Amukelo stood up from his seat in the pub, his legs feeling slightly unsteady beneath him. The alcohol had numbed the sharp edges of his frustration, but it had also dulled his senses. He wasn't drunk enough to stagger, but there was a noticeable haze clouding his thoughts, his movements just a little too slow, his steps a bit too heavy. With nothing left to lose, he decided to follow the mysterious voice's advice.
He made his way through the streets, asking people for directions to the west gate. The sun had already sunk low in the sky, casting long shadows across the city. The streets were still bustling with activity, though the evening air had begun to cool.
After some time, Amukelo finally spotted the west gate at the end of a large road that cut through the heart of the city. The gate was imposing, much like the other entrances to Gathe—tall, fortified, with guards standing watch. The road leading up to it was busy, lined with shops and stalls, each lit by the same powerful lanterns that filled the city with light even as darkness began to settle in.
Amukelo slowed his pace as he neared the gate, his eyes scanning the area. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but the voice had mentioned a stall with purple features. He saw nothing of the sort at first glance, and doubt began to creep in. What am I doing? he thought to himself, his frustration rising again. This is madness. I'm chasing after a hallucination.
But even as the doubt gnawed at him, he kept walking, not knowing what else to do. As he got closer to the gate, Amukelo's eyes flicked to his left, and there it was—the stall. Just as the voice had described. It wasn't much, just a small stand selling fruit and other goods, but it was unmistakably adorned with purple fabric. And standing beside it, with his back turned, was an older man dressed in black, elegant clothes. The man had short, neatly trimmed gray hair and a well-kept beard, and he was in the middle of buying fruit from the vendor.
Amukelo's heart raced. The voice had been right.
He approached the man cautiously, the weight of his exhaustion and confusion making each step feel heavier than the last. As he neared, he hesitated for a brief moment, unsure of what to say. But the urgency of his mission pushed him forward.
"Excuse me, sir," Amukelo called out, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the market. The older man turned to look at him, his expression neutral but slightly curious. "May I ask you a question?"
The man gave Amukelo a once-over, taking in his appearance—the travel-worn armor, the tired eyes, the faint smell of alcohol that still clung to him. He seemed unimpressed, his lips drawing into a slight frown, but he nodded.
"Sure," the man said. His voice was calm, measured, but there was a hint of suspicion in it.
Amukelo took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Do you know a person named Bral?" he asked, his voice low but firm.
The man's frown deepened as he studied Amukelo more closely. He was clearly skeptical—Amukelo's appearance didn't exactly scream trustworthiness, and the smell of beer on his breath likely didn't help. To the man, Amukelo looked like just another adventurer passing through the city, perhaps someone who had been wronged by Bral or owed money. His eyes narrowed slightly, and after a moment, he said, "Why do you look for him?"
Amukelo felt his heart race again, the words catching in his throat. He could feel the man's suspicion, the judgment in his gaze.
"I'm not looking for him," Amukelo said, his voice growing more insistent. "I'm looking for his family. I have a message I need to deliver."
The man's eyes hardened as he considered Amukelo's words. He still didn't look convinced. To him, Amukelo's story likely sounded like some kind of excuse, a way to get close to Bral's family for whatever reason. He shook his head, clearly not interested in whatever Amukelo was selling.
"I don't know him," the man said firmly, turning back to the vendor as if the conversation were over.
Amukelo's heart sank. For a moment, he stood there, lost for words, watching the man walk away. His chance—the one lead he had been given—was slipping away before his eyes.
"Wait!" Amukelo yelled, his hand outstretched. The man stopped but didn't turn around. "It's very important. I have to let them know what happened to him!"
For a brief moment, there was silence. The man stood frozen in place, his back still turned to Amukelo.
The old man turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Amukelo with an intensity that made the air between them heavy. His gaze pierced through Amukelo, filled with an almost palpable sense of dread, suspicion, and something deeper—something far more personal. He took a step closer to Amukelo, his voice now stripped of all politeness, revealing the raw emotion beneath.
