Oblivious moron.
Ronyn keeps one eye on the oiled weapon in his hand, and the other on Commander Calira.
She strides slowly along the crates, hands entwined behind her back.
Other guards from her unit remove the cloth covering the weapons, inspecting their edges, their weight, their balance.
But not Calira. She watches everything. She isn’t admiring the forge. She’s mapping it.
Exits.
Sight lines.
Blind spots.
Distance between bodies.
The kind of seeing that comes from expecting violence before it arrives.
She transforms her analysis into relaxed observation, casting it across the forges, the people, the horizon, the township so noone ever questions her motives. She walks with such certainty, such confidence, that no one questions where she’s going, or what she’s doing.
So she just… keeps walking. Beyond the open air forges. Beyond where the eye can see. And around the ash-covered storeroom marking the end of the forge zone.
And just like that—she’s gone.
He needs to follow her. This might be his only chance to uncover what Thalmyr is up to here in Vyrhal.
Ronyn’s mind races, a plan forming before he’s consciously aware of what it is.
“Orrin!” Ronyn calls, gripping his stomach, doubling over like he might drop to the ground in a heartbeat.
Orrin turns, his eyes blowing wide at the sight of Ronyn crippled in agony.
Ronyn approaches, tripping over himself, clutching at his gut.
He’s two steps away.
One.
He lurches.
Dry retching and heaving like a cat trying to dislodge a fur ball.
“What in the holy fuckin’ Stars is wrong with ya?” Orrin snaps, face twisted in disgust, taking a half-step back.
“I’ve got the shits,” Ronyn grumbles, lurching forward again, putting Orrin right in his trajectory.
Orrin stumbles back. “Don’t tell me that!”
Ronyn lurches again. “Thought you should know. Out of respect. Professional courtesy and all that.”
He stumbles closer to Orrin. “Communication is important in the workplace.”
Orrin shields his face in the nook of his elbow.
“Don’t fuckin’ come nearme, lad!”
Gullible fool.
