# Chapter 28: The Squire's Devotion
The tavern's din faded to a dull roar in Soren's ears, the faces blurring into a meaningless tapestry of strangers. He was an island, adrift in a sea of sharks and schemers. Then, a hesitant shadow fell over his table. He looked up into the wide, earnest eyes of the boy from the team Trial. Finn. "Sir," the boy began, his voice cracking with a desperate hope that felt like a shard of glass in Soren's heart. "I… I know you don't have a sponsor anymore. And I know I'm not much. But I can learn. I can work. I just… I don't want to go back to the stables. Please. Let me be your squire." In the boy's face, Soren saw not just a request, but a reflection of the boy he used to be, before the ash and the debt. A choice that wasn't about power or rebellion, but about one person helping another. And in that moment, it was the only choice that felt real.
Soren stared, the tavern's raucous noise—the clang of tankards, the bellowed laughter of off-duty Wardens, the mournful tune of a one-eyed fiddler—receding into a distant hum. All he could focus on was the boy's face, smudged with soot and lit by a feverish, desperate light. He was thin, all sharp angles and elbows, his worn tunic hanging off his frame. But his eyes, they were the same as Soren remembered from the Trial: wide, clear, and burning with an intensity that belied his frail appearance. They were the eyes of someone who had seen the bottom and was clawing his way back up with nothing but his fingernails.
"The stables?" Soren's voice was a rough rasp, the words scraping his throat. He hadn't spoken since leaving Mara's office.
Finn flinched but held his ground. "Yes, sir. Mucking out the gutters, polishing armor for fighters who won't even look at you. It's… it's a dead end. You're dead the moment you start there. You just don't know it yet." He took a shaky breath, his gaze darting around the tavern as if expecting a blow from the shadows. "I saw what you did in the Trial. Against Kaelen. Against everyone. They call you a monster. A brute. But I saw it. You were protecting us. Even when we failed you."
The memory surged, hot and unwelcome. The acrid smell of ozone, the splintering of stone, Kaelen's sneering face, the sickening crunch of Rook Marr's betrayal. He remembered the searing pain as his Gift tore through him, the world dissolving into a white-hot agony. He remembered the boy, Finn, trying to drag a fallen comrade to safety, his small frame straining against the weight. He hadn't been protecting anyone. He had been a force of nature, a storm of rage and power, and anyone caught in his path was just collateral damage.
"You don't know what you're asking," Soren said, his voice low. He gestured vaguely with his good arm, the other still bound in a tight sling against his chest. "Look at me. I have nothing. No sponsor, no coin, no gear. I'm a target. Anyone attached to me is a target, too."
"I know," Finn said, stepping closer. The scent of hay and cheap soap clung to him. "I heard what happened with House Marr. Everyone has. They say you're finished. But you're not. You're still standing. That's more than most can say." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can be useful. I'm small. No one notices me. I can listen. I can run messages. I can clean your gear, patch your leathers, make sure you have water when you're in the pits. I won't get in the way. I swear it."
Soren's mind raced, a whirlwind of cynical calculations. This was a trick. It had to be. A plant from the Synod, sent to watch him. A spy for Nyra, trying to get closer. Or maybe just a simpleton, a child who romanticized the Ladder and saw a fallen champion as his only ticket out. Each possibility was a different kind of poison. But as he looked into Finn's eyes, he saw none of the cunning of a spy or the manipulation of an agent. He saw only raw, unvarnished desperation. It was a mirror. He saw the boy he had been, standing in the dust of a ruined caravan, watching his father's body being covered by a coarse blanket, feeling the cold hand of debt close around his throat.
"Why me?" Soren asked, the question barely audible.
"Because you fight," Finn answered instantly, as if he'd been rehearsing the line. "The others… they play the game. They posture and preen for the crowd. They fight for glory, for coin, for the favor of some lord or lady. You… you fight like you have nothing left to lose. Like you're trying to burn the whole world down. I want to learn how to do that. I want to fight for something that matters."
The words struck Soren with the force of a physical blow. *Fight for something that matters.* Was that what he was doing? Or was he just thrashing in his chains, a spectacle for a hidden master? Mara's voice echoed in his mind. *Explosive results.* The thought was a bucket of cold ash on the embers of his anger. He was a weapon, aimed by an unseen hand. Taking this boy on wasn't just a risk; it was a death sentence.
"I can't pay you," Soren said, the final, flimsy barrier.
"I don't want pay," Finn insisted, his voice trembling with earnestness. "I want a chance. Just a chance. Let me stand by your side. Let me carry your water. Let me… let me be part of something real. Please, sir."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The tavern's noise swelled back in, a chaotic symphony of life that Soren felt utterly disconnected from. He thought of his mother, her hands raw from scrubbing stone floors in the debtors' ward. He thought of his brother, Cael, barely a man, already being shaped into a tool for the Crownlands. He was fighting for them. But this fight was becoming so much larger, so much more convoluted. He was drowning in conspiracies and obligations. What was one more? What was one more life on his conscience?
