The Fork of Aonenbridge, as it had come to be known, was the splitting of the road travelers crossing to the mainland via the Illd’Orian strait would come to after roughly a day and a half of riding in the wrong direction.

A dry, more welcoming path would lead away, while the winding wetland bordering Aonenbridge served as a natural deterrent. There the ground would soon turn damp, then muddy, until it was fully waterlogged, growing increasingly more treacherous until most were forced to either abandon their carriages and continue on foot, or resort to enchantments.

The crossing of the Great Marsh was seen as a filtration system, a rite of passage for those wishing to establish trade with the Aonens, and a defensive barrier against would-be conquerors. It served this function for an age and more, a period during which Aonenbridge was dubbed by the greater lords of Emelandra as too small a prize to be worth risking their armies in the unpredictable terrain.

That was, of course, until the uncovering of the Bridge.

It was the Emelandran city of Illd’Or who launched the first true military assault to secure the Bridge, and the bitter, bloody rivalry that ensued between the Illd’Orians and the Aonens was fated to last more than half a century.

Those days, however, were now gone.

The flames of long-held rancor began to dampen, and with each passing year since Aonenbridge had been welcomed into the Emelandran Alliance, it became increasingly more common for travelers and merchants from Blackwater, Carmore, Raryar, and even Illd’Or to stop in Aonenbridge for a night or two at the Boggy Bastion.

The Bastion’s standards were regarded as adequate, and the culture was such that weary travelers could count on being sheltered, entertained, fed, and watered. Thoroughly watered.

And so, it was no surprise to Finn to find the [Innkeeper] drunk.

It was a surprise to find the Bastion in disarray. When they crossed the threshold, Finn, Wendell, and Tarik had to mind their step to avoid the broken glass at their feet, the spilled wine. The air was stale and stifling. A hearth still crackled in the far corner, and the smell of meat, mead, and sweat hung thick. Tables and chairs had been pushed hastily aside to make room for dancing, and the original color of the floorboards was nearly indistinguishable through a dense layer of mud and footprints.

The merrymaking had clearly gone on late into the night. A few snoring patrons still lay scattered across benches, though one had crept across the floor and lay flattened out near the fireside, a lumpy something oozing out of the side of his mouth onto his chin.

“Ah, it’s you, Wen.”

Tarik jumped. Finn turned towards the sound of the slurred speech. Wendell, he saw, had already been staring in the direction of the figure at the bar. The [Innkeeper] slouched forward into the light, smiled a toothy grin at them, and raised a tankard of beer high in the air.

“To the Warden!” he croaked, his voice hoarse. He glanced around a moment, swaying, then hid a flash of disappointment behind a shrug when he found none of the other revelers in the tavern still awake to join in his tribute. He took a large gulp from his tankard, then belched. “To the Warden,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, to the Warden… this is for the Warden.” He belched again.

“Ronnie.” Wendell’s voice was sharp and admonitory. Tarik’s eyes were wide.

“My apologies, my apologies,” Ronnie said, waving a hand through the air. His eyes were red and watery. He had gone unshaven for a time and looked older than his years, more haggard. He cleared his throat, hawked once, then spat in a bucket at his side. He made an attempt to stand, thought better of it, and then gestured for them to sit instead. Finn saw more of the lumpy something on the table nearest to him and remained where he was. “The Warden deserves to be honored by my finest wares, I know, I know,” Ronnie continued. “But I’m fresh out of that fine Carmori brandy, Wen. All I’ve got left is this Illd’Orian piss, and I can’t even give it away, let alone sell it. No brandy, low on ale, would you believe that? The Boggy Bastion, dry as a [Nun]’s—”

“Yes, yes,” Wendell interjected, pulling a chair closer towards himself and taking a seat. “We can see you’ve had a steady stream of clientele recently. How are you, Ron?” When Ronnie merely grunted, Wendell continued. “It seems things were particularly turbulent last night. Are these footprints on the bar?”

