While Lyana and her companions headed to the palace, Ryan was elsewhere.
Ryan hurried out of the alleys of The Back. He did not look back. He knew the king's guards might follow him – especially Sorin.
But he was too exhausted to run.
Every step hurt. His stomach ached from Sorin's kick. His back ached from crashing into the wooden wall. His right shoulder was bleeding – not from Sorin's sword, but from a splinter of wood that had pierced his skin when he hit the wall.
Ryan bit his lip
'Perhaps I should have just killed that girl...and also, are those guards stupid? Who would declare that he is one of the king's guards before an attack?'
Ryan didn't know if they were excited or if that huge bastard was confident he'd take him down.
He sighed and began walked slowly, sometimes leaning against walls. Blood dripped from his shoulder onto his torn shirt. His high collar was still raised – hiding the burn scars on his neck.
No one noticed him in the dark streets. Everyone was asleep.
He walked through the stone-paved streets of Lusaris, not knowing where to go. He had never slept in this city before. The Frost Soldiers had left, and he had no companion, no shelter left.
But he remembered an inn he had seen while ago – when he had passed by it. "The Silent Traveller's Inn" , on the corner of a narrow street, away from the noise of the markets.
he whispered to himself.
"I'll try it,"
He reached the inn after half an hour of weary walking. The building was made of dark wood and pink stone, with a heavy oak door and two small windows facing the street. Faint light seeped through the cracks.
Ryan pushed the door. A long creak announced his arrival.
The innkeeper – a thin old man in his sixties, wearing round spectacles of thin crystal – stood behind a high wooden counter. He was cleaning a glass with a blue cloth, slowly, like a man in no hurry.
The innkeeper raised his eyes slowly.
He saw Ryan.
A strange young man, never seen in the neighborhood before. His face was very pale, his eyes bearing the mark of deep exhaustion. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, fresh blood staining the fabric. His right hand hung limply at his side, as if in pain. A long sword was strapped to his belt
The innkeeper showed neither fear nor surprise. He simply set the glass he had been cleaning aside.
"Good evening," he said in a quiet, dry voice, like a man accustomed to seeing strangers in the late night hours.
"Good evening," Ryan replied in a tired, hoarse voice.
He paused for a moment. He didn't know how to request a room. He'd never done it before. He'd never even bought anything before because he'd never needed anything.
'Have you ever even used this world's currency before?'
The answer was no, but now that he was alone, he had to rely on himself.
he finally said.
"I need... a room,"
The innkeeper looked at him over his spectacles. Looked at his wounded shoulder. Looked at the blood.
"One night?"
"I don't know... perhaps more."
The innkeeper nodded. He did not ask for a name. He did not ask why there was blood. He did not ask about the sword.
"Two silver coins per night. Pay in advance."
Ryan searched his pocket. He had some coins – silver and copper – that he had from his parent. He placed two silver coins on the counter. He pushed them with trembling fingers.
The innkeeper took the coins, weighed them in his palm, then deposited them in a small wooden drawer.
"The last room on the second floor. Last door on the left. Here is the key."
He pushed a simple wooden key toward Rayan. He did not touch Rayan's hand.
Ryan took the key. His fingers were cold.
He turned toward the stairs. They were narrow wooden steps, steep, creaking. He climbed slowly. Each step sent pain through his back and shoulder. He held the wooden railing with his left hand – his right arm was nearly useless.
The innkeeper watched him from behind. He said nothing. He had seen many wounded men pass through his inn so He had learned not to ask questions.
Ryan reached the second floor. The corridor was dark, lit only by a single oil lamp at the far end. He walked to the last door on the left.
He inserted the key. Turned it. The lock clicked.
He pushed the door open.
The room was small. A single wooden bed with a thin mattress. A small window overlooking a narrow alley. A wooden table and a chair. An oil lamp on the table, unlit.
Ryan entered. Closed the door behind him. Locked it.
He stood in the middle of the room for a moment. The moonlight seeped through the window, pale and cold.
Then he fell to his knees.
He did not cry. He could not. The pain was too great, and he was numb.
He sat on the cold wooden floor, breathing with difficulty. The bleeding from his shoulder had almost stopped – but the pain remained.
He whispered to himself:
"Damn it, I forgot to take my bag."
After a few minutes, he rose with difficulty. He took off his boots. He pulled his sword from his belt and placed it beside the bed. Then he lay down on the simple wooden bed.
He did not sleep. He thought.
About Ella. About her bruised face.
About Lyana. The girl he had held at sword point, then shot an arrow toward her shoulder.
About Sorin. The strong man who had nearly killed him.
About the face he saw when he was looking at that man
'Are those memories of my past life?'
Ryan was remembering memories from his past life, but not everything, and he knew that something was missing from his memories, as if it had been erased.
He sighed.
"Let's think about that another day. I need to rest for tomorrow."
In the end He closed his eyes and he whispered
"Will I meet Mira tomorrow?"
Then he slept. Not a deep sleep, but a collapse from exhaustion.