Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 15: No man is an island

CW for mentions of violence, death and gore

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Grayson always thought that some names were aptly fitted.

He thought of Covinsmire, a lovely little seaside town in Woolsmere where his sisters, his mother and him would holiday in the warmer months. A quaint place full of white country cottages, apple orchards, sandy roads, and coves dotted with small caves he would explore tirelessly with his sisters.

Brightmore, however, had nothing of the brightness its name suggested.

Brightmore was a mining town almost straddling the border between Codshire and Hampton, right on the base of the low mountain range that separated both territories. Its mines were the backbone of Codshire's economy, but no one would have realised this by how rundown the town was.

It was well past midnight when their horses arrived on the quiet, darkened main road, their gallops audible in the dimness. Potholed streets barely illuminated by broken lanterns were lined by clapboard houses and ramshackle inns that looked one good wind away from collapsing. Gaunt faces peered at them from curtained windows, and Grayson had the distinct impression that not many people willingly came to Brightmore. Ever.

He was ever grateful that Cedric had talked him into changing, because even in his simple dark overcoat and brown trousers, he stuck out like a sore thumb. They traversed through the main road, eyed by curious spectators, as they made their way out of the main area, closer to the mines.

Grayson saw The Pit even before they arrived up close. It was... well... a pit.

The pub looked like it had been carved into the very face of the mountain, almost blending in with the rugged surface, made of rough-hewn stone and thick pillars of wood. A worn, chipped sign hung over the threshold—two pick-axes flanking faded red lettering. The Pit.

Grayson descended from his horse and tied it to the front of the tavern. Through the windows, he could see people inside. Long tables clustered with locals, waitresses carrying trays filled with food and drinks, and the bar at the back filled with customers. Through the few open windows, the sound of merriment and the scent of food and smoke drifted towards him, only filling Grayson with dread.

These people were a community. A tight-knit one, from what he'd been told. They were family and he was, well, an outsider. There was nothing worse than being an outsider in a small town. Perhaps the only thing worse was being a soft-looking rich boy like Grayson.

Truly, he was walking into the lion's den.

"Quit worrying. It'll be fine," Cedric tutted, clapping Grayson's back and shocking him out of his stupor. Then, as if knowing Grayson was seconds away from running, he clasped his elbow, painted on a smile, and tugged him along. 

"Chin up and look alive," was what he said, before swinging the door open and meeting the din inside the pub.

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, fine.

As soon as they walked into The Pit, Grayson immediately knew he'd made a mistake coming along. The warm ambient of the tavern, which had previously been filled with mirthful conversation and lively music, came to a screeching halt.

Even the piano man at the corner paused mid-song.

Had Grayson not been seconds away from emptying his stomach, he would have cackled. Hell, he might do it still—laugh hysterically until he burst a lung. Were it not for Cedric's grip on his elbow, hidden behind their overlapping cloaks, he might have turned heel and ran, or fainted right there on the sticky floor.