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He deduced she was a Kíkara, perhaps the child of a market trader or farm labourer. They’d been the hardest hit of the k?sts by the draconian war machinery of his grandfather’s court.
When the last Kíríga had exploited their farms for minerals to build his beserking ships, their harvests dwindled and failed.
Their men were forced to struggle, and families were abandoned due to famine across rural Katáne.
Leaving behind the crowing throng surrounding the mortified high-born, Killen resumed his walk through the city.
His thoughts were heavy with the weight of the girl’s reality.
Conflicted, he wanted to fight for his people’s cause and lead a new royal monarchy to end the suffering of the many.
But he knew his true calling was beyond just war and a throne. He had to seek out the mystery truth the hawkstone had drawn him towards to fulfil his purpose.
He’d been playing with his growing abilities to prepare for whatever the fokk was coming.
His intervention this evening was one example of how his proficiency enabled him to perform impossible feats.
Regardless, the girl’s plight had shaken him.
He could not abandon this realm’s throne for a cause, and his people did not deserve to be abandoned for an unknown, mystic errand.
He needed a fokkin’ drink.
The dancing lights of a kantína sign caught his eye.
Attracted by the dim light that shone through its dusty windows, he pushed through its doors, tagging his shroud closer.
The place was packed with Katánians of all k?sts.
Some were laughing, others howling out songs, but all were seeking an escape from the chaos of the world outside.
Most were too intoxicated to notice him, but some locked onto his towering Hawk physique and glanced away with wariness.
He approached the rough-hewn counter.
The barkeep, a grizzled older man with a missing eyeball and a scar that ran from his nose to his chin, studied the Kíríga. ‘You’re a beast.’
‘It’s been said,’ Killen drawled, settling onto a stool.
‘What’s your poison?’ the bartender asked, his voice gravelly with years of smoking.
‘Whatever will help me forget,’ Killen rasped.
The publican nodded with a gleam in his eye and dispensed him a shot out of an aged bottle. ‘Try this,’ he murmured.
Killen threw it back.
It was fiery and almost made him gasp.
‘All forgotten?’ The barkeep laughed. ‘’Tis the highest-proof single malts in Katáne.’
Killen shook his head, working his tongue around the daring flavours of dried fruit and butterscotch. ‘’Tis bold.’
‘More?’
Killen considered his options. ‘Hit me.’
One drink soon became two and three, and feeling generous, Killen bought a round of drinks for the small bar’s clientele.
