A few hours later, the two of them walked along the road, blending into the flow of bustling townsfolk moving back and forth through the streets.
Merchants pushed carts heavy with goods, travelers carried packs over their shoulders, and the distant clatter of horseshoes echoed against the stone road.
For a while, Ron and Avil walked in silence.
Then Avil finally broke it.
"So," he began, stretching his arms behind his head as they walked.
"About that escort job."
Ron glanced at him but said nothing, letting the man continue.
"The merchant's heading west. Wants protection until the destinated town."
Avil shrugged.
"Simple work… in theory."
"In theory?" Ron asked.
Avil smirked.
"Well… things in Britain aren't exactly peaceful these days."
He gestured vaguely toward the distant countryside beyond the town gates.
"Saxons crossing the borders more often. Villages getting nervous. And the Roman forces?"
He snorted.
"Most of them are packing up and leaving the border."
Ron's expression grew more serious as he listened.
That wasn't small news.
If the Romans were truly abandoning Britain, the balance that had kept things somewhat stable would collapse sooner or later.
Raiders, warbands, opportunists… all of them would crawl out of the shadows.
"Sounds bad," Ron said quietly.
Avil only laughed.
"Bad for kings and lords, maybe."
He clapped Ron on the shoulder with a heavy hand.
"But for people like us?"
Ron raised an eyebrow.
Avil grinned.
"As long as you don't lose your head, you'll survive."
He spoke as if the world tearing itself apart was nothing more than an inconvenience.
"Kingdoms rise, kingdoms fall. Mercenaries just walk the roads in between."
Ron looked ahead at the busy street, thinking about it.
Burning villages. Empty forts. Foreign warriors landing on the shores.
It didn't sound simple at all.
"…You're too relaxed about this," Ron said.
Avil chuckled.
"That's because I've lived through worse."
They continued walking, the noise of the town slowly fading as they moved closer to the western gate.
Beyond it waited the open road.
And whatever kind of trouble Britain had decided to become.
The noise of the town faded as Ron and Avil continued toward the outer gate.
The road became wider, less crowded with stalls and shouting merchants.
Instead, travelers gathered in small groups, some preparing to leave while others waited to be let in by the guards.
Ahead of them, the town's outer gate stood tall—thick wooden doors reinforced with iron bands, set within sturdy stone walls that had clearly seen many years of use.
A pair of guards leaned lazily beside the entrance, spears resting against their shoulders as wagons rolled in and out of the gate.
Beyond the walls, the road stretched into the countryside, winding between fields and distant hills.
Avil slowed his pace slightly.
"Should be somewhere around here," he muttered, scanning the area.
Ron followed his gaze. Several merchants had gathered near the gate, each with carts or wagons loaded with goods.
A few hired guards stood nearby as well, checking equipment or chatting among themselves.
Then Avil raised a hand.
"Ah. There he is."
Ron looked in the direction Avil pointed.
A small caravan waited just outside the gate—three wagons in total. One carried crates covered with cloth, another seemed filled with barrels, and the last was smaller, likely for personal supplies.
Two horses pawed impatiently at the dirt road while a couple of nervous-looking workers adjusted ropes and straps.
Standing beside the lead wagon was a well-dressed man in travel clothes.
He held a scroll in one hand and kept glancing toward the town as if waiting for someone.
"That's our client?" Ron asked.
"Yep." Avil nodded.
"Merchant named Daren. Bit jumpy, but he pays on time."
They approached the caravan. As they drew closer, the merchant noticed them and quickly straightened up.
"Ah! Avil! You actually came." the man called out with relief.
Avil laughed.
"Of course I did. Thought I'd bring another sword with me too."
He gestured toward Ron.
"This is Ron. He'll be joining the escort."
The merchant studied Ron for a moment—his sword, his posture, the calm look in his eyes.
"…He looks young," the man said cautiously.
Ron didn't react, he had heard that before.
Avil just waved a hand dismissively.
"Don't worry about that. The kid drank me under the table last night."
The merchant blinked.
"…I'm not sure how that relates to protecting my caravan."
"It means he's tougher than he looks," Avil said with a grin.
Ron sighed quietly.
"You're not helping."
The merchant rubbed his chin for a moment, then finally nodded.
"…Fine. As long as you can swing that sword good enough when it matters."
Ron gave a small shrug.
"That's the plan."
Daren seemed satisfied enough. He rolled up the scroll in his hand and gestured toward the road ahead.
"We should leave soon. The sooner we get moving, the better. I'd rather not be on the road after dark."
Avil cracked his neck and stretched his arms.
"Well then, looks like work has started." he said cheerfully.
Ron looked past the gate toward the long road stretching into the distance.
The wind brushed across the open land, carrying the smell of grass, dust… and the faint sense of uncertainty that always came with travel.
For Ron, this was just another job as mercenary.
But judging by the uneasy look on the merchant's face—
This one might not be as simple as it sounded.
The merchant—Daren clapped his hands once, drawing the attention of Ron, Avil, and the few workers standing around the wagons.
"Right, listen carefully," the merchant said, slipping the scroll under his arm.
"Since the two of you are protecting this caravan, you deserve to know where we're going—and what you're protecting."
Avil crossed his arms casually while Ron stood quietly, listening.
"We're heading west," Daren began, pointing down the road that disappeared over the rolling hills.
"Four days of travel if the roads stay clear. Our destination is a town called Brighthollow."
Ron nodded slightly, memorizing the name.
