Chapter 77: Grey’s Wife
As soon as he walked into the inn, Ken placed Richard with his back leaned against the wall. Richard let out a weak cough and tried to speak, but Ken stopped him.
"Don’t waste your strength, you took a heavy beating."
"Pretty nice that you saved your friend kid, but now you done pissed off the royal guards," Grey Beard said and folded his arms.
"They are gonna be back soon and they’ll come for you. This time they’ll make sure they get the job done," he said and then walked closer to Ken, "I suggest you get on out of here as soon as you can."
Ken understood that Grey Beard was only being thoughtful and giving him the right advice that this time required, so he did not get pissed at him. But regardless, he had no plans to leave the city because of what some guards wanted to do.
"I don’t have plans to leave, I have quite a bit to do in the city and I’ll have to stay for a long while.
But you don’t have to worry, whoever comes, I’ll deal with them," Ken said.
"Hmm, kid, I’ve met quite a few of your type, ambitious and pretty dang strong, but the system always wins.
You fight and you struggle, but those that have connections to power always end up on top," he warned, not the way you give a warning normally, but the way you warn when experience weighs on you and you know the gravity of what could happen.
"That’s fine," Ken replied. He stood and looked at Grey Beard. "Please, is it possible to treat him? His wounds are heavy and I can’t let him die. After all, he was with me when this happened."
Grey Beard saw that Ken was in no way budging about the issue of leaving, and so he decided to give up on it. He only just met the kid, he could not be bothered with what happens to him.
"I’ll get my wife, bring him over to the back," he said and started walking. Ken picked up Richard and followed him through the back door of the inn into what seemed to be a corridor that then led into the small modest house of Grey Beard.
Ken adjusted his grip under Richard’s arm and followed Grey Beard through the narrow back passage.
The moment they stepped inside, the air changed.
It was warmer here, not just in temperature but in feeling. The corridor opened into a modest home that carried a quiet sense of order. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling in neat lines, polished by years of care. The floorboards didn’t creak much underfoot, as though they had been maintained with attention rather than neglect.
There was a faint smell of herbs lingering in the air, layered with something richer—freshly cooked stew, slow-simmered meat, and warm bread. It clung gently to everything, like the house itself had been steeped in it.
Ken noticed it immediately.
Not just the smell, but the arrangement.
Shoes were neatly placed by the entrance, aligned rather than scattered. A small shelf nearby held jars and folded cloths, each item placed with almost deliberate precision. Even the hallway lanterns were evenly spaced, their glow balanced so no corner of the home was left dim.
Someone here hated disorder.
Ken didn’t need to ask. He could already guess.
Grey Beard led them further in, moving with the ease of someone who knew every corner of the place by heart. "Put him on the bench in the inner room," he said, pushing open a sliding wooden door.
The room beyond was small but comfortable. A low table sat near the center, its surface clean enough to reflect the soft light from the window. A folded blanket rested on a side chair, and near the far wall was a small counter lined with dried herbs hanging from hooks above it.
Richard groaned softly as Ken laid him down. His breathing was uneven, each inhale shallow and strained. Ken hovered for a moment, watching his face tighten with pain before forcing himself to step back.
Grey Beard exhaled through his nose. "He took more damage than I thought."
Before Ken could respond, footsteps approached from deeper inside the house.
Light, quick, and purposeful.
A woman appeared at the edge of the doorway.
She wore a simple apron over a plain house dress, sleeves rolled slightly up her forearms. Her hair was tied back, but a few loose strands framed her face from the rush of movement. There was a calm strength in her posture, the kind that came from repetition and familiarity rather than intimidation.
Her eyes flicked from Grey Beard to Ken and then landed on Richard.
The shift was immediate.
"What happened to him?" she asked, voice sharpening with concern as she stepped closer.
Grey Beard tilted his head slightly toward Ken. "Royal guards were involved."
That was all it took.
The woman’s expression changed.
Not into panic, but something colder. Sharper. Controlled, but undeniably darkened at the edges, like a door in her mind had been opened to an unpleasant memory.
She moved quickly.
"Help me lift him," she said.
Ken obeyed without hesitation, helping reposition Richard so she could assess him properly. She reached for a small wooden box beneath the counter and opened it with practiced speed. Inside were bandages, salves, stitched cloth strips, and small glass bottles containing various colored liquids.
Her hands didn’t shake.
But her eyes stayed fixed on Richard’s injuries with growing intensity.
"Who did this?" she asked again, quieter this time.
"Royal guards," Grey Beard repeated, leaning against the doorway.
The woman paused for half a second.
Then she began working.
She cleaned a wound along Richard’s side first, applying a salve that gave off a faint herbal burn in the air. Richard flinched slightly, letting out a weak sound, but she held him steady with careful pressure.
Ken stood nearby, silent.
Watching.
Every movement in the room felt deliberate. The way she wrapped the bandages. The way she adjusted his breathing position. Even the way she paused occasionally to check his pulse at the wrist and neck.
This wasn’t just experience.
This was familiarity with violence.
"You said royal guards," she repeated after a moment, her tone lower now.
"Yes," Ken replied simply.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
For a brief moment, something flickered behind her eyes—anger, restrained and buried under years of control.
"They haven’t changed," she muttered.
Ken didn’t respond, but he noticed it. The way her hands pressed just a bit firmer on the bandage. The way her gaze sharpened not at Richard anymore, but at the memory of whoever had done this.
Grey Beard sighed from the doorway but said nothing.
The room fell into a steady rhythm: cloth, salve, binding, breath.
Ken stayed quiet throughout.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions. He simply observed.
The house, the people in it, the way even pain was handled with routine precision.
Eventually, Richard’s breathing steadied slightly. Still weak, but no longer slipping.
The woman exhaled softly, wiping her hands on her apron.
"He’ll live," she said at last.
Ken nodded once. "Thank you."
She glanced at him then, properly studying him for the first time. "You’re the one who brought him here."
"Yes."
A pause.
Then she nodded, as if filing that information away.
"You should be careful," she said. "Royal guards don’t like losing face."
"I noticed," Ken replied calmly.
That earned the faintest reaction from her—a subtle shift in expression, as if she wasn’t sure whether he was reckless or simply unaware of fear.
Before she could say anything more, Grey Beard pushed off the doorframe.
"That’s enough for now. He needs rest."
[.....]
The office stood at the highest section of the Royal Guard administrative district, far removed from the noise of the lower city. Its architecture was deliberate—tall windows framed with dark wood, polished marble floors that reflected candlelight in soft gold tones, and walls lined with framed insignias of past captains and campaigns.
Everything about it spoke of authority.
Order.
Control.
Yet the man seated behind the large desk did not.
He leaned back in the captain’s chair with his boots resting carelessly on the edge of the table. His uniform—Royal Guard Captain’s armor—fit him, but not in a dignified way. It looked like something worn through necessity rather than honor. The collar was slightly undone, and the cape draped behind him without the discipline expected of someone in command.
He was young.
Too young to be here, if tradition mattered.
But tradition had not placed him there.
Underhanded deals had.
Bribes. Favor trading. Silent removals of rivals who had once stood in his way. Every step upward had been carved through manipulation rather than merit.
And now he sat at the top of a system that barely respected him, even as it obeyed him.
A knock came at the door.