He looked at Finn's hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. They were clean, but Soren could see the faint calluses on the palms, the ingrained dirt under the fingernails. These were the hands of a worker, a survivor. A boy who shouldn't have to beg for a purpose.
Soren let out a long, slow breath, the air whistling through his teeth. It was a terrible idea. It was reckless and dangerous and probably the stupidest thing he could do. It was also the only thing that felt right in a world that had gone utterly mad.
"One condition," Soren said, his voice flat and hard.
Finn's head snapped up, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. "Anything, sir."
"When I tell you to run," Soren said, leaning forward, his gaze pinning the boy in place. "You run. You don't look back. You don't hesitate. You run and you don't stop. Do you understand me?"
Finn swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thin throat. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "I understand, sir."
"And you do what I say, when I say it. No questions. No arguments."
"Yes, sir. I swear."
Soren leaned back, the movement sending a sharp twinge of pain through his ribs. He studied the boy for a long moment, searching for any sign of deceit, any hint of a hidden agenda. He found nothing. Only a fierce, unwavering devotion that was both terrifying and profoundly humbling. He was accepting a responsibility he couldn't afford, a burden that threatened to crush what little was left of him. But in the boy's fierce loyalty, he saw a tiny spark of light in the suffocating darkness. A single, defiant candle against the endless night.
"Alright," Soren said, the word feeling both like a surrender and a declaration of war. "You're my squire."
A brilliant, disbelieving smile broke across Finn's face, transforming it from a mask of desperation into a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. He looked like he might burst into tears or start cheering, or both. Instead, he just stood there, grinning like a fool, his eyes shining.
"Thank you, sir," he breathed, the words full of a reverence that made Soren deeply uncomfortable. "You won't regret this. I'll be the best squire the Ladder has ever seen. I'll…"
"Sit down," Soren cut him off, nodding at the empty stool across from him. "You're drawing attention."
Finn's mouth snapped shut. He scrambled onto the stool, sitting ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap as if he were attending a royal audience. The sheer, unadulterated earnestness of it was almost painful to witness.
Soren signaled the barmaid, a weary-looking woman with a face like a roadmap of hard choices. She ambled over, wiping her hands on her apron. "Another?"
"Water," Soren said. "And a bowl of that stew." He glanced at Finn. "And a meat pie. The biggest one you have."
The barmaid raised an eyebrow but shrugged, shuffling back toward the kitchen. Finn watched her go, his eyes wide. "Sir, you don't have to…"
"I do," Soren said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "A squire who faints from hunger is useless. Eat." He slid his half-empty mug of ale across the table. "And drink that. It'll put hair on your chest."
Finn looked at the mug as if it were a holy relic. He picked it up with both hands and took a tentative sip, his nose wrinkling at the bitter taste. He coughed, a small, undignified sound, but then took another, larger gulp. Soren watched him, a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirring in his chest. It wasn't quite pride. It wasn't quite responsibility. It was something in between. The feeling of a wall being built, one small, shaky brick at a time.
The barmaid returned with the food, placing the steaming bowl of stew and the hefty meat pie in front of Finn. The boy's eyes went wide. He picked up the pie with both hands, took a huge, messy bite, and chewed with a single-minded intensity that spoke of long-empty stomachs. Soren picked at his own stew, the tough meat and bland gravy tasting like ash in his mouth. His mind was already turning, re-calibrating. He had a squire now. That changed things. It gave him a set of eyes and ears he could, maybe, trust. It also gave him a vulnerability. A lever his enemies could use.
He thought of Mara's cold, smiling face. *Explosive results.* What would she, or her master, think of this new development? Would they see it as an insignificant detail? Or a weakness to be exploited? He didn't know. The not knowing was the worst part.
Finn finished the pie with astonishing speed, wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Soren, his expression solemn once more. "What's our first task, sir?"
Soren looked out the tavern window, at the grimy streets of the Ladder district, the towering Spire of the Ladder a dark silhouette against the perpetually grey sky. He was a man owned by a ghost, a pawn in a game he couldn't see, with a new, impossible responsibility sitting across from him, gravy on his chin.
"First," Soren said, his voice low and steady. "We find a place to sleep that isn't a gutter. Then, we find out exactly what kind of trouble we're in."
Finn nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, sir."
Soren looked at the boy, at the unwavering faith in his eyes. It was a heavy thing, that faith. A crushing weight. But for the first time since leaving Mara's office, he didn't feel quite so alone. He felt the faintest glimmer of a path forward, not a clear one, but a path nonetheless. It was a path paved with risk and responsibility, but it was his.
"I won't let you down, sir," Finn said, his eyes wide with determination.
Soren just nodded, the weight of another person's fate settling on his shoulders.