windows, laughter, mugs slamming, off-key singing.

Liam stepped inside.

The scent hit him first, roasted meat, wet leather, ale, and sweat.

The inn was crowded, lively. Adventurers, mercenaries, and traders filled every table, their voices layering into a chaos of arguments, dice games, and slurred toasts. Dirty boots rested on benches. Cloaks were draped over chairs. Weapons leaned against tables like silent dogs.

Liam: Did I choose the wrong inn?

He felt it immediately. The mismatch. His modern Earth-born mind recoiled at the mess, the unwashed air, the stickiness of the floor beneath his boots. This place was not made for someone who liked hygiene and peace.

He instinctively turned, about to step back out, but a voice stopped him.

"Wait! Sir, are you here for lodging?"

A waitress, mid-20s maybe, spotted his hesitation and rushed over. Her dress was neat despite the atmosphere, and her brown eyes were sharp.

"You can go to the counter to check in," she added quickly, sensing she might lose a customer.

Liam paused.

He saw it in her eyes, the trained panic of someone who couldn't let a paying customer walk out, especially one who looked halfway decent. She needed the coin, or her manager would have her head.

He also knew how awkward it would be to turn around now. Everyone nearby had noticed. He gave an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of his head.

Liam: "Do you have any… cleaner rooms? Something a little better kept?"

It was a fair ask. But his tone made it clear he wasn't used to speaking up like this.

The waitress smiled quickly, trying not to let irritation show. "Don't worry, sir. It might not look clean, but our rooms are very hygienic. Fresh linens, cleaned daily. I promise."

She was doing her job. Whether she liked this place or not, work was work.

"What did you just say… isn't clean?"

A hoarse, gravel-thick voice cut across the room.

Liam froze.

So did the waitress.

They both turned toward the source.

A large man with a bushy blond beard and braids in his hair stood up from one of the corner tables. Mercenary, obvious from the blood-dried armor and the ale-stained cloak tossed behind him.

His pale blue eyes locked on Liam.

"You saying we're not clean?" the man barked, pushing his stool aside with a loud scrape. "Better say that again, pretty boy."

He stomped forward, each step a drumbeat.

The entire room began to quiet.

Liam didn't move. His face was neutral. But inside?

Shitshitshit.

His heart raced. His legs wanted to run. His arms tensed.

(Can't you shout from behind with your huge size instead of stomping over like a boss monster?)

He felt trapped. Every instinct screamed to apologize, laugh it off, disappear.

Just like Earth.

Just like always.

'Earth…'

That word sparked something in his mind.

He remembered those days. The beatings, the threats, the gangs that picked fights for fun. He remembered curling into himself, lowering his eyes, apologizing, begging.

Always begging.

Here's the difference:

This wasn't Earth.

This wasn't a society that gave you police or courts or excuses.

And Liam… Liam wasn't that old self anymore.

His hands clenched.

His chest burned.

Liam (thinking): Should I really still act like that here? Still keep crawling?

No.

Not anymore.

A decade of acting experience. A role taught to him by the only teacher who gave a damn.

He could use that.

He wasn't strong.

But he knew how to be someone who was.

He took a breath.

I'm an actor. I've done this before.

He looked the man straight in the eyes. The brute was close now, looming.

"What? Got something to say, pipsqueak? What're you gonna do, sneeze on me?"

He placed a massive hand on Liam's head.

Liam (growling): "Put your hand down."

"What was that? Speak up, little twig."

"I said—PUT YOUR F***ING HAND DOWN… or I'll kill you."

His voice was hoarse. Cold. Not loud, but heavy with intent.

Liam lifted a palm in front of his face slowly. The man frowned.

Without warning, Liam drove his knee forward, fast and merciless, straight into the man's groin.

The mercenary's breath fled his body in a choked grunt. He staggered, clutching himself, face twisted in agony.

Liam stepped forward as he fell to his knees.

With one hand, he grabbed the man's hair, yanking his head back. The other hand pressed two fingers gently against the man's right eyelid, as if testing how easily it would give way.

"Where I come from," Liam whispered, "this is how we teach dogs not to bite."

His voice had changed, calm, but wrong. Too measured. Like a man delivering a soliloquy before a blade falls.

The entire inn was silent.

No one moved.

The blond man, shivering now, looked up, and saw it.

Not just madness.

The actor. The killer. The maskless devil.