Chapter 659
The road outside a city near zone nineteen had long since fallen quiet.
It was the kind of quiet that only came after midnight—when the taverns had closed, when lanterns burned low behind shuttered windows, and when most decent people had already made their way home. The only sounds left were the distant rustling of wind through tall grass and the occasional bark of a stray dog somewhere far down the road.
And, of course, the voices of men who had drunk far too much.
Four of them staggered along the dirt path that ran between the outer fields of a small farming settlement. Their steps were uneven, boots kicking up loose gravel as they swayed from side to side. The smell of cheap liquor clung to them like a second skin.
One of them—broad shouldered with a crooked beard—let out a loud laugh that carried far into the night.
"I'm tellin' you," he slurred, jabbing a finger toward the others as they walked. "That barmaid was lookin' at me. Properly lookin'. Not just polite-like."
The tallest of the group snorted.
"Bren, the only thing she was lookin' at was the coin you kept slammin' on the table."
"Jealous," Bren muttered immediately, waving a dismissive hand. "That's what that is."
Another man behind them chuckled quietly. His name was Coren, a thin fellow with narrow shoulders and the permanently amused expression of someone who rarely took anything too seriously.
"Mate," Coren said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "you tried to serenade her with a song about goats."
"It was about love," Bren insisted defensively.