Hope Sundered

Jaxin sat alone at his usual table in the back of his favorite tavern, brooding. He sat hunched over a half-drained flagon of heady ale encased in both hands. His forlorn gaze swam its foamy depths.

Outside his sphere of misery, the tavern swelled with spirited music and bawdy laughter, outrageous tales and tasteless jokes. Most nights he thrived at the center of such raucous attention, but tonight his comrades and fans alike did well to avoid him.

It amazed him how little the city seemed to care about the sudden shift in power. There’d been little to no love for Baron Malphus. The other nobles and merchants only tolerated his depravity for the sake of smooth commerce. Even so, being occupied by a foreign power didn’t seem to matter as long as profits could still be made. Business was business, as the local saying went.

Jaxin wondered if Wyndham or Seagate had suffered the same fate. He wanted to send a squire to find out or at least get a message about what happened here to Endari or even Iraden, but Laeroset banned all travel out of the city after seizing control. His men were everywhere and Jaxin found himself at the end of a very short leash. The sober reminder prompted him to rub his neck.

Perhaps it’s just easier to accept things as they are, he told himself.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Compromise had been a reliable companion during his rise from poverty. Even after becoming guard commander, it returned and took up residence in his daily decisions. He often made back-alley deals with those who wished to hide their criminal behavior behind a public veneer of respectability. His image as a heroic peace-keeper remained untarnished, and the extra coin always proved useful.

He’d survived Laeroset’s hostile takeover and been reduced to a puppet on a string. Had anything really changed?

Laeroset shared with him the Azrahteran plan for conquest, inviting the Diorian native to offer insight on the land and its people. Thoughts of betrayal seared his conscience, but what choice did he have? He’d been conscripted, and disobedience would be rewarded with unthinkable torture.

The night waned on, but the copious amount of drinking did nothing to lighten Jaxin’s mood or dull the pain of despair. At one point in the evening one of his regular harlots sauntered over, determined to cheer him up as only she could. Her intentions were plain, but he waved her away without a second thought like a bothersome fly.

Where was the line?

He’d crossed so many before, it seemed impossible to tell anymore. How far would he go before he could no longer live with himself?

But I’m just one man against an army.

He knew the handful of other guards who survived wouldn’t have the courage to rebel—not like he’d get very far with so few. It galled him to admit it, but he was certain Endari would know what to do.

That smug prude always has the right answer, always knows how to win.

Jaxin had to find a solution, if for no other reason than to show Endari he could win for once. He’d find no answers tonight, however. Without a word he rose, ignoring the fearful looks of those who noticed his sudden movement and wondered what he’d do next. He grabbed a handful of coins from his belt pouch and dropped them on the table.

He didn’t bother to count them. He didn’t care about his tab, and the owner never brought it up. He knew the little man was ecstatic whenever Jaxin felt like paying anything. Having the city’s guard commander and Spring Festival Tournament runner-up frequent the establishment was payment enough.

Jaxin trudged out into the crisp night air. The salty chill failed to chase away the fog in his mind. He ambled back to his house, just outside the barracks. It was nothing close to the quality of the noble houses across town, but far better than the squalor in which he began his life.

Once inside he stood before the wall where his tournament medals hung on display. He looked over them and reminisced, as he often did, searching for the validation he couldn’t find on the streets.

With the exception of his first medal, he remembered them all as losses—or thefts, since he’d been robbed of his rightful glory by Endari yet again. He’d even pawned the most recent two, as the title “runner-up” sounded more like a curse. Doomed to be second best for eternity.

After a moment he staggered into the back room and collapsed on his bed, all too ready for the sweet release of sleep. Before the pungent haze of inebriated fatigue swallowed him whole, he had a brief moment of clarity. In the dark, alone with the truth, he wept.

None of his problems had anything to do with the great Captain Endari of Wyndham. To survive this invasion, he’d have to succeed by himself, for himself. He needed a plan, and he needed local resources to pull it off.

Perhaps the Azrahterans’ arrival is a good thing. This could be my moment to prove I’m a true champion.