Chapter 25

  Purpose

  The garuda finally approached the outskirts of Ramsmeade as the sun began its slow ascent, gilding the fields and rooftops in burnished amber. The three had traveled through the cover of darkness, eager to reach their final stop before the Tower of Hecate.

  The town itself was small, but lively, with squat stone buildings and timber-framed homes leaning into one another like gossiping old men. A scattering of market stalls lined the main street, their proprietors still hawking their wares despite the hour. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat curled through the air, mingling with the sharper scents of tannery and horse dung.

  Sabo shifted in his saddle, still unaccustomed to the powerful gait of the garuda beneath him. He eyed the passersby warily. Ramsmeade was no grand city, but it was bustling compared to the lonely roads they had traveled and was larger than anything he had ever known. Solstice—by comparison—hadn’t been much. His hand twitched, as though it reflexively wanted to extend and summon the weapon that waited just beneath the surface. People stared at him, wide-eyed, like they were witnessing a wolf riding on the back of the garuda. He wanted to shrink away and disappear from their prying eyes. But he couldn’t—especially with this new form. He settled for slouching over his reigns, and avoiding eye contact.

  Gagan, of course, seemed right at home, grinning as he dismounted and stretched. “I say we trade one of these beauties for some proper coin. We can ride double on the way to the Tower.” He clapped the nearest garuda’s feathered neck. “Besides, I doubt we’ll find a stablemaster willing to board three of these for free.”

  Hiwot nodded, already unfastening her saddlebags (technically, they were the bandits’ saddlebags, but through proper means were now hers, she had explained). “Agreed. We need supplies, and unless you fancy sleeping on the roadside again, an inn for the night.”

  Sabo followed as they led the garuda to the largest stable in town, an aging but sturdy structure of weathered wood and thick stone. The stablemaster, a wiry woman with shrewd eyes, appraised the creature with the kind of look a butcher gives a prize calf.

  “Fine beast,” she murmured, running a calloused hand over its flank. “Well-trained, from the look of it. I'll give you thirty.”

  “Thirty?” Gagan scoffed. “For a garuda like this? It could carry a man from here to Olendar without breaking stride. Forty.”

  The stablemaster snorted. “Maybe in its youth. Thirty-five.”

  Gagan hesitated, then nodded. “Done… If you can also stable our other two for the night.”

  The stablemaster spat into her palm and extended the hand towards Gagan, who happily spat into his own then took hers in a tight embrace.

  Sabo blinked. Thirty-five gold.

  The stablemaster counted the coins into Gagan’s hand—the dry one—and Sabo stared at the pile as if he had been handed a king’s ransom. He had seen coin before, of course, but never so much in one place, never in his possession.

  Gagan split the gold between them with a practiced ease, handing Sabo his share without ceremony. Sabo ran his thumb over the edge of a coin, feeling the weight of it, the cool bite of metal against his skin. His gut churned. This was more wealth than he had ever held, and Gagan and Hiwot were already discussing where to spend it as if it were nothing.

  By the time the sun had made its journey and was settling into the horizon, the three of them were newly outfitted—sturdy boots, thick cloaks, travel packs filled with dried provisions and water skins. Sabo flexed his fingers against the fabric of his new jacket. It was simple, but warm, better than anything he had worn in years.

  He stripped off his old clothes in the alley behind the inn, tossing the tattered rags into a heap. As he did, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Gagan, standing beside his own discarded coat, retrieving something from an inner pocket.

  A small booklet, its cover stained and worn from water damage.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Sabo frowned. Gagan tucked it carefully into the breast pocket of his new jacket, his fingers lingering there for a moment before he turned away.

  Sabo hesitated. He had never seen Gagan with a book before. The man was loud, flippant, never one to dwell on things for too long. And yet, the way he had handled that booklet…

  Sabo didn’t ask. Not yet.

  Instead, he pulled his new cloak around his shoulders, letting the weight of the gold in his pocket settle against his hip. The road to the Tower still lay ahead, and something told him they would need every coin, every resource, before they reached their destination.

  The inn was small but well-kept, its wooden beams dark with age, its hearth flickering with a low, steady fire. The common room bustled with the last of the evening’s patrons—travelers nursing cups of mead, a merchant haggling with a tanner, a trio of local farmers trading gossip. The scent of roast duck and spiced cider clung to the air, mingling with the earthy musk of too many bodies packed into too small a space.

