All's Fair in Revenge

Chapter 12: Chicken

At the threshold of Owin City, a monolithic limestone bulwark, as thick as Nidhogg's hide and as ancient as stardust, rose to kiss the sky. The entrance was guarded by a formidable portcullis with iron bars that glimmered a golden hue. Flecks of paint peeled away from its iron.

From outside the bulwark, the road seemed to slice through the heart of the city. Its sides flanked by arches hung with golden banners that shivered in the ocean wind. At the farthest end of the winding road, Castle Moer soared with levels of splendor, surrounded by groomed gardens, no doubt perfumed and blooming despite Náre's last breathes. Back home, the scholars taught that Hella had built Castle Moer, herself. And that the grounds were still soaked in her energy. Had I not seen it for myself, I wouldn't believe it.

At the gate, I allowed Lord Thorne to take lead. He stopped at the line of similarly outfitted guards donning gold cloaks instead of the black one he wore. Did Arin's murderer wear such a cloak? I couldn't remember.

He threw back his shoulders and lifted his chin as he said, "Lord Thorne to present Her Highness, the Princess Hana."

A guard with copper hair and a mask of freckles tried peering around Thorne and his horse as if perplexed. "Where's the rest of her escort?"

"She did not arrive with one." Thorne uncomfortably shifted on his horse.

Liv, however, pulled our stolen mare up next to Thorne's. "In Kelvia, we don't waste our people's tax money on such nonsense."

The guard snorted and offered an apology to Thorne for having such terrible luck getting saddled with such ugly, barbaric wards. Thorne laughed along, merrily.

"Good Eyr, enough of this. Let us through," I demanded. The guard ignored me. So I snapped twice as though he were a poorly trained pet and gestured for him to open the gate before he, too, had the terrible luck of dealing with me. If he wanted to act like an ass. I'd treat him as one.

The guard only obliged because Thorne encouraged him to listen with a nod. That our mare happened to sneeze on him as we passed by was mildly compensatory.

The gulf of cobblestone separating the affluent side of the city from the poor was vast, as though two different realms collided along Owin City's axis. To the north, huts, pieced together from scraps and leftovers reared, huddling together for warmth. In the south, sprawling neighborhoods of grand stone mansions basked under glittering gold roofs. Dust and grime coated one side, while lush gardens, teeming with life and flowering waterfalls, provided a respite from the downtrodden of the city. Makeshift stalls lined one side of the street, peddling their wares to those with little coin to spare in the first place. On the other, stone storefronts with crisp canopies offered a more purified shopping experience. Yet, no matter the window dressing, the stench of wet garbage and unwashed bodies pervaded all.

Armed and brimming with superiority, Dorsi garrisons patrolled along the demarcation line, taunting the subjugated as they searched for scraps and longed to peruse the overflowing trash bins feet away. But no one dared to cross the invisible wall separating them. Why? Was the consequence so great they'd rather starve? It appeared so.

As we journeyed further into Owin, the streets teemed with everyday life. I was first drawn to the women darting from stall to stall, ever vigilant. Hidden daggers nestled in folds of fabric, nails sharpened to claws poised for reaction, and brocade layers so thick it must've taken them hours to de-robe. And it was impossible not to notice that the women always walked in pairs or small groups, never alone and quickly disappearing into the safety of nearby shops when spotting a soldier in their path. Yet, as Thorne and I passed they offered him a knowing nod and sometimes a subtler bow.