When Teclos woke up, he had a blindingly painful headache again.
At least he had made it to his bed this time, though some of his clothes pressed uncomfortably against his skin, leaving sore spots where the fabric had rubbed against him all night.
He sat up slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the bed. His clothes still smelled of smoke, sweat, and tavern ale.
It felt like déjà vu.
This whole week had been nothing but jobs, drinking with the mercenaries, and waking up feeling half-dead.
"Ugh... my head..."
Then he remembered the kid again, and his mood sank to rock bottom.
The hatred in the boy's eyes at the end had been jarring. It reminded Teclos of himself. If he ever had the chance to stab that orc in the neck, he knew he would do it instantly, even if he died in the process.
He got up, washed himself with water that was not exactly clean, and stretched the soreness out of his body.
