The lane narrows beside a little roadside shrine, its saint eaten pale by moonlight. Timothy and Bren slow as a broad-shouldered stranger steps out from the shadowed stones, sword hilt in hand.
Alexandre Reaper
Hold. Where do you two go, this late?
Bren Riverglade
To Willowford chapel. We mean no trouble, sir.
Alexandre studies them in silence, scarred face unreadable. His stance stays firm, but he does not draw steel.
Alexandre Reaper
A chapel on this road, at night, with one boy half-bent under old hurts. That sounds like trouble enough.
Timothy
We only seek shelter. If you know the road, tell us if it is safe.
Alexandre Reaper
Safe is a poor word for these miles. But I know the path, and I know better than to leave fools to wolves. Walk quiet, and keep the shrine between you and the ditch.
Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.