"It's a trading town near the river, Normally peaceful… though lately things have become a little uncertain." Daren continued.
"Saxons?" Ron asked.
Daren gave him an approving glance.
"Yes. Raiders mostly. Small groups, but enough to make merchants nervous."
Avil shrugged.
"Raiders are nothing new."
"Perhaps, but caravans have gone missing lately."
That made Ron's attention sharpen.
Daren gestured toward the wagons.
"Now, as for the cargo."
He walked over to the first wagon and pulled back the cloth covering the crates.
Inside were neatly stacked wooden boxes, each sealed with wax and stamped markings.
"Dried food, tools, and trade goods, iron nails, cooking knives, cloth bundles… the usual supplies villages pay good coin for." he explained.
Avil nodded.
"Normal merchant work."
Daren then moved to the second wagon.
This one contained several large barrels secured with rope.
"Salted meat and ale, heavy, but valuable." Daren said.
Avil's eyes lit up slightly.
"You're transporting ale and didn't mention it earlier?"
"This is for trade."
"Tragic."
Ron ignored them and looked toward the final wagon.
It was smaller, covered more carefully than the others.
Daren noticed his gaze and walked over.
"This, is the important one." the merchant said more quietly,
He lifted the cloth only slightly.
Inside were several small locked chests padded with cloth and straw.
Ron could hear faint clinking sounds.
"Silver, payment for a shipment waiting in Brighthon." Daren said.
Avil gave a low whistle.
"Well, that explains the nervous face."
Daren covered the wagon again quickly.
"I'd rather not advertise it."
Ron nodded.
"So if someone attacks, that wagon will be their target." he said calmly.
"Exactly," Daren replied.
Avil stretched his shoulders.
"Good. At least now we know where the trouble will come from."
Daren looked between the two mercenaries.
"So, does any of this change your willingness to take the job?" he asked cautiously.
Ron adjusted the sword at his wrist.
"No."
Avil grinned.
"No, if you're lowering the pay."
Daren sighed in relief.
"Good. Then we leave immediately."
The workers climbed onto the wagons, the horses were guided into position, and the caravan slowly began rolling forward through the gate.
Behind them, the town shrank.
Ahead of them lay the open road, stretching across the quiet countryside.
.
.
.
A few hours passed on the road.
By the time they arrived at the next town, night had already fallen.
Lanterns glowed along the streets, and the last of the market stalls were closing for the day.
Travelers hurried toward inns while stable hands led tired horses away to rest.
Deciding it was too late to continue safely, the caravan settled on staying the night and resuming the journey in the morning.
A few minutes later, inside one of the inns, the warm noise of conversation and clinking mugs filled the air.
Ron sat alone at a table near a window. One elbow rested on the wood as he gazed outside, his expression thoughtful as he watched the dimly lit street beyond the glass.
The day's journey still lingered in his mind—the road, the wagons, the quiet tension that seemed to follow the caravan.
Then a voice suddenly broke his thoughts.
"Staring out the window? You look quite thoughtfull."
Ron blinked and turned his head toward the source of the voice.
It was Daren.
The merchant pulled out the chair across from him and sat down casually. His eyes studied Ron with open curiosity.
"So," Daren said, folding his hands on the table.
"Since we're not very familiar with each other—and you were introduced by Avil—I thought we might use this time to get to know each other a little better."
Ron watched him for a moment but didn't object.
Daren gave a small smile.
"So… may I ask you something?"
Ron looked thoughtful for a brief moment before nodding.
"Sure. Go ahead."
Daren leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Ron as if trying to figure something out.
"For starters, how long have you been a mercenary?" the merchant said.
Ron's eyes drifted briefly toward the window again before returning to Daren.
"Not that long, a few years." he replied.
Daren raised an eyebrow.
"A few years, and you're already escorting caravans during times like these?" he said with mild surprise.
"Either you're confident… or reckless."
Ron gave a faint shrug.
"Maybe both."
Daren chuckled softly.
"Fair enough."
For a moment, the sounds of the inn filled the silence between them—mugs clinking, a group laughing loudly at another table, the crackling of the fireplace nearby.
Then Daren spoke again.
"Where are you from?"
Ron didn't answer immediately.
His gaze dropped to the surface of the table, fingers lightly tracing a faint scratch in the wood.
"Nowhere important," he said at last.
Daren tilted his head.
"That sounds like the kind of answer someone gives when the real story is long."
"Or when they don't feel like telling it," Ron replied calmly.
Instead of being offended, Daren laughed.
"I suppose that's fair."
The merchant rested his arm on the table.
"Well, let me try another question then."
Ron looked up slightly.
"What made you become a mercenary?"
This time Ron took longer to answer.
Outside the window, someone walked past carrying a lantern, the light briefly sliding across the room.
"…Coin," Ron said finally.
Daren gave him a look that clearly said he didn't believe that was the full truth.
"Only coin?"
"It's a good reason."
Daren nodded slightly.
"It is, but most people still have a story behind it."
Ron didn't answer, his face suddenly thoughtfull.
Silence settled between them for a moment, filled only by the distant noise of the inn—laughter, clinking mugs, and the low hum of conversations drifting through the room.
Then, suddenly, a memory surfaced in Ron's mind.
It was an old one.
A quiet moment from years ago.
He remembered a forest—tall trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their leaves whispering whenever the wind passed through.
The scent of earth and pine filled the air. Sunlight slipped between the branches in thin golden beams.
And there, in that forest, was a younger Ron with his father.