Helping Ser Gregor into his armor had once been a mind-boggling difficult job. Months of fumbling with straps, buckles, and metal plates had reduced it to a routine—one that was only occasionally humiliating.
Aurion worked the leather ties tight across Gregor's back, bracing a knee against the man's side as he hauled a strap into place. The armor creaked in protest. Gregor didn't. The blacksmith did a remarkable job in repairing the bent pauldron, though he charged an arm and a leg for his work. Counting repairs and his gambling wins, they had made a small profit.
"Hold still," Aurion muttered.
"I am holding still."
"You're breathing," Aurion said, as if that were the real problem. "Very inconsiderately."
Gregor exhaled once, slow and deliberate, which somehow made the process worse.
Aurion finished with the straps and stepped back, giving the breastplate an experimental shove. It didn't shift. That was either a sign of good work or a sign that he'd accidentally sealed Gregor into it for life.
He decided not to investigate.
"Good news," Aurion said. "The discount smith I found did his job."
Gregor flexed his shoulder. Stopped. Then tried again with less enthusiasm.
Aurion noticed. Of course he noticed. The healer had cautioned against joining the final rounds; her biting commentary had done very little to dissuade Ser Gregor from doing something profoundly unwise. Two days of rest—and whatever questionable concoction she had forced down his throat—had reduced the swelling to something merely unpleasant instead of actively alarming.
Ser Gregor rolled the shoulder once more. Slower this time. Testing it.
Aurion folded his arms.
"Well," he said, "That's encouraging."
Ser Gregor glanced at him.
"It works."
"Yes," Aurion agreed. "In the same way a door works after being kicked open."
Gregor snorted faintly and reached for his gauntlet.
Aurion stepped in before he could fasten it, tightening the strap himself with a firm, efficient pull. He didn't comment on the way Gregor's arm tensed slightly under the pressure.
He also didn't loosen it.
"Just so we're clear," Aurion said, adjusting the fit with practiced hands, "If it stops working mid-charge, I'm not running out there to catch you."
Ser Gregor flexed his fingers inside the gauntlet. "I wouldn't expect you to."
"Good," Aurion said. "Because I absolutely wouldn't."
A brief pause.
"…I might drag you afterward," he added. "Depending on how valuable your armor still looks."
The knight offered him a flat look, but the small crease at the corner of his cheek spoke of something else—something that might have been the beginning of a smile, or at least a refusal to be entirely annoyed.
Aurion smiled back, entirely unhelpful.
Then, after a moment—quieter, almost as an afterthought—
"Try not to make that necessary," he added quietly. "I don't want to start my life as a medieval highwayman just yet."
Ser Gregor, bless him, either didn't hear the last part or chose—wisely—not to acknowledge it. He was too busy eyeing the competition.
The lists had a different feel to them now. Much quieter than the first day of the jousts.
Not in sound—the crowd was still there, still loud, still eager for splintering wood and expensive mistakes—but in tone. The laughter had thinned somewhat, and the gathered audience grew noticeably more serious.
Eight knights remained.
Aurion leaned against the rail, arms folded, watching as the marshals called the first pairing.
Across the field, a knight bearing the green sea-turtle of House Estermont rode into position. His armor was well-kept without being ostentatious, his seat steady, his lance held with the confidence of someone who had done this before and intended to keep doing it.
Aurion tilted his head slightly, studying him.
Beside him, Ser Gregor mounted without ceremony, settling into the saddle with the same quiet inevitability he brought to everything else. No flourish. No salute to the crowd.
Just readiness.
Aurion held up the lance.
Ser Gregor took it without a word.
"Plan?" Aurion asked.
Gregor adjusted the weapon under his arm.
"Hit him."
Aurion nodded.
"Excellent. I was worried we'd try something new."
The marshal raised the flag.
Both knights lowered their lances.
For a moment, everything narrowed—two men, two horses, one straight line between them.
The flag dropped.
The charge came fast.
CRACK.
Both lances shattered on the first pass—clean, splattering wood across the field. The Estermont knight held firm in the saddle, recovering with practiced ease. Ser Gregor's shield managed to catch his opponent's lance, leaving him no worse for wear.
Aurion was already moving, fetching a fresh lance from the rack and handing it out to the approaching Ser Gregor.
Ser Gregor took it without a word, though he acknowledged the lance with a small nod of his head.
