Heir of Cinders [FADING EMBERS #1] - ON HOLD

5.2 - Devil's Chord

It did not take long for Feal to realize that the real challenge of following Saoirse was trying to keep Mira from crashing to the floor in a drunken heap. The yildean had opted to just carry her bridal style all the way up to Saoirse's office, as he worried over the prospect of her grip slipping. He did not particularly fancy his second-in-command ending up with a broken nose over a short walk to an office.

Feal exhaled a puff of air that marked his relief when his destination came into view. Saoirse pushed open an old, worn-out door and gestured for both of them to enter. He was getting tired of Mira's delirious mumblings about wyrms and wyverns.

The room was properly furnished in comparison to the other parts of the bar. A single bed sat in the corner, though it was far from clean. He could see numerous scratch marks marring the dull bed sheets. A large oaken table stood in front of a murky glass window, with a pile of books placed on top of the table. Feal could see that the majority of them were nothing more than famous works of fiction. A lone candle was placed precariously right next to the giant pile of books. The sight stirred some concern within him. The candle looked very close to falling off and setting the entire second floor on fire, so much so that the yildean was tempted to warn the golden-haired woman of this hazard.

The room had a stronger stench of alcohol compared to the lower floor of the tavern. Feal stifled a gag from escaping his throat. It was a somewhat worrisome occurrence, Feal thought, as yildeans were not the type to indulge themselves in alcohol. Such form of frivolity was best left to the aerhyans, hyrians, and rodents. The intoxicating stench almost convinced him to back out, but he steeled himself as he continued to walk deeper into the room. He was leader of the Scarlet Masks; he could not afford to show the weakness of his bowels to repulsive aromas.

Feal decided to place Mira on the bed, which sank beneath her weight with a discomforting creak. She wouldn't be much of a help with diplomacy, not when she was still drunkenly mumbling on about how Nadrien owed her ten golden picas.

"Do you have any wyrm root which I can use?" he asked the golden-haired yildean.

"I'm surprised how a drunkard can overpower three people at once," Saoirse remarked, a sparkle of amusement still dancing within her otherwise weary-looking eyes. The other end of her cane made dull thuds against the wooden floor as she shambled towards the bed. She handed Feal a white handkerchief.

"Last time she overpowered fifteen men." Feal took the handkerchief from Saoirse's hand and used it to wipe the trickle of blood away from Mira's face. "She never once lost any fight against anyone. Can't say I'm happy with that, as she only does more harm than good."

And an increased amount of money to be spent whenever she wins a fight, he continued in his mind. Feal's mouth twitched slightly as he remembered the numerous times Mira got dragged into bar fights, and the results were always the same: he always had to pay for compensation. It was quite the droll thought, that the most formidable and well-paid assassins on the entire continent would have economic problems.

"Typical aerhyans," Saoirse commented, her words punctured with a small chuckle that escaped her throat. She opened a wooden cupboard that was nailed to the and began to scrounge around. "Drunkards, wyvern riders, barbarians. Can't say I don't appreciate them; they bring a lot of life in this god-forsaken land."

Saoirse took something within her grasp and threw it on the unconscious hybrid girl's feet. Feal snatched the fragrant, twisty root of a gray shade, turning it over in his delicate fingers.

"No need to compensate for your friend's actions earlier. Having you end that miserable old butterfly was enough," the woman said, waving a clawed hand dismissively. "You and your friends are always welcome here."