  Hiwot had taken a room for herself, retiring early with little more than a nod, while Sabo and Gagan found themselves sharing a cramped but serviceable chamber upstairs. It held a single narrow window, a squat wooden dresser, and two straw-stuffed mattresses laid out on low frames. Simple, but leagues better than the cold dirt of the road. Or the cramped quarters he had been given while a prisoner.

  Sabo sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the golden glow of the oil lamp on the nightstand. He rolled a coin between his fingers, the metal still strange in his grip. Across from him, Gagan flopped onto his mattress with all the grace of a man who had never worried about personal space. He let out a long sigh, folding his arms behind his head.

  “Gotta say,” Gagan mused, tilting his head toward Sabo, “for a first-time garuda thief, you did well back there.”

  Sabo snorted. “You’re the one who actually stole them.”

  “Details,” Gagan said with a lazy grin. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it stealing if it’s from bandits?”

  “S’pose, not.”

  “You never did say where you were from, you know.”

  Sabo hesitated, the coin pausing in his palm. He wasn’t sure why, but he answered. “Olendar.”

  Gagan gave a low whistle. “You’re a long way from home, then.”

  Sabo nodded. “Not much of a home left.”

  He wasn’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe it was the warmth of the inn, the comfort of a real bed beneath him. Maybe it was the way Gagan listened—not with pity, but with that same casual curiosity he gave to everything. Like it was just another story, another thread in the weave of the world.

  “My village was called Solstice,” Sabo said, his voice steady. “Maldrath ravaged it. One of the largest hordes I’ve ever seen. Poor village didn’t stand a chance… Two Angels appeared that night.”

  “Angels, you say?”

  “I do.”

  Gagan was quiet for a while. “You’re lucky to be alive…” he finally said.

  “So were a surprising amount of others. The Imperials finished the job. The Crown Coalition arrived the morning after the attack.” He clenched his jaw. “They made sure nothing remained.”

  Gagan sat up slightly, watching him. “Damn,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  Sabo exhaled, slow and measured. The rage was always there, buried deep, but speaking of it brought it closer to the surface, like embers stoked into a flame. Not just for the village. Not just for the people. But for him.

  Vitomir.

  His fingers tightened around the coin. “Then, after months of struggling to survive…The Morduin Order took the last thing I had left,” he muttered. “Vitomir. He raised me. He was the only family I had left, and they took him.”

  Silence stretched between them. Gagan shifted, scratching absently at his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, “I know something about losing people.”

  Sabo looked up. The memory of the booklet in Gagan’s pocket came back to him, the careful way he had tucked it away. “That book,” he said. “The one you kept. What is it?”

  Gagan pulled his jacket off the back of the chair, fishing into the inner pocket. He retrieved the booklet, turning it over in his hands. It was small, the cover cracked with age and water-damaged at the edges. “Don’t really remember,” he admitted. “Most of my memories are gone. But this?” He tapped the cover with his thumb. “This was mine. I wrote things down, left myself notes. I know I was looking for someone—my little sister. She went missing, and I was searching for her. I think I know where to find her now.”

  Sabo frowned. “You think she’s in Hecate’s Tower?”

  Gagan flipped the booklet open, skimming the pages before holding it up for Sabo to see. A single line was scrawled across one of the crinkled sheets, written in bold, uneven script.

  She’s there. She has to be.

  “That’s why I’m going,” Gagan said, closing the book. “To find her.”

  Sabo stared at the page a moment longer before leaning back against the headboard. “That’s a noble thing.”

  Gagan chuckled. “Noble? Me?”

  Sabo shrugged. “More than me. I’m going for revenge. To get to whatever the Order wants before they can.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It feels small, compared to your reason. But it’s all I have. The only thing I can do for Vitomir now.”

  Gagan was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and clapped a hand on Sabo’s shoulder. “Then we’ll do it together,” he said simply.

  Sabo hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll help you find your sister. If I can.”

  Gagan grinned, leaning back onto his mattress. “Appreciate it, mate. And I’ll help you steal from the Order. If I can.”

  “It’s not stealing if we get whatever it is before it’s technically theirs.”

  “Details.”

  Sabo didn’t respond. He stared at the ceiling, the firelight from the lamp flickering in the dim room. The Tower awaited them. And whatever lay within it—whether vengeance or salvation—they would face it together.