TSA: Chapter Thirty-Four: Bounty

Chapter Thirty-Four: Bounty

Wirborough, 4th Moon, 16th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The alehouse was dim, its low, sagging rafters barely visible through the haze of smoke. The air was thick with the mingled stench of stale beer, sweat, and unwashed bodies. Sean kept to a shadowed corner, his back pressed against the wall. A threadbare shawl draped over his head and shoulders, its frayed edges obscuring his face. Though his hood concealed him well, he kept his head bowed, lifting a mug to his lips occasionally. The sour ale was barely palatable, but it gave his hands purpose and kept prying eyes away.

Across from him sat Ser Drake, his scarred knuckles rapping a restless rhythm against the warped wood of the table. The faint glint of mail peeked out from beneath his patched cloak, though his sword, wrapped in rags, was disguised as a traveller’s bundle. Even with his efforts to appear inconspicuous, Drake’s broad shoulders and imposing frame made him stand out. He hunched awkwardly in the cramped space, his gaze darting toward the door.

“Too exposed,” Sean muttered, his voice low and clipped. “I don’t like it.”

Drake’s lips twitched. “You never like anything.”

“I like breathing,” Sean shot back, his tone sharp. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Before Drake could respond, the door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air and the muffled chatter of the street. Two figures slipped inside, their movements quick and deliberate. Both wore travel-stained cloaks, their hoods pulled low, though Sean recognized them immediately. He gave a small nod, and the pair crossed the room toward them, moving through the smoky haze-like shadows.

The two men slid into the bench across from Sean and Drake, their presence drawing no attention from the drunken rabble. One of them, a wiry fellow with a perpetual squint, leaned forward. His voice was barely audible over the din. “It’s worse than we thought.”

Sean raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

“The bounty,” the man continued, glancing around the room as if expecting spies in every corner. “There’s another one. This time from Lord Tristan. Same as your brother’s.”

Drake’s hand went instinctively to his belt, his jaw tightening. “Two bounties? Ancestors preserve us.”

The man, Creyton, shook his head. “Lord Tristan’s isn’t as large, but it’s enough to stir trouble.” He turned his squinting gaze to Sean. “The taverns and brothels are buzzing with it, my lord. We heard your name in three places before we even got here.”

Sean let out a long, slow breath, his fingers tightening around his mug. The chaotic din of the alehouse seemed to recede, the weight of the news settling over the table like a shroud.

“Time to go,” he said finally, his tone calm but resolute.

Drake frowned. “Go where?”

Sean shrugged, his expression hidden beneath the shawl. “West. As far west as we can.”

Drake’s frown deepened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his wrapped sword. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

Sean’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I’ll think of something along the way.”

The table fell into a brief silence as the four men exchanged uneasy glances. Around them, the drunken revelry of the alehouse continued unabated, the raucous laughter and shouts masking the tension at their table.

“We leave at dawn,” Sean said, breaking the quiet. “Get some rest while you can.”

The others nodded, rising from the table one by one and slipping into the shadows, disappearing like smoke into the crowded room. Sean lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting upward toward the smoke-blackened beams overhead.

Two bounties. He had always known there would be risks for his ambition—consequences. But he hadn’t expected them to multiply so quickly, so dangerously. He drained the last of his ale and set the mug down with a quiet thud.

“West, then,” he murmured to himself, pulling the shawl tighter around his face.

As he rose to follow his men, the laughter in the alehouse seemed to shift, its edge sharp and mocking. Sean ignored it, his steps steady and measured as he slipped out the door and into the cold darkness beyond.

✥✥✥

Towleigh

The marketplace hummed mutely with life, a sparse sprawl of stalls and shouting merchants framed by crooked timber buildings. The air smelled of damp hay, sweat, and the sharp tang of iron from a smithy down the lane. Kain strolled through the throng, his heavy boots muffled against the dirt-packed road. He wasn’t here for the chatter or the trinkets; he hadn’t been drawn to a market for years except to follow a trail or claim a reward.

He paused near a row of weathered posts hammered into the ground at uneven angles. They were cluttered with notices, some curling from damp, others freshly tacked on. A few advertised debts owed or services for sale, but two, in particular, caught his eye—squares of parchment pinned with rusting nails.

Kain stepped closer, tugging his gloves tighter as he leaned in to read. The script was bold, legible even beneath a smear of grime:

WANTED: SEAN OF FAYWYN
For Treachery, Sedition, and Betrayal.

His gaze travelled downward to the details, sparse but direct. The description wasn’t unusual—a man of middling height, golden-haired, pale-skinned—but it was the sum beneath that made Kain pause: 300 Gold Royals.

Kain’s eyes lingered for a moment before his gaze drifted lower to the other notice—rougher in make, the edges curling and ink smeared.

WANTED: SEAN von GRIFENBURG
For Treachery and Crimes Against House Lormat.

This one bore the Lion’s head of Lord Tristan and promised 200 Gold Stags.

Two bounties, issued separately but unmistakably for the same man. Kain reached out, pulling both parchments free, folding them with care, and tucking them into the inside pocket of his cloak.

“Kain,” a voice called from behind him, low but familiar.

He turned, finding another sellsword leaning against a nearby stall. Ryman, his occasional informant and sometimes rival, wore a knowing smirk. His clothes were road-worn but clean, his sword resting casually on one shoulder.

“Well now,” Ryman gestured to the parchment in Kain’s hand. “You’ve found yourself a popular prize, haven’t you?”

Kain didn’t answer right away, his eyes scanning the bustling square before settling on Ryman. “What do you know?”

Ryman chuckled, stepping closer. “Same as you, I’d wager. Faywyn’s lord had long wanted his head, but it’s Tristan’s bounty that’s got the smallfolk talking. Not every day two lords call for the same throat to be cut. Gold’s got half the countryside sniffing after him like hounds on a fox.”

“Where?” Kain asked, his voice steady.

“They say west,” Ryman replied. “He’s running for the Giltwater, though it’s hard to say how far he’s gone. Heard he’s got a few men with him. Some say, knights.”

Kain nodded once, a small, almost imperceptible motion. He glanced back at the post, now bare where the notices had been, and then at the crowd bustling past. No one paid him any mind, and that suited him fine.

“What’s your stake in this?” Kain asked, his tone calm.

Ryman shrugged, his smirk fading. “Nothing now. Thought about it, sure, but chasing a man with two bounties on his head draws too much attention. Every hunter worth his steel will be out there soon. I’m not about to start fighting over scraps.”

Kain turned without a word, his boots crunching softly as he began to walk away. Behind him, Ryman called out again, his voice laced with curiosity.

“You think he’s worth the trouble? A man like that?”

Kain didn’t stop or turn. “Depends on how far west he’s gotten.”

Ryman’s laughter followed him briefly before fading into the hum of the market.