Chapter 24

  The road to town felt different this time. Francis walked beside Michael, listening to his brother chatter about nothing in particular, and found himself actually enjoying the moment instead of treating it as another step in an endless cycle. The sun was warm on his face, the breeze carried the scent of grass and wildflowers, and for once, Francis wasn't thinking about death or strategy or the weight of saving everyone.

  Phillip had pulled Francis aside before they left, his usual frown replaced by something that might have been confusion or awe. The trainer had circled Francis slowly, studying him as if he were looking at a completely different person.

  "I don't understand," Phillip had said finally, his voice quiet. "You were... you were skinny. Frail. And now..." He gestured at Francis's frame, at the obvious muscle and bulk that hadn't been there before. "How is this possible?"

  Francis had met the man's eyes steadily. "I'm not running from the war. The gods have gifted me with size and more. They've shown me what I need to become, and they've promised me something."

  "What?" Phillip asked, his expression wary.

  "Valehart," Francis said simply. "The gods have promised me revenge."

  Phillip's face went rigid, his jaw clenching so tight Francis could hear his teeth grinding. The man opened his mouth, questions clearly forming, but Francis held up a hand to stop him.

  "Do you want revenge?" Francis asked. "If so, I cannot say more. Just know I will bring him to you on his knees, and you'll get the chance to slit his throat."

  His trainer choked on whatever words he'd been about to say. A few tears fell, tracking down the weathered face before the man cleared his throat roughly and nodded. "May the gods be with you, Francis, and I look forward to that day."

  From there, Phillip had provided them with a pouch of coins, enough to stay in the city at an inn for a month. They'd have food and shelter, anything else would have to come from what they earned themselves.

  ---

  The inn was nothing fancy, but it was clean and the beds were soft. Francis and Michael spent the first day doing absolutely nothing, sleeping in until the sun was high in the sky, eating a leisurely meal, and then wandering the town with no particular destination in mind.

  It was strange, this feeling of freedom. Francis had grown so used to the urgency of training, of dying, of resetting, that simply existing without a goal felt almost foreign. But Michael seemed to sense what Francis needed, pulling him into conversations with local girls, sharing stories at the tavern, making sure his brother laughed at least once every day.

  A few days into their stay, Francis found himself drawn to Zachery's smithy. The old blacksmith looked up from his work as Francis entered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of a man the entire town knew about due to his size.

  "Well, well," Zachery said, setting down his hammer. "Looks like someone's been eating their meals. You're the one who is staying with his brother, aren't you?"

  "I am," Francis replied. "I was wondering if you might teach me a few things. I've been learning some smithing, but I'd like to improve."

  Zachery studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Why not? Let's see what you know."

  Francis spent the next three days in the forge, working alongside Zachery and learning techniques the old smith had perfected over decades. The man was surprised at how quickly Francis picked things up, at how his hammer strikes were already practiced and controlled despite his relative inexperience.

  "You've got a natural talent for this," Zachery said on the third day, watching as Francis shaped a small blade. "Most apprentices take months to get their strikes that clean. Who taught you?"

  "A smith in the north," Francis said, which was true enough. "A man named Tormund. He's a master at his craft."

  Zachery grunted and let Francis continue practicing, creating several small items over the next few days. Nothing fancy, just simple knives and hinges, but each one was a testament to the skills Francis was accumulating across his many lives.

  ---

  The last week of their month away, Francis and Michael packed simple supplies and headed to the stream where they'd fished during previous loops. They set up a small camp, caught more fish than they could eat, and spent the evenings talking around the fire.

  It was on the third night that Michael’s expression grew serious. He stared into the flames, watching them dance and flicker, before finally speaking.

  "How many times have you done this with me?"

  Francis looked up from the fish he was cleaning. "Talk or spend time like this together?"

  "Time like this," Michel clarified. "How many times have we had moments like this? Moments where you don’t fight and we get away."

  Francis was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Not enough. I... I realized I need more of these. Part of me wants to punch you in the mouth every time I wake up to that bell and you say the exact same thing."

  Michael's hand went to his jaw reflexively. "And you haven't?"

  "Almost," Francis replied, grinning despite the weight of the conversation. "But I love you... and so far that's been enough to keep me from doing so."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Michael studied him for a long moment, his expression more serious than usual. "Why now? Why did you want this right now?"

  Francis stared at the fire, stirring the flames with a stick and watching the sparks rise into the night sky. "Honestly... I'm about to face some horrible deaths for a long time. Based on how things are looking, it may take me five hundred or more before I can win."

