A faint sound of soldiers bickering through the walls. Distant cries of seagulls. 

He crawled the short distance to the bed, grabbed the sheets, they tore into strips easily enough. Bernat was always cheap.

Roughly bandaged the cut on his leg. No time to clean it properly. He’d heal tomorrow if he lived.

He looked around the room briefly, in the hope that the room’s occupant, who he vaguely remembered as a sullen-looking merchant, had conveniently left some boots, or socks even. No such luck.

He hesitated for a moment, then started wrapping his feet with the rags. His hands did it reflexively. All those years at the orphanage, first wrapping his own feet, then those of the little ones, once he mattered enough to get shoes.

Sounds of furniture scraping from across the hall, checking for anything hidden.

His breathing was tight and rapid, his mouth dry. That itch in the back of his mind was still there. 

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

Not enough time. The Galtans would double check the rooms quickly enough. He just had his cantrips, his channels and one unused Disguise Self.

It would have to be enough.

He knelt carefully by the window, looking down at the soldiers idling below. 

Focused on the young looking one, studied his acne marked face. Long gawky awkward limbs. Bastard was a child but had at least a foot on Orgull. 

Too far to hear the boy's voice properly, but Orgull could imagine it, broken but barely, stammering. 

“Disguise self.” 

The door from this room to the corridor was closed, but his room’s would be open. Given it no longer had a door. They’d see him almost immediately.

Nothing for it. He stepped out. 

“Oh uh, sir?” 

The older voice seemed to be attached to a heavyset man in officers armor. Behind him was a man in a lighter uniform, probably the wizard.

“Private? What were you doing in that room?”