After the nightmare released him, Gabriel paced the narrow room. Moonlight poured through the window, bright enough to rival a dozen candles.
Sleep refused to return, as it always did when the dreams came back. His body remembered things his mind tried to bury.
The former paladin rented a single room above a tavern. It was worn and cramped. A rotting bedframe held loose hay and a thin blanket that never quite kept out the cold. A small desk stood nearby with a single candle, a whetstone, oil, and stacks of books and notes laid out with care.
He kept them ordered because order was one of the few habits exile had not stripped from him. An uncomfortable chair sat beside the desk, his only trousers and tunic folded on the seat.
By the door, two battered swords rested against the wall. A leather breastplate and a belt of potion vials lay across them. Wrapped around one hilt was a gold medallion marked with the insignia of the Order of Mazrion. Its edges were worn smooth from years of handling. His hooded robe hung from a hook on the door, heavy with travel and weather.
Since his exile, Gabriel had learned the true cost of survival. Each night demanded a choice. Food, or a roof. Warmth, or strength for the next day. He rarely managed both, and when he did, it was never by planning.
This room existed only because of luck. He had stumbled upon another hunter's kill. A rare beast, already dead, its blood barely dry. Someone had fought hard for it and never returned.
The bounty paid four silver coins. Enough rent for four weeks. Enough food for two. Enough time to breathe, if nothing else.
He stopped in the centre of the room. His heart still raced, though the danger was long past.
"Four years," he said quietly. "Still waking in sweat."
"Four years. Still no answers."
The words felt heavier spoken aloud. They settled into the room and stayed there.
He moved to the desk, lifting both swords from the wall. The weight of them was familiar, grounding. Books and notes were placed on the bed with care. He unsheathed the blades and began their daily maintenance.
The routine steadied him. Each motion had purpose. Each stroke followed memory rather than thought.
As steel scraped against the whetstone, a voice echoed in his mind.
A paladin's blade should never dull.
Master Arthur. Every morning before breakfast. Cleaning. Sharpening. Inspection. No excuses. No delays. Discipline before faith.
Gabriel had never stopped. Not when he was cast out. Not when the title was stripped from him. The habit remained, as deeply carved into him as the scars beneath his skin.
The words repeated as he finished the first sword and moved to the second. His eyes drifted to the hilt. The medallion caught the moonlight, its symbol still clear despite the years.
He froze.
"Why do I still carry this?"
"They cast me out."
"Exiled me."
Anger rose, sharp and sudden. He tore the pendant free and hurled it at the wall. It struck with a dull clang and fell onto the bed, the sound far quieter than it deserved.
For a moment, he stared at it. His hand almost reached out. Instead, he turned back to the blade, jaw tight, breath controlled.
When both swords were finished, he placed them back by the door. The breastplate and potion belt rested on top, unchanged. Everything returned to its place, even when he did not belong anywhere.
His heartbeat slowed. The room remained cold.
The former paladin remained standing for a while, hands resting on the desk. Moonlight traced the scars on his fingers. Each one had a memory attached. Training yards. Battlefields. Mistakes that could not be undone.
Once, those scars had been marks of honour. Now they were just proof he had survived when others had not.
He moved to the edge of the bed and exhaled slowly. The tavern below was quiet for once. No shouting. No drunken laughter. Only the faint creak of wood and the distant sound of the wind moving through the streets. Moments like this were rare. Silence had become something he noticed instead of expected.
His thoughts drifted to the guild. Contracts meant coin, but they also meant risk. Monster work always did. Adventurers came and went through the city, bright-eyed and loud, chasing glory or debt. Few lasted long. Fewer still noticed him unless they needed another blade.
That suited him.
Gabriel had learned to keep his head down. To take the jobs others ignored. Clean work. Dangerous work. The kind that did not ask questions and did not care who you were before.
Still, some mornings he wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Not because of the danger, but because of the waiting. Waiting for answers that never came. Waiting for something to change.
The thought passed as quickly as it came. He stood again and tightened the strap on his breastplate, checking it twice. Habit. Preparation mattered. Even now.
Especially now.
Dawn crept in. Pale light replaced moonshine. Birds began to sing somewhere beyond the stone walls, careless and free.
Gabriel pulled on his trousers.
At sunrise each day, the tavern's slave girls replaced the communal water with a fresh draw from the well. It served everyone. Washing. Animals. Drinking. No one asked who had used it last.
The thought disgusted him. He was poor now. Worse than poor. One step above a slave. Still, he kept his dignity, even when it cost him comfort.
He moved quickly down the stairs and out into the street.
He stood beside the bucket while the girls filled it from the well nearby. The rope creaked. Water sloshed.
"He stands there every morning," the taller one muttered.
"Don't look at his eyes," the other whispered. "An adventurer said he has demon eyes."
"I already looked. What happens now?"
"I don't know. Empty the last bucket. Then we'll ask Ma'am."
The former paladin did not move. The northern wind cut into him, biting through cloth and skin, but he showed no reaction. He heard every word, as he always did.
When he first changed, he had begged people to believe he was not a demon. He had pleaded, argued, prayed. No one listened. Not even the church.
Now, he said nothing.
When the girls retreated inside, Gabriel scanned the street. Alone, he pulled his tunic over his head. Cold air brushed against the scars he kept hidden, tracing memories he refused to dwell on.
He filled an empty bucket and tipped it over himself. The cold burned like needles. He did not react. He washed quickly, hands moving by instinct rather than comfort.
It was over in seconds.
Water ran down his face. Faint steam rose from his skin. He stared at the sky until his thoughts returned and the noise in his head quieted.
He pulled the tunic back on and hurried inside.
Armour followed. Breastplate. Belt. He strapped the swords across his back, crossed over his shoulders, hilts within reach. He donned his robe and secured the clasp at his neck. Two clean holes had been cut into the fabric for the sword hilts. A trick learned from a commander who fought the same way.
Few paladins wielded two blades. Magic made it harder. Gabriel had persisted anyway, stubborn to the end.
He picked up the gold medallion from the bed. He did not look at it as he placed it around his neck.
Ready, he stepped into the hall. The sun had barely risen. The guild would already be posting work, and work meant coin. Coin meant another night indoors.
"Four years of this," he said as he left.