Ronnie turned and studied the brown stains on his bar with professional scrutiny. He leaned forward and sniffed. “Indeed, they are, Wen,” he said gravely. “Can you believe it? Steffen is always having to mop up after these slobs, damn them. Oi!” Ronnie wheeled around suddenly and leaned—fell—to the floor, scooping up a handful of mud. Finn took a step, intending to help the man to his feet, but the [Innkeeper] surprised him and popped right back up. He tossed the mud in the direction of the snoring patrons and shouted, “Wake up, you good-for-nothing sons of—”

“Where is Steffen this morning?” Wendell asked. He maintained a conversational tone, but there was a hint of a frown on his face.

Ronnie met Wendell’s gaze. “Is that a joke, Wen?” he asked, furrowing his brows. After a moment, he said, “He’s in the infirmary. Still unconscious. You didn’t see me get struck down by that swine? Toppled me like a bottle of the strong stuff. Cracked my skull with the hilt of his sword. If Steffen hadn’t been there—” Ronnie shuddered. “But no matter,” he continued, his eyes suddenly glowing. “I know his face, Wen, I never forget a face. One day soon, when he least—”

“We’re lucky your tether acted quickly,” Wendell chipped in, “and may he heal soon. But I was told you struck first, Ron, and the [Guardsman] merely retaliated.”

Ronnie stuck out his chest. “Of course I struck first. And it was a good one, Wen, believe me. You should’ve seen it. Right in the jaw. These steel-bearers don’t know what a good, old-fashioned smack feels like, I’ve always said it. These self-righteous bastards are always parading through the streets, harassing the small folk. If my Ophelia were here, she’d… she’d…” Ronnie waved another hand through the air. “Anyway. Boys with sticks, the lot of them. Green as grass.”

Finn saw Tarik twitch. He’d considered asking Tarik to wait outside with Omri and the tethers. He wondered if it was too late, if he could send the [Guardsman] back out without Ronnie noticing. But then—

“Ah, I see you’ve brought one of them with you,” the [Innkeeper] said. He chortled. “Ask him how his buddy felt about a cracked jaw, Wen, ask him. He’ll remember it the rest of his life, trust me, Wen, he will.” He chuckled a moment longer, then stopped abruptly. “You look familiar,” he said to Tarik, eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”

Tarik hesitated. “I… I serve… served… under your wife, my lor—” Tarik seemed unsure on how to address Ronnie, so he let his sentence fade awkwardly.

“Under Ophelia, eh?” Ronnie glared suddenly. “And now look at you. Pleased as punch, serving directly under Wendell. Happy with your new position, are you? Not a care in the world about how you got there.”

“I do not serve under Master Wendell,” Tarik said. “I am stationed in Aonen Keep, a private protector of Lord Finric and his family.”

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Tarik made a gesture, and Ronnie seemed to notice Finn for the first time.

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes widened. He leaped to his feet and bounded across the floor. Tarik’s hand shot towards the hilt of his sword, but Wendell reached, grabbed his wrist, shoved it back down. Finn, on the other hand, hardly had time to register what was happening before the [Innkeeper]’s nose was a hair away from his own. The man stared deep into his eyes, and his breath was sour and sharp, causing Finn to jerk back involuntarily.

He reached out and steadied himself with a hand on the table. Though Ronnie did not pursue him further, he continued to stare, his eyes catching the light, the flash of a mischievous smile on his face. Finn tried to slow the sudden hammering in his chest and met the [Innkeeper]’s calculating, appraising gaze. Finally, Ronnie nodded.

“Lord Finric,” he said, as if he’d needed to confirm this and was now satisfied with the results. “They told me the boy had healed. There are some things a tether can’t heal, eh, boy? Some things we have to approach alone.” Finn did not respond. Ronnie studied him further. There was another pause. Then, to Wendell, “He looks just like his brother, doesn’t he?”

Tarik seemed on the verge of saying something, but Wendell raised a hand to silence him. Ronnie stumbled back to the bar and reached for his tankard again. He raised it, and his voice was a deferential whisper as he made a second tribute. “To my Lord Zendarus.”