Second tilt.
The strikes came lower this time, as both riders aimed their lances deliberately.
CRACK.
Gregor's strike landed square against the shield, hard enough to jolt the Estermont knight backward in the saddle. The return blow struck Gregor high on the chest, a solid hit—but not enough to rattle the experienced hedge knight.
Both men remained mounted.
Aurion narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Stubborn," he muttered.
Third tilt.
The marshal's flag dropped.
They thundered forward.
CRACK.
Gregor's lance landed first—driving hard into the Estermont's center. The hit lifted him from his saddle; his balance slipping as he tried to grapple his horse's reins, fighting with the stallion.
For a moment, he hung there as he made one last desperate attempt to steady himself. Then the world made the decision for him.
He fell.
Not cleanly, not gracefully—armor clattering as he hit the ground and rolled once in the dust.
The crowd roared.
Aurion allowed himself a small nod.
"Decisive," he said.
Marshals rode forward, but the Estermont knight was already moving, pushing himself up with visible effort. Not out. Not yet. His squire, who had been watching in silence, hurriedly rushed over with his sheathed sword.
Aurion exhaled lightly.
"Ah," he said. "One of those."
Ser Gregor did not comment as the marshal as the marshal signaled for the match to continue as a test of arms.
"Try not to get stabbed," Aurion commented as he handed his knight his sheathed sword.
Across the field, the Estermont knight had bounced back from his date with the dirt. He snapped his angled helmet back in place before drawing his longsword. The fall had definitely gave him a concussion from the looks of it.
Good, Aurion thought. Fair was overrated.
The two men circled.
Ser Gregor attacked first.
No pageantry like the nobles were accustomed to; no testing blow—just a direct, heavy swing aimed at ending the entire thing early. The Estermont knight caught it on his blade, easily enough before answering a swipe at Ser Gregor's right side—the injured side. Not reckless, then. Observant.
Aurion frowned.
Ser Gregor turned the blow aside, though not as clean as he should have. Either he misjudged the swing or his injury was acting up. His shoulder held—but it would need to be attended by the cranky healer once again.
Estermont pressed, getting off two strikes in quick succession. Ser Gregor parried the first, barely deflecting the second with his shield.
The two broke apart again.
Estermont changed his stance, pretending to strike low, hoping to draw Ser Gregor's guard down. He committed, hoping that Ser Gregor would fall for the move.
Ser Gregor's saw the move for what it was. He let the feint play out. Using the opening the feint provided, the older knight struck. The Estermont knight stumbled, his blade barely catching Ser Gregor's. It did not matter now, Ser Gregor had him on the ropes. Pressing the attack instantly, landing a series of quick blows that left his opponent without any breathing room.
The final strike was a shoulder bash. It drove the Estermont knight backward, knocking the wind out of him.
The Estermont knight did not bother getting up a second time. He slowly raised his arms, beckoning to the marshal in the distance.
"I yield," he gasped.
The marshal stepped forward, raising his voice so the crowd could hear over the din. "Ser Gregor," he proclaimed, "Is the victor of this tilt!"
Ser Gregor lowered his sword, nodding in acknowledgment of the marshal's call, though the effort sent a sharp jolt of pain through his shoulder. He stepped back from the fallen Estermont as Lord Swann's maester and acolytes moved in to tend the downed knight.
The wound from the earlier lance strike throbbed sharply, and after the duel, it had no hope of holding up for another round.
Aurion was at his side immediately, eyes fixed on the wounded shoulder. "That does not look good," he said.
Ser Gregor grunted. "I'll live."
"Barely," Aurion muttered, looping an arm under Gregor's for support. "Age is finally catching up to you, old man."
Ser Gregor snorted, short and gruff sounding almost like a chuckle. "Old man? I've still got more fight left in me than you'll ever see."
Aurion gave a mock sigh, guiding him carefully toward the tent where the healer waited. "Oh, I believe it. But at this rate, we'll be begging with the amount of coin we're spending patching you up."
"Then I will dump you off to the Baratheon girl," Ser Gregor responded, "I wonder how much she offers for you."
Aurion wisely kept his mouth shut, muttering his complaints under his breath. That was… not funny. Not even a little.
Maris Baratheon had already brought enough chaos into his life. He couldn't imagine the eldritch, Lovecraftian horrors she might conjure up if she had him at her mercy for more than a few minutes. No, sir.
