Seth had assured him that he wouldn't die, but looking at the man now, Seth felt a gnawing doubt. The man's life hung like a candle in the wind, threatening to snuff out at any sudden gust.

Hearing Seth's words, hope sparked in the eyes of the man on the ground (not literally, of course). With trembling hands, he pulled a scroll from his black robe and said, "This contains intelligence on the Western Realm's movements. Should I perish, please ensure this reaches..."

The man's head lolled to the side, and he passed out.

Seth, impatient, asked, "Reaches where? Can you name the place first?"

No response.

Seth bent over and tried a couple of refresh spells to no avail.

The injuries must've been too severe.

After a moment's thought, Seth stripped the bloodied robe off the man, cleaned his face and hands, then wrapped him in his own light-colored coat. Finally, he rummaged through a pile of trash for a half bottle of cheap liquor and poured it over the man.

A few minutes later, an old man emerged from the alley carrying a young drunkard over his shoulder. The youngster slept soundly, reeking of the foul alcohol, leading passersby to cover their noses and speculate on which family’s wastrel had drunken himself into oblivion in some underground tavern only to be picked up by his own father.

Carrying the spy, Seth considered that the man needed rapid refuge for rest; carting him back to the Royal Inn in his state might finish him off altogether.

With that in mind, Seth turned and entered an unassuming roadside inn.

It was nighttime, and the innkeeper was groggily half-awake when he witnessed the old man with the young one on his back — nothing out of the ordinary in a city full of drunks.

After securing a room at the end of the second-floor hallway, Seth eyed the unconscious spy before heading out to a nearly-closed herbal stand for some blood-stopping medication, then returned to administer makeshift first aid.

As Seth was diligently applying the herbs, a "bang!" from the room's doorway jolted him. Armed with a knife in one hand, he cautiously opened the door to find a bloodied man collapsed at his threshold...

"What the devil's going on upstairs, old man?!" the innkeeper's disgruntled voice carried up the staircase.

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"All's well! Just my son, raving drunk! He'll settle down soon," Seth bellowed back, exchanging what could be seen as genial banter.

Kneeling beside the downed man, Seth asked, "Young man, need a hand?"

The man on the floor, propping himself up, replied breathlessly, "Sir, I'm an operative directly under the Duke of the West. If you could help me leave the capital..."

Before he could finish, Seth's demeanor sharpened. He took the bleeding hand of the spy and pledged seriously, "I am to be ennobled as the Viscount Reed, and the Viscount Reed has been a tremendous neighbor and ally to the Duke of the West for generations. Assisting you is my duty. With me, you surely won't die."

The spy’s eyes seemed to shine. Grasping Seth’s door frame weakly, he murmured, “Thank you, sir, please let me in…”

“No can do,” Seth resisted, holding the door shut. “My son’s inside, gone mad with drink. It’d be dangerous for strangers.”

With an air of finality, Seth disengaged the man's hand from the frame.

“You stay put; I'll handle this.” Planting the operative firmly on the ground, Seth closed his door, before stomping down the wooden stairs in an exaggerated fashion. The innkeeper poked his head around the corner, “Old man, what’s now?”

“I’d like another room,” Seth declared, pulling out some coins.

The innkeeper squinted skeptically, “Got money to burn, have you?”

“My son snores so loudly, I can't sleep. An old man like me needs his rest,” Seth said, fabricating a paternal white lie.

After a brief ponder, the innkeeper figured an old man and a drunk would cause no harm, so he handed over another bronze key. “We all get it, old age, eh? That's the room next door, still eighty copper a night.”

The key exchanged hands, and the innkeeper settled onto his makeshift bed behind the counter, ready for sleep.

Seth returned upstairs, then carried the now unconscious spy into the neighboring room.

After treating the last of the capitol spy's wounds with the leftover herbs, Seth took the excess to the spy from the West, who had just stirred awake and caught sight of Seth with the herbs. “Sir, you’re a saint, actually buying herbs for me…” the operative’s voice wavered with gratitude.

Seth didn't bother to correct him — no point in admitting to saving two spies in one night. Instead, he wore his best poker face and set about treating the man’s injuries.

Busy until the late hours, Seth ensured both men’s breathing was steady. Then, with nonexistent sweat to wipe, he locked both doors and approached the third room. Padding the lock with his shirt, he twisted hard...

In the morning, after some much-needed rest in room number three, Seth awoke and first refunded the first room, then paid in silver to extend the stay for the second, asking the innkeeper not to clean it just yet.

With no hesitation, the innkeeper agreed and they both went up to open the first room. The capitol spy was awake, though still weak.

His eyes lingered on the blue sky outside until Seth said, "John, time for us to go."

"Of course, Father." The spy slipped into his role and shakily got up, limping towards the door — the very picture of a hangover.

Seth assisted the man down the stairs as perplexed anger bubbled from the innkeeper, “What the—? Who broke my locks?!”

“The locks? How should I know?” Seth called back nonchalantly, leading the capitol spy out of the inn.

Seth, supporting the operative, made for the inn. He needed to change into his ennoblement attire before meeting His Majesty the King at the palace.

“Kid, remember, you’re going to the palace dressed as a servant with me. Once we're there, you're gonna be safe,” Seth whispered.

“I understand, sir,” the spy quietly confirmed.