  Michael's eyes widened, and he nodded slowly, processing that number. "Five hundred... and each one?"

  "Painful," Francis said quietly. "Hacked to pieces, smashed, head ripped off—"

  "I get it," Michael interrupted, his face pale. "And all this... for me?"

  Francis nodded slowly. "Mostly... now I see I don't have a choice. Part of me wants to become stronger. I see what I can become and perhaps the life I could have one day if I ever figure this all out. You were my main focus at first... but now... I also realize that I can't be alone forever. That… requires me to endure what I must."

  Michael's expression shifted to a look that was somewhere between amusement and understanding. "And here you are, always giving me grief about trying to get to know more people."

  "Women," Francis corrected, unable to keep the smile off his face. "You try to get to know more women. You're a lech."

  His brother laughed, the sound echoing across the stream. "I can't help it if that's my gift."

  They sat in silence for a while after that, watching the fire burn down to embers. Francis felt something ease in his chest, a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. This month away had been necessary, a reminder that life was more than just death, combat, and endless loops.

  ---

  A few days after returning to town, Francis found himself standing outside the establishment where Dexter ran his fighting ring. He'd been thinking about the large brawler ever since that first loop when he'd fought the man. Cutter had skills, real combat experience, and the kind of raw strength that could make a difference on a battlefield.

  Francis pushed through the door and found Cutter and Dexter inside, the previous sweeping while the latter checked something in a journal.

  Cutter stepped forward, a few crows feet forming around the man’s eyes as he frowned. “Can I help you?”

  "Maybe," Francis said, walking closer. "I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever thought about fighting to defend the kingdom?"

  Cutter snorted and shook his head. "Why? What's the kingdom ever done for me? Besides, I don't see you or your brother heading there. Everyone in town knows you two were supposed to join the fight, and yet here you stand, not there."

  "What would it take for you to go join the army?" Francis pressed, ignoring the man’s words.

  Cutter's expression hardened, his jaw setting in a stubborn line. "There isn't enough gold in the kingdom to make me do that. They didn't help me when I needed it. I'm not going to help them when they need it."

  The large man went silent after that, his attention returning to the floor and the woodchips on it as if Francis had ceased to exist. Francis tried a few more questions, but Cutter ignored every one of them, his body language making it clear the conversation was over.

  Francis didn't feel like fighting or killing the man just to make a point. Whatever had happened between Cutter and the kingdom, whatever wound had been left there, it was deep enough that no amount of persuasion would change his mind. At least not now, not like this.

  "Alright," Francis said finally. "I understand."

  He turned and left the building, stepping back out into the sunlight. The month was almost over, and soon he'd have to return to the training camp, return to Phillip and the other recruits, return to the path that would eventually lead him back to those Ursaloths and the grinding deaths that awaited him.

  But for now, he still had a few more days with Michael. A few more days of being just Francis, not the looper, not the warrior who died over and over again. Just a young man spending time with his brother.

  And that was enough.

  ---

  “You’re sure that something is going to happen and you’ll just relive all this?” Michael asked. “And what if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll know that the pattern isn’t the same,” Francis replied. “I really don’t know if I’m right. Part of hopes that I’m wrong.”

  His brother poked at the stew in the bowl they had been eating for dinner. “Well I hope you’re right because we’ve only got enough coin for two more nights. After that I’m afraid we’re going to have to work or something else.”

  Francis shook his head and glanced around the room of the inn. “No… I can feel the promise we made to fight. I swore to Phillip I would only stay away for a month. If we don’t go then the promise I made will be broken and we both know what happens then.”

  “You really think they’d hunt us?” Michael asked, his eyes widening. “Look at these people. They all know the kind of power you must have for you and I to be here, doing this. I mean, you could pretty much do whatever you want in this town and no one could stop you.”

  “But they could easily stop you,” Francis replied. “And at some point, I have to sleep. Then what?”

  His brother grunted, going silent at the truth of those words.

  “No matter what happens, you’re my focus,” Francis stated. “I’m going to face whatever I must to make sure that you don’t just stay alive but that you get to really live.”

  Michael chuckled and then pinched off a piece of bread from his small loaf and tossed it at Francis. “You know… part of me is sad to know you didn’t take me back to the army… Those two women… Bella and–”

  “Maybe next time,” Francis said, tossing some pieces of bread back.

  “Hey! You two make a mess in here, and I’ll kick you out!” the innkeeper shouted.

  Chuckles came from the other patrons in the inn.

  “I think you can take him,” Francis whispered, motioning toward the pudgy, older man.

  “Maybe…,” his brother replied. “But he probably bites.”

  ?