"What happened to him?" the man asked, his tone serious, almost desperate. The weight of his words hung in the air, making Amukelo hesitate for a moment.
Amukelo blinked, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of the question. "Did you know him?" he asked, uncertain of the man's connection to Bral.
The older man's face tightened as he nodded, his expression grim. "I was his butler," he said quietly, but the authority in his voice was unmistakable. "Now, tell me what happened! And who are you!?"
He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. The truth he had carried all this way felt heavier now that he was about to speak it aloud to someone who had known Bral personally—someone who had likely cared for him, perhaps even watched him grow up.
"I was his guild member," Amukelo began, his voice quieter now. "But… unfortunately, he is no longer in this world." He paused, his throat tightening with emotion. "I came here from Llyn to honor him… and the rest."
The words seemed to linger in the air, and for a moment, the older man looked as though he hadn't fully processed what Amukelo had just said. Then, as the meaning of the words began to sink in, the man's face twisted with disbelief. His voice cracked as he asked, "What are you talking about!? The rest? What do you mean?"
Amukelo's gaze dropped to the ground, his heart heavy with guilt. He couldn't bring himself to look the man in the eye as he answered. "They are no more as well," he said softly, the words escaping his lips like a confession.
With a sudden and violent motion, the old man dropped the bag of groceries he had been holding and grabbed Amukelo by the front of his neckline. The force of the grip startled Amukelo, but he didn't resist.
"You're the only one who survived!?" the man shouted, his voice breaking with anger and grief. "Huh!? Or are there more?"
Amukelo didn't have the strength to argue. He didn't have the will to deny what the man was implying. He had asked himself the same questions over and over since the day it all happened—why was he the one left standing? Why had everyone else fallen while he lived?
"I'm the only one," Amukelo whispered weakly, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his head.
The man's grip tightened for a moment before he suddenly shoved Amukelo back. The force of it sent Amukelo stumbling to the ground, landing hard on his back. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the older man, who now loomed over him, trembling with barely contained rage.
"You did this to them!" the man spat, his eyes filled with accusation.
Amukelo didn't deny it. How could he? A part of him believed it too—that it was his weakness, his failure, that had led to the deaths of his friends. He had been too slow, too weak to save them when it mattered most. He sat there on the ground, his hands resting limply in his lap, staring at the dirt as the old man's words echoed in his mind.
Seeing the look of guilt on Amukelo's face, the man's anger slowly began to wane. His breathing became labored, his shoulders sagging as the weight of his grief took hold. The rage was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but something had shifted.
"How did it happen?" the butler asked after a long pause, his voice quieter now, thick with emotion. "How did they die?"
"Could you… could you lead me to his family?" Amukelo asked, his voice steady but soft. "I'll explain everything to them. I have some of Bral's belongings to return, and… it's only right that they hear what happened directly from me."
The old man's eyes narrowed, still not fully trusting Amukelo. He took a deep breath, his gaze flicking from Amukelo to the ground, as though weighing his options.
"Tell me," the butler insisted, his voice still rough. "I will pass it on to them."
Amukelo shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I have to speak to them in person. It's my duty to return Bral's belongings and to tell them the truth. Please… let me speak to them."
He sighed deeply, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to compose himself. After a long moment, he said, "I will lead you to them… but you can't come looking like this." His eyes scanned over Amukelo's disheveled appearance—his travel-worn armor, the dirt that clung to him, and the smell of alcohol that still lingered faintly on his breath. "Clean yourself up and change into something more appropriate. More elegant."
Amukelo nodded quickly, relief flooding through him. "I have some clothes I can wear. I'll clean myself and be ready."
But the butler raised his hand, signaling for Amukelo to wait. "It's already too late for today," he said, his voice quieter now, though still filled with the weight of grief. "Let's meet at the same place tomorrow, at dawn. I will lead you to them then. I'll try to prepare them for the terrible news… as best as I can."
"Thank you," Amukelo said quietly. "I'll be here tomorrow."
The old man gave a slow nod, his expression still clouded with grief, and then turned and walked away, leaving Amukelo standing alone in the quieting street.