He was fine as a no-named squire for now.
At least until he figured out how to commit tax fraud like the Westerosi nobles.
When they entered the medical tent, the healer greeted them with a grunt. She ushered them into an unoccupied cot with the courtesy of a snide fishwife. Her insults about Ser Gregor's stupidity would have been funny if she had only targeted her patient. As an innocent bystander, Aurion received a verbal lashing by association.
"Move wrong again, and you'll find yourself in bed for a week," she said gruffly, her voice carrying over the lingering cheers. "And you," she added, turning to Aurion, "Quit hovering like a shadow and grab me the fresh bandages."
Aurion raised his hands in surrender, rushing off to do as he was told.
"Good. I don't need either of you back here bleeding again," she snapped, grabbing a cloth wiped away the blood. Once it was clean, the wound was slathered in a khaki green ointment and rebandaged. "Now move along. Go. Out. Enjoy your victory—if you can call it that without breaking something else."
Ser Gregor gave a nod accepting the verbal lashing with grace . "Understood."
Aurion gave a sly grin. "Fantastic bedside manners as always."
Gregor shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "You're a fool."
The healer waved them off with one heavy hand, still scowling. "And keep your nonsense out of my tent next time. I've had enough of both of you for a lifetime."
Gregor and Aurion left, the crowd's cheers fading behind them, and Aurion's commentary resuming as usual—though now slightly tempered by the healer's intimidating glare.
It did not come as a surprise when Aleric Swann won the joust—his lordly brother's subtle match fixing helped more than a little. What was surprising was when the knight finished his victory lap and crowned Cassandra Baratheon as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Apparently, Lord Swann really wanted that Baratheon clout. With his heir failing to impress the four sisters, he was pushing his younger brother forward now. Talk about desperate.
Once the fanfare ended and the nobles had their day in the sun, the winnings were handed out. Lord Swann generously offered coin to those within the final rounds, it was a handful at best – pocket change to the nobles. For the peasant folk and hedge knights alike, it would feed them for months, plenty enough to survive off.
-
There had been a time when weekends meant sleeping in. That was another life. Now, even as the sun began to rise, Aurion was already awake, hurriedly eating what passed for breakfast and preparing for the long day ahead. The questionable inn Ser Gregor had insisted they stay in offered a "variety" of options—meaning exactly one for breakfast: a bowl of grey porridge that looked suspiciously like wet cement. It was like a cereal box with a surprise inside, except the surprise would probably be a bone.
Aurion stared at the bowl for a moment, as if it might improve under observation. It didn't. With a quiet sigh, he dipped his spoon into the thick mass and lifted a reluctant scoop. The porridge stretched slightly before surrendering to gravity and dropping back into the bowl with a soft plop.
"Encouraging," he muttered.
Bracing himself, Aurion took a bite. The texture was worse than it looked—grainy, heavy, and somehow both bland and offensive at the same time. He forced himself to swallow, chasing it down with a quick gulp of water before his body could react to the new form of torturer.
Hunger, unfortunately, was persuasive. Hunger meant a slow death, after a brief internal debate that lasted all of three seconds, he took another bite.
God he missed bacon.
Aurion set his spoon down and glanced around the common room of the inn. Calling it a common room felt generous. Calling it an inn felt generous. The place looked like it had been built quickly, repaired poorly, and then abandoned halfway through.
The tables leaned at angles that suggested they had given up on standing properly years ago. One chair had only three legs and seemed to be surviving purely out of spite. The floorboards creaked loudly with every movement, as if personally offended by the existence of feet.
The smell didn't help matters. A thick mixture of stale ale, damp wood, and something that strongly resembled burnt cabbage hung stubbornly in the air.
Weren't inns supposed to be filled with buxom waitresses and fictional adventurers? That was how the stories always went. This felt like a complete rug pull. If this was his reincarnated life, he wanted a refund.
Aurion looked down at the bowl again. The porridge sat there patiently, thick and unmoving.
He considered leaving it.
His stomach, which had been politely quiet up to this point, chose that moment to remind him why he had picked up the spoon in the first place.
Aurion sighed.
"Fine," he muttered to the bowl.
If he got food poisoning, then hopefully it'd kill him.
He scooped another reluctant portion and forced it down. The texture remained deeply offensive, but hunger proved slightly more persuasive.
