The creak of the floorboard under my foot nearly sent me into a crouch.
My muscles seized. Jaw clenched. My hand twitched toward a weapon I didn't carry anymore.
Just a creak.
A warped plank in a half-rotten inn.
But my body didn't know that. It reacted like I was still out there, behind enemy lines, wading through smoke and whispering trees where anything that made a noise was probably about to kill you.
I stayed frozen for a second longer than I should have.
"It's not a trap."
But the thought didn't settle anything. My breath stayed shallow. My ears strained for another sound. My back itched like I was about to get hit.
That's what war does to you. It drills panic into your spine and then calls it instinct. You never walk anywhere after that. You scout. You clear corners. You calculate exits. Even in a gods-damned tavern.
Especially there.
I forced myself to move. Down the stairs. Step by cautious step. My knees hurt more than they should've. Phantom pain. Not from this body, but the one I dragged through a hundred years of war and a thousand kinds of hell.
When I hit the common room, I stayed near the walls. It's where the shadows live, and where people forget to look.
The tavern looked the same as I remembered. Mismatched chairs. Mold-stained walls. A bard wheezing through a folk song that didn't deserve to be sung.
And there he was.
In the corner.
The Hero was still there.
Corner table. Nursing a mug of watered ale. A faint bruise on his lip.
He didn't even defend himself.
Typical.
In this life, he wasn't a warrior. Not yet. Just a kid with a dream and nothing to protect it. In my first life, I ignored him here. I let him meet the Flame Maiden two nights later. They bonded over some poetic bullshit about "burning for justice."
Two weeks after that, he saved the Merchant's daughter from bandits.
Three months in, the gods gave him the first system blessing.
I had the roadmap now.
And I wasn't going to let him follow it.
The barkeep was watching me. I moved slowly, deliberately—just another mercenary, maybe a bit too quiet. I sat near the back wall, close enough to listen, far enough to disappear.
My shoulders itched with awareness. Every loud voice, every sloshed drink near me made my hands twitch. War taught me never to let my guard down in taverns. That's where assassins like to work. That's where heroes got stabbed in the back.
I needed to get my head on straight. I needed time. A plan. Resources.
But time was limited.
Because tonight, at midnight, in the alley behind the temple, he was supposed to meet her.
The Flame Maiden.
Not her real name. Just what she'd become. She was powerful. Loyal. And in the end, she died screaming his name when I burned her alive.
"Do I let them meet again?" I asked myself quietly.
"Or do I get there first?"
I closed my eyes, trying to picture her. Back when she was just a scared girl. No fire in her hands yet. Just raw fear, hiding behind anger. The same look I'd seen on soldiers too young for the battlefield, clinging to blades too big for their hands.
I stood.
My knees popped. The ache in my right leg from the battle at Fallen Bridge hadn't come back. Not yet. This body was healthy. New. But the pain was in my mind, anyway. And it would come back eventually.
War never really leaves. It just finds different ways to follow you.
The streets were darker than I remembered. Carmine's Rest didn't believe in streetlamps. Just torch sconces that barely flickered. I moved through the alleys like I used to — head low, steps light, hands open. A thousand nights on the front lines had trained me to walk like this. Always expecting to be hunted.
A drunk stumbled past me. I watched his hands. No weapons.
Just a bottle.
I kept moving.
The streets of Carmine's Rest hadn't changed.
Still damp. Still cracked. Still stinking of mold and smoke and horse piss.
I moved through the back alleys like they were old trenches. Quiet. Slow. Left hand loose. Right hand where a dagger used to be.
Old habits clawed their way up my spine. Every open door made me twitch. Every shout in the distance made me catalog spells I didn't have anymore.
Funny how the body remembers even when the soul tries to forget.
The alley was just as I recalled it. Narrow. Dead-ended. A ruined statue of a god no one prays to anymore. And beneath it—
Her.
She didn't look up at first. She just muttered, "Don't touch me," with a voice sharp as flint.
"I won't," I said softly, easing myself onto the stone beside her. My knees cracked again. "Not unless you want me to. Don't worry. I'm not him."
Silence.
A long one.
Then she glanced over. Red hair. Hollow eyes. No fire yet, just the spark waiting to ignite. I remembered the face she made when she died. I forced that memory back down where it belonged.
"You a priest or something?" she asked. "I'm not in the mood."
"No. I'm just someone who knows what it feels like to sit out here," I said. "Like the world's already moved on and you missed your chance."
She didn't reply, but she didn't get up either.
Progress.
I looked at her again. Not like a soldier, not like a threat.
Just… a girl. Angry. Afraid. Scraping by.
You used to be someone's sister, I thought.
Someone's daughter. Before the world turned you into a symbol.
"You hungry?" I asked.
She blinked.
"You offering?"
I reached into my coat, pulled out a piece of hardbread. Stale. Cheap. The only thing I had left from the inn's plate.
She hesitated.
"Not poisoned," I said. "Swear on whatever god you hate least."
That got a small smirk. Barely there. But real.
She took the bread.
And just like that… fate shifted.
The Hero wouldn't meet her tonight.
Wouldn't win her over with kindness.
I had her first.
She chewed in silence. I didn't push. You never do, not with kids like her. Not when they've had to fight for every scrap of dignity since they were old enough to walk.
After a minute, she spoke again.
"You got a name?"
I thought about lying. But I didn't.
"Veyr."
"Just Veyr."
She nodded. "Lira."
I already knew that.
But now… I had her name before he did.
That meant I had time.
That meant I had a chance.