He took two steps before hearing the voice behind him.
"Wait."
The word came out low, almost swallowed by the rain.
The man stopped. He did not turn right away. He remained there with his back to the boy, while water slid from the rooftops and spread across the stones in small trembling puddles.
For a few moments, there was nothing but the boy's uneven breathing and the distant murmur of the city.
The silence began to weigh on them.
The man sighed.
"Is there a tavern nearby?"
The boy blinked, caught off guard.
"There is," he said quickly. "Two streets ahead. Then left. It's good."
"Show me."
The boy nodded and started walking, now half a step ahead, as if he had finally found a reason not to stand still.
The rain had softened into a thin mist that clung to clothes and hair. The houses rose narrow and tall on both sides of the street, their small windows and stained walls marked by time. Some had cloths hanging from them, others showed cracks patched in haste with wooden boards. The smell of dampness, smoke, and old waste lingered in the air.
They walked for several minutes in silence.
The boy glanced back from time to time, as if afraid the man might vanish if he stopped watching him. He opened his mouth, closed it, and kept walking until he finally gathered the courage to speak.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
"You're... not from here, are you?"
"No."
"I thought so."
He nodded, satisfied.
"Where are you from, then?"
The man shrugged slightly.
"Far away."
The boy accepted the answer without pressing. The city taught people early not to ask too many questions.
They walked a little farther.
"Are you... —" he hesitated. "Are you a mercenary?"
The man shook his head.
"No."
"Then... what do you do?"
He thought for a moment.
"I walk."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
The boy frowned.
"And... the sword?"
"To keep going."
They fell silent again, accompanied only by their footsteps and the soft rain.
"What's your name?" the boy asked suddenly.
The man kept his eyes on the street ahead.
"I don't have one."
The boy stopped.
"What do you mean, you don't have one?"
"I don't."
"Everyone has a name."
"Not me."
He looked unsettled.
"Did you lose it?"
"I left it."
"Why?"
"Because it was no longer needed."
They resumed walking.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
"So..." the boy said carefully. "What do people call you, then?"
The man thought.
"Wanderer."
The boy repeated it quietly.
"Wanderer..."
He didn't seem to like it.
"It's strange."
"It's enough."
The tavern appeared at the end of the street: a low building of darkened wood, with a red lantern hanging above the door. Muffled voices leaked through the cracks, mixed with the distant smell of cheap alcohol and warm food.
The boy pointed.
"It's there."
The man nodded.
That was when something moved to the right.
A body burst out of a side alley.
The man reacted on instinct, stepping aside before he even understood what was happening. The figure passed in front of him, stumbled, and fell hard onto the wet stone.
It was the same girl who, hours earlier, had fled through the alleys with her brother.
She sat there for a second, stunned, eyes wide. She looked at him, then quickly looked away, blushing.
She jumped up, grabbed her brother's arm, and tried to pull him.
"Come on," she whispered urgently. "Now."
He resisted.
"Wait!"
"Are you crazy?" she murmured. "He's going to—"
"He's not," he cut in. "That's not it."
She stopped.
"What?"
"You've got it all wrong," he said, out of breath. "He... he helped me."
The girl looked at the man.
Then at her brother.
Then at the man again.
Slowly, she loosened her grip.
"He helped...?"
"Yes," the boy replied without hesitation.
Silence settled between the three of them.
The rain kept falling, soft and steady.
At the end of the street, the tavern remained lit, waiting.