The drunk man sipped his beer and then placed it back down to the countertop.

There was silence. A log in the hearth shifted. Flames cracked.

Finn could feel Wendell’s eyes on him. He took a moment to exhale.

“I thank you, [Innkeeper] Ronnie,” Finn said, and was pleased to hear that his voice was steady. “My thoughts are with you and your family as well. Captain Ophelia was—is—a wonderful woman, a woman of steel and… resolve.” He silently cursed the clumsiness of his speech. He cleared his throat. “I’m here to ascertain the severity of your injuries from last night.”

Ronnie’s brow furrowed. “Ascertain the—?” he began.

“You’ve served my family well over many generations,” Finn explained. “You’ve served Aonenbridge. The least we could do is make sure—”

“You’re damn right, I have,” Ronnie interrupted, and Finn thought he heard anger in the man’s voice. “Every stranger in my inn, every conversation reported to Aonen Keep. I’ve served Aonenbridge, yes, served it well, as my father before me, and my son after me. And yet I always knew it could amount to nothing, if it was decided.” He took another swallow of beer. “The boy is here to see if I am… unstable, is that it? Is that right, Wendell?”

“You misunderstand our intentions,” Wendell said quickly.

“Do I?” Ronnie’s color rose suddenly. “How many years have we known each other, Wen? Don’t insult me. If you cared about my wellbeing, the severity of my injuries, you would not be here, you’d be at the infirmary, where my tether lies with a cracked skull. You’d imprison the [Guardsman] who struck me. Instead, you parade around with another one of them. I’m being… assessed, is that it? Is that right?” His voice rose until it was nearly a shout.

Finn saw Tarik twitch again. He looked over and stared at him, hard, until Tarik met his gaze and unclenched his jaw.

“As Master Wendell said,” Finn continued. “You misunderstand our intentions.”

The [Innkeeper] laughed humorlessly. It was not a pleasant sound, and it cut through the air. “Where were these kind visits when my wife was taken?” Ronnie asked. “You! [Guardsman]!” he barked suddenly at Tarik. “Tell me, what do the other [Guardsmen] say about the abduction of my wife? What will be done to retrieve her?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Tarik’s face. “It… it is not my place to divulge what the—”

“Ah, but we’ve already established, you’re one of the ones who benefit from this, not so?” Ronnie continued. His voice was beginning to sound strained. “You would never have ascended so quickly otherwise. You and your pals. The private protector of a [Nobleman], at your age? Is that it? So now you sit here comfortably, sit there, in Aonen Keep, when you should be crossing the Bridge into Ortomalle, facing down an Ortomallean horde, when you—” He broke off. Tarik had made a sound, something approaching a yelp. The [Innkeeper] tilted his head. His eyes were curious. “Ah,” he continued, much quieter. “So that’s it? You’re pissing yourself every night, afraid somebody will give the order. Afraid somebody will order you to cross the Bridge? Tell me, [Guardsman], do you leak between your legs every time you hear wind outside your window?”

“Ronnie, that’s enough,” Wendell said. “We’d all be fools not to fear Ortomalle.”

“I’m speaking to the [Guardsman],” Ronnie snarled. His color was still rising. “Tell me what has been done for my wife, you pig!”

Tarik’s face was pale. His eyes shifted from Finn to Wendell and back to Finn.

Finn said, “Tarik is right, at times like this we may choose not to divulge everything with the common folk. Rest assured that my father will—”

“The Warden will do nothing because Illd’Or will do nothing.” He said it as a chant, as if he’d said it before. Many times.

“Watch your tongue, [Innkeeper],” Tarik said, his own color rising now. “You forget your place. This is the Warden’s son.”