One bite became two.
Two became several more taken with the dull determination of a man completing an unpleasant but necessary chore.
Eventually, the bowl was empty.
Aurion leaned back in his chair and stared at it for a moment, mildly surprised by the outcome.
"Victory," he said quietly.
His stomach rumbled again.
Apparently, it wanted a rematch.
Aurion stepped out of the inn and took a long breath of the morning air.
It still smelled faintly like manure and damp hay, but compared to the burnt cabbage perfume inside, it was practically refreshing.
The stable beside the inn leaned noticeably to the left, like a building that had once tried standing straight and simply lost the motivation.
Inside, two horses waited.
Buttercup lifted her head the moment Aurion walked in.
She stared at him.
Aurion stared back.
"You look well today." he said.
Buttercup snorted before returning to her hay.
Aurion took that as a fair assessment of his condition.
Morning light filtered through the crooked gaps in the stable walls, allowing the rising sun to illuminate the dusty space. Gregor's massive charger stood in the far stall, chewing nosily on hay entirely unconcerned with concepts such as tournaments, broken ribs, or plague infested porridge.
Aurion envied that.
He grabbed a brush from a nearby peg and walked over to Buttercup's stall.
"You wouldn't happen to know where they keep the bacon in this century, would you?" he asked.
Buttercup flicked one ear in his direction.
Then continued chewing.
Aurion nodded slowly.
"Right. Strong silent type. I respect that."
He stepped into the stall and began brushing her down in slow, practiced strokes. The brush rasped softly through her coat while Buttercup shifted her weight slightly, clearly approving of the arrangement.
Aurion worked along her neck.
"You know," he said, "This is the healthiest relationship I've had since arriving here. Which says worrying things about my life."
Buttercup snorted.
Aurion paused and scratched under her mane. Buttercup immediately leaned into it with the enthusiasm of a creature who had been starved.
"Ah," he said with a small smirk. "There it is. The loyalty button."
The mare shoved her nose into his shoulder.
Aurion staggered half a step.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Customer satisfaction is important."
He resumed brushing while Buttercup stood there looking extremely pleased with herself.
"You see," Aurion continued, "You and I understand each other, girl."
Buttercup's tail flicked lazily.
"You eat. I complain. Gregor hits people with sticks. Everyone contributes to our depressing life."
Buttercup nudged him again.
Aurion scratched her neck automatically.
"Exactly," he said. "Teamwork."
Buttercup chewed thoughtfully.
Aurion leaned his forehead briefly against her neck, allowing himself a moment of rest.
From the far stall, Gregor's charger snorted loudly.
Aurion glanced over.
"That one," he said quietly to Buttercup, "Is a professional. Carries Ser Gregor around while the old man tries to skewer people."
Buttercup chewed thoughtfully.
Aurion leaned his forehead briefly against her neck, allowing himself a moment of rest.
"For the record," he murmured, "If Gregor dies, I'm taking you and running. We could live as bandits. Rob the rich. Feed ourselves. Very noble work."
Buttercup bumped him with her nose again.
Aurion sighed.
"Yes, yes," he said. "We'll rob politely."
Buttercup huffed softly, apparently satisfied with that arrangement.
Aurion scratched the side of her neck again before stepping back.
"Who would've thought," he muttered, "A few months in this world and I'd turn into a medieval horse girl."
Buttercup blinked slowly at him.
"All I'm missing is a binder full of sketches of you and a very strong opinion about saddle stitching."
Buttercup chewed hay.
Aurion pointed at her.
"A laugh here and there would make me feel less like a lunatic, you know."
Buttercup continued chewing with the calm, distant patience of a creature that had absolutely no intention of helping.
Aurion sighed.
"Right. Of course. Emotional support horse, not emotional response horse."
He reached up and scratched along her neck.
Buttercup immediately leaned into it.
"Oh now you react," Aurion said. "I pour my heart out and you stare at me like a medieval therapist, but the moment I scratch your neck—"
Aurion huffed a quiet laugh to himself as he moved toward the waiting saddles, Buttercup already going back to chewing like she hadn't just emotionally invalidated him.
Typical.
The feast celebrating the nobles and their oh-so-glorious accomplishments had ended a day ago, Lord Swann had absolutely nuked his finances to make it as extravagant as possible—mountains of food, rivers of wine, enough music to qualify as psychological warfare. He still wasn't sure if it had been to impress Lord Borros or just to flex House Swann's supposedly deep pockets.
