Drone

20 Roadside.

"You have to teach me how to box!" little Rasmus declared as he jogged alongside Niklas. "I can't believe it, you beat those saw men! Kefling said he saw you, said you beat six men at once!" Rasmus threw a jab and a hook in the air. "When you teach me, I won't worry about Delbin anymore! I'd teach him a lesson if he tries to push Trygve again!"

Niklas walked down the muddy road, only catching every other word. Rasmus' enthusiasm would have been flattering if it had been any other time. But as Niklas walked, he felt nothing but stress. Between losing his winnings, a murder in the yard, and the Sommerfeldts abandoning their Sharderin faith, he felt justified in calling it a bad day.

The key to control is planning and preparation. Edgar had always said. If you don't plan for everything, you aren't prepared.

Niklas shook his head. Who was he kidding? Niklas wasn't Edgar. If Edgar were here, he'd have split up his winnings and sent Yelsing and the manager with only a fraction. Niklas had been naive. Besides, how did one prepare for everything to fall apart?

"Do demons in Pit box?" Rasmus continued. "That's where you learned, isn't it? I don't think there could be anything cooler than learning boxing from demons–"

"Look!" Niklas stopped him with an upraised hand. "I don't want to talk right now. I'll teach you later."

Rasmus stopped with a look of innocent guilt in his eyes.

Niklas sighed. "It's not you, Rasmus. I just have a lot to think about."

Rasmus nodded once, then sulked off, trying to hide his offended expression.

Great. Niklas had done it again. He would apologize later, but now he was in no mood to talk. Rasmus' constant chatter was setting Niklas' nerves on edge. His headache had finally disappeared, allowing him to focus on the pain from his other injuries, except for his knee. Niklas felt no pain in his knee, which he knew was wrong. He wondered what irreversible nerve damage may have happened to it.

He had to make a plan, and his rising questions made him feel further from home than ever.

He still was unsure of what to do next. He wanted to try another fight pit, but his promise to the Sommerfeldts stopped that.

He knew he couldn't get the money needed for his current timeline. He may have to stay in Soutfel longer than expected.

The Prospect of honest work made him feel like he lacked control. Like anything could come over and quickly knock him down.

Taking shortcuts to remove the scar hadn't proven reliable, so he consigned to the slower approach.

Several herdsmen and other workers were hired to do some repairs where the road had been washed out, so Niklas signed on. Even if he wasn't making full wages, he was determined to at least alleviate the financial burden his presence had put on the Sommerfeldts.

He saw a group of men working in the mud ahead. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the humidity rose from the wet ground.

"Pit boy!" A pair of men waited for Niklas on the side of the road. Niklas perked up. Only men who watched his fight called him by that name.

They wore white shirts, dusty suits, and battered hats. The clothes marked them as higher-low or middle-class workmen.

"I'm sorry, boys," Niklas said. "No more fights coming up."

The younger of the two laughed; he must have been around Niklas' age, possibly even younger. "I just wanted to say you handled yourself well in the ring. We made a bit of money on you."