Dragon Flame | MxM Fantasy

Chapter 3: Boar

Wystan half-expects chains and prison cells immediately after passing the gatehouse. What he sees is nothing short of ordinary for a castle on a smaller side. A complete letdown of epic proportions.

The tower in the rumor is described as a dreary dark place, yet Wystan doesn't see anything like that, despite the unkept outside. Flickering candles in the golden chandeliers. Red and green and gray carpets. Wood dotted with garnets and emeralds as part of almost every chair, table, and even the cabinets in some places. He'd think he has somehow found himself in one of the Emperor's vacation homes.

Now settled in, he trods down the curving hallway. Where is the damn dreary part? There is even a hearth in his assigned bed chamber with a pile of firewood that awaited him in the nearby corner. He's been told to light the fire in case it starts feeling cold with the temperature drop in the evening. He's still not sure if this is a dream. Perhaps a very vivid hallucination?

At this point, he'd like to see signs of moths and mice because the number of people manning the castle shouldn't be enough to keep the whole thing running. Arrival was a quiet affair, with several servants welcoming them. Alexei gave a few orders, polite as ever with a blinding smile on his face, and then took off before Wystan could grab his attention in search of...food for the feast tomorrow as he informed everyone present. As mentioned before, the whole reception was anticlimactic. What's left is to investigate. Wystan's instinct has never been wrong. And this whole situation reeks with the pungent smell of conspiracy.

The night comes and he lights the fire in his room, orange and gold licking toward the chimney. Tomorrow is a new day and he needs rest.

***

With dawn walls light up to ashen gray, furniture gleams, and decorations grab his eye before he determinedly goes in one direction.

The main residence is not grand— not like the one in Summer Brooch at the very least —but it's easy enough to sneak around. Wystan thinks back to his childhood, the loneliness that followed after his father's death and his siblings' rise in society. The adept stealthiness that he employs now, was born from the boredom and curiosity brimming under his skin.

As the youngest in the family, no one paid him any attention. The twins rose among the elite and Paxton followed in their footsteps, becoming a commander in the Army. Mother handled her duties as an Empress, always meetings, meetings, meetings—so Wystan and Faye were left to fend for themselves.

Granted, Faye did participate in some of the events with their significantly older siblings, but grand balls and boring nobles' gatherings where the wine was consumed in more than advised quantities weren't really Wystan's favorites in the past. Nor would any of the mentioned activities become anything beyond annoying obligations further on. Hence skulking around the court became his favorite pastime after the old tutor died and Leroy replaced him. Of course, learning a secret or two and then shoving it down fellow court dwellers' throats was usually just a perfectly fun addition. Now that he thinks about it, no wonder everyone wanted to get rid of him.

Silent and quick-stepped, Wystan easily evades the unfamiliar staff while he searches for Gauge's bed chamber. The man should be bunking with Kelcie in the other wing. As the two unofficial leaders of the Lost after Wystan, they got the next best room. Which means Wystan will see both of them at once. Kelcie should be back.

Stretching, stone-paved hallways connect both wings of the main housing. However, Wystan abruptly takes off down the stairs while evading a stern-looking servant —a butler perhaps? He did have that air. 

Wystan stumbles upon the kitchen, judging by the sounds and scent emanating from behind the closed entrance. Deciding to look further, he goes down the hallway that gets less and less lit farther he goes until a thick stone wall spreads to encompass the stretch, effectively forming a dead end. There's a door on his left, the only closed one since the kitchen, the others half-open with food stores inside. Looking closer, the lock is rusty and old. He picks it, pretty much sure he won't find anything substantial. The hinges squeak as the door opens to the sight of scattered half-closed crates of non-perishables, and further left jars and containers lining the double shelves at one side of the room.