An Affinity For Fire

50. Dallas

"Wait, stop." Feress sat up.

Dallas pushed himself backwards, concerned. It certainly wasn't an encouraging thing to hear with his face between a man's legs.

"Is something wrong?"

Feress, a Dormisian man-servant with soft hair and an intoxicating laugh, didn't answer. His eyes were wide, fixed on the bedroom door. Dallas turned, eyeing the far end of the room, but nothing seemed amiss. He cast worried eyes back to the young man.

"If you want me to go, I-"

"No, no, it's fine, I just... I thought I heard something."

Dallas furrowed his brow. He glanced back at the door, straining to hear any noise he could make out. Us much as he focussed, he couldn't hear anything unusual.

Feress shuffled towards him. "Sorry, I'm sure it was noth-"

"Shh." Dallas raised a hand. Somewhere not too off, there was a faint scuffling and clattering. He would have passed it off as just another impassioned pair of festival guests enjoying their pre-party time rather loudly, until he made out the muffled shouting and the distant but agonised scream.

He sprung up. "You're right, something's happening." He pulled on his burgundy shirt. "Stay here," he told Feress, wrestling with his boots. "I'll be right back."

Dressed again, he routed through his bottom drawer, pulling out the knife he'd stashed. He slipped through the door, gripping the knife close at his side, and stepped as quietly as he could down the curved corridor. The noise, whoever had caused it, had stopped. Keeping his back close to the wall, he edged around a corner.

Someone was lying on the ground, face down. An Ocassan lord, judging by the dark blue of his shirt. An old man, with a portly figure and balding, grey hair.

And blood seeping from his throat.

Dallas barely had time to register the body before he heard another scream from further down the corridor. He almost tripped on his own feet scrambling to get back to the room. Frantic, he threw open the door.

"Something really bad is happening, we need to go."

Feress clumsily laced up his trousers and whipped on his own shirt while Dallas pulled a second knife from his drawer. "Take this. Now, I don't know the castle so I need you to tell me where we can hide."

The young man took the knife in trembling hands. "I don't know. The kitchens?"

"I don't know where that is, you'll have to lead," Dallas said. "Stay close and hold onto that knife like your life depends on it, because it might."

They came across two more bodies on the way to the kitchens. No-one Dallas recognised, but he shuddered all the same.

Two Ocassans and a Dormisian. All nobles, if their elaborate attire was anything to go on. And all dead. For what reason, he had no Idea.

He silently prayed to Mausshykae that he wasn't added to the list.

When he pushed open the kitchen door, a broad old woman with a frying pan in hand lunged towards him and Feress, roaring.

Dallas dropped his knife and threw up his hands. "Stop, stop, I'm not here to hurt anyone!"

The wrinkled woman lowered her pan, eyes narrowed. "Feress?"

"Yeah, it's me."

The woman stepped aside, allowing the young man to scurry in and join the group of servants huddling behind an upturned table. Then she raised her pan again, lifting it to Dallas' chin. "And who in all 'ells are you?"