Probably both.
Their belongings were already packed into the travel bags. Between the two of them—excluding Ser Gregor's busted up plate armor—what the two of them had to their names could be crammed easily into a backpack. Talk about depressing.
With a small sigh, Aurion gathered the reins and led the horses out of the stable, ducking slightly beneath the doorway. The inn's courtyard greeted him with all the charm of a place that had probably been cleaned a year ago—muddy ground, scattered straw, and the unwanted scent of aged cabbage lingered.
He stepped out fully, guiding the horses along. Ser Gregor left early during the feast, speaking to some lord about an upcoming tourney. Aurion did not bother asking.
Less information, less stress.
Unfortunately, his brain didn't believe in that mantra.
He clicked his tongue softly, leading Buttercup forward as his thoughts drifted—unhelpfully—back to the feast.
To the conversations.
To the news.
Another pregnancy. Some lords hid their opinions behind pleasant smiles, all polite nods and carefully measured words. Others didn't bother, raising their cups with toasts that sounded just a little too mocking, just a little too amused to be sincere.
"Congratulations," one man had said, grinning like he'd just heard a joke no one else was in on.
"Truly a blessing," another added, in the exact tone one might use for a mild inconvenience.
Subtlety, it turned out, was a limited resournce.
Lord Borros hadn't even tried. The man's lips had pursed so tightly Aurion was half-convinced, he'd tasted something sour and maintained it out of pettiness. If disapproval had a face, Lord Borros did a wonderful job in showing it.
Aurion had stood there, nursing his drink and cursing everything inside his head.
Everyone there knew this wasn't just another child, another celebration. It was a piece on a board that was already cracking under pressure. More tension, more whispers, more fuel for a war that was definetely, absolutely going to go catastrophically fuck over everyone and everything.
And yet—they just sat there.
Drinking. Smiling. Pretending.
Aurion clicked his tongue softly.
In a few months, the child—Visenya—would be born… wrong. Not long after, Princess Rhaenyra's father would die. And then?
Chaos.
"King Drinks-a-Lot versus Queen War Crimes," he went on, voice dry. "A match made in hell, sponsored by poor decisions and generational trauma."
Who could've predicted that giving two overly emotional, completely unqualified people medieval WMDs would end badly? Clearly they were going to handle the whole succession thing with maturity, patience, and absolutely zero dragon-based property damage.
Totally.
Aurion snorted under his breath.
"Yeah, I'm sure they'll sit down, talk it out, maybe exchange a strongly worded raven or two," he muttered. "No fire. No screaming. No entire cities turning into accidental barbecues. Very calm, very reasonable leadership all around."
A beat.
"No winners," he added quietly. "Just… everyone else losing."
Damn it.
He tightened his grip on the reins, suddenly very aware of how small their little two-man setup actually was. One knight with armor that had seen better centuries, one very tired squire who definitely did not sign up for front-row seats to a dragon-powered civil war, and two horses one who was emotionally unavailable at best.
This was not a team built to survive a low fantasy civil war.
Aurion exhaled slowly.
"Yeah, no," he muttered. "We need to leave. Like, yesterday."
His gaze drifted toward the road beyond the courtyard, already imagining it stretching farther than it probably did.
"Next ship to Essos," he said, more firmly now. "New continent. New problems. Preferably problems that don't involve flying nuclear lizards and kings with emotional stability issues."
Buttercup flicked an ear.
Aurion nodded once, as if she'd just agreed with him.
"Exactly," he said. "Strategic retreat. Totally not running away in terror. Completely different thing."
Ser Gregor joined him some time later, freshly washed and ready for the upcoming travels. He gave Aurion a brief nod in greeting before moving past, one hand already running along the side of his horse, checking for any sign of strain or neglect.
Aurion watched him for a moment, the words sitting heavy on his tongue.
He almost let it go.
Almost.
"Ser," he began, quieter than usual. "Can we talk?"
Ser Gregor didn't look up. "You're talking."
Aurion exhaled through his nose. Right. Straight to it.
"I've been thinking," he said, folding his arms loosely. "About what comes next."
"That would be work," Ser Gregor replied. "Same as always."
"Or," Aurion said carefully, "We could leave."