A vein in Ronnie’s forehead seemed on the verge of exploding. But then his eyes rested on Finn again and quieted. “The Warden’s son,” he said, musingly. “Yes…”

Ronnie got to his feet. He took a moment to steady himself, then went behind the bar. He reached for a cloth and wiped at a portrait hanging on the wall, a fading image of an older man. He looked at Finn again. “Did you know my father, Lord Finric? He was an [Innkeeper] too. He liked to say that we are all gods of our domains. He served Aonenbridge as I do, as my son Seb will after me. We are the gods of the inn, he said. We must do our duties to Aonenbridge, and our duty to Aonenbridge is the Bastion. We need not worry about what happens beyond these four walls, for that is the domain of the Warden. We can trust in him. We are the gods of the inn. We keep the glasses clean, we keep the hearth warm and welcoming.” Ronnie inclined his head. “Perhaps that is why nothing has been done to rescue my wife, because she was taken under my roof. My domain. A god of an inn. What an honor. What a farce. When they came into my inn and took my wife, what did I do? What could I do?” Then, in a different tone, he added, “I saw him, you know.”

Finn blinked. “Saw who?”

“The man, the thing who took her.”

Finn stared. He saw Wendell was frowning again. “Was this in your report?” Finn asked.

Ronnie waved a hand. “Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. I reported to many people that day. It doesn’t matter. He was masked. I never saw his face. I didn’t need to see him. I felt him. And… we can’t fight them. Not this time. Not with the strongest among us gone. Not without Lord Zendar to lead us, as he did before… And the Warden… he will do nothing. The Warden can do nothing. I can do nothing. When my daughter Poppy asks me, every night, when Mamma is coming home, I can’t answer her. I’ve started pretending not to hear her. Though I know what I should say. It’s done, child. It’s finished. She’s gone.”

The tremor in Ronnie’s words grew as he spoke. His face screwed up as if he was on the verge of breaking into sobs. The shaking extended to his entire body. But his face remained dry. He merely stood, quivering, staring at the portrait of his father.

“She’s gone,” he said again. “She’s gone.”

He stood like that for a moment longer. Then, without warning, the tremors began to subside. He shook his head once, defiantly. “No,” he said, nearly a growl. “No, no, no.” He looked up at Finn. “Lord Finric,” he said, and his eyes were aflame, bright with yearning. “Help her. Help them. Help them all. You can. You are the Warden’s son. You can give the order. Send our men through the Bridge. Bring them back. You can. You can.”

Finn had not noticed that Ronnie’s shouts had woken a number of the drunk patrons. He saw them now. They were watching him. He felt the rising of the now-familiar cold twist in his chest, which spread until his entire body felt frozen. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I…,” he began. But that was all he could manage. His lips hung open, but no further sound escaped them.

Wendell stood and approached the [Innkeeper]. He placed his hands on Ronnie’s shoulders, but the man did not acknowledge him. They were all still looking at Finn. The [Innkeeper]’s eyes were pleading. He waited. Finn felt a sudden rush of bile in his throat. He felt a light breeze through an open window, and felt perilously frail and insubstantial, like ash about to be scattered to the wind and lost. With effort, he closed his mouth. Ronnie’s head drew back slowly. He looked confused. Then something took hold, an understanding, and the flame in his eyes began to die. “The Warden’s son…,” he repeated. “I suppose it makes sense.” He sighed.

Inwardly, Finn screamed at himself. He clenched his teeth, swallowed. Come on, do something.

He could not.

“Perhaps…,” Wendell broke the silence. “Perhaps I should have a word alone with the [Innkeeper],” he said.

Finn lingered a moment. He’d forgotten to breathe. He was still aware of all the eyes on him. He avoided them all. Even Tarik was looking at him, though the [Guardsman] broke away and exited through the door of the Bastion as soon as Finn inclined his head.

A [Nobleman]’s choice, Finn found himself thinking. Stay, leave. Help, do nothing.

Forks in the road.

He met Ronnie’s eyes one more time. They had hardened. Finn could not bear the sight. He exhaled, and followed Tarik out of the Bastion.

From behind him, he heard the words.

“He may look like his brother, Wen, but I fear the boy has the cowardice of his father.”