That made Ser Gregor pause, just slightly. Not much—but enough.
"Leave where?"
"Essos," Aurion said. "Across the Narrow Sea. Pentos, Myr—somewhere that isn't… here."
The knight finally looked at him, brow faintly creased. "Why?"
Aurion opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn't exactly say because everything is about to fall apart in ways you wouldn't believe. Not without sounding like he'd taken a little too many blows to the head.
"Things feel… off," he settled on. "Tense. The kind of tense that doesn't go away. You heard them at the feast. The way they talked."
"Lords always talk," Gregor said with a tone of finality.
"Not like that," Aurion pressed. "Not with that edge to it. It's not just gossip anymore. It's building into something worse."
Ser Gregor studied him for a moment, then returned to his charger. "And you think running solves that."
"I think being somewhere else when it happens might," Aurion said. "We've got nothing tying us here. No land. No title. No reason to stay if things turn bad."
Gregor gave a low grunt. "We have coin to earn. That's reason enough."
Aurion shook his head. "Coin won't matter if the roads aren't safe, or if every lord starts picking sides and dragging men into it."
"They always do," Ser Gregor said, tightening the leather with a firm pull. "That's where the coin comes from."
Aurion let out a short breath, frustration creeping in. "That's exactly the problem."
Gregor straightened, turning to face him fully now. "There's a tourney at Dragonstone," he said. "Good purses. Strong competition."
Aurion stared at him. "Dragonstone."
"Yes."
"The seat of House Targaryen," Aurion said slowly his tone a mixture of disbelief and dread.
Ser Gregor's expression didn't change. "You say that like it's a warning."
"It is," Aurion shot back, then caught himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Or—it should be. That's the center of all this. Whatever's coming, it's going to start there."
Gregor watched him, measuring. "You're guessing."
"I'm paying attention," Aurion said.
A brief silence stretched between them.
Then Gregor shook his head. "Fear makes men see storms in clear skies."
Aurion almost laughed at that, but there was no humor in it.
"And ignoring a storm doesn't stop it from breaking," he said quietly.
Ser Gregor picked up his gloves, unconcerned. "We go where the work is. Right now, that's Dragonstone."
Aurion looked at him, really looked—at the certainty, the stubbornness, the simple, unshaken logic of it.
Coin. Reputation. The next fight.
That was a hedge knight's life. Not whispers, not possibilities. What was in front of him, and nothing else.
Aurion's shoulders sagged slightly.
"And Essos?" he tried once more, his tone borderline pleading. "Just… consider it."
Ser Gregor pulled his gloves on, flexing his fingers. "After the tourney," he said. "If there's reason."
Aurion let out a slow breath.
There it was. Not a no—but not the answer he wanted either.
"…Right," he murmured. "After."
Gregor gave a single nod, already moving past him, the conversation finished as far as he was concerned.
Aurion stayed where he was a moment longer, staring at the ground.
"After," he repeated under his breath.
By then, it might already be too late.
He stood there a moment longer, reins loose in his hand, staring at nothing in particular while the noise of the yard drifted back in around him.
After.
The word sat poorly.
After the tourney. After the coin. After the risk.
After, after, after.
Aurion let out a slow breath, his grip tightening slightly on Buttercup's rein, looking toward him—toward the old knight, for better or worse, been his constant. When he arrived in the world, starving and out of place, it was Ser Gregor who took him in. Gave him shelter and food to keep him alive.
His gaze shifted past the yard, toward the road beyond. It stretched out the same as always—dusty, unremarkable.
Open.
He swallowed.
It wouldn't be hard.
That was the part that bothered him.
No oaths bound him. No chains. No real ties beyond habit and a shared stretch of road. If he left now—took what little he had and walked—Ser Gregor would manage. He always had. Probably wouldn't even be too bothered by the entire thing.
Aurion huffed faintly.
Too easy.
He looked down at the reins in his hand, then back toward Ser Gregor again.
The man had given him more than others would have. Taught him enough to keep breathing in places that didn't forgive mistakes. Threw him a lifeline when he desperately needed one.
Aurion clicked his tongue softly, shifting his weight.
"Damn it," he murmured.
Because leaving made sense.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
"One tourney," he said under his breath, like he was trying to convince himself. "That's it. Then we're gone."
A pause.
His eyes drifted back to the road again.
"One tourney," he repeated, quieter this time.