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Chapter 7
Calamity
“We’re going in there?” The question leaves my mouth before I can think better of it.
We've been riding in silence for most of the day, or what I'm assuming is one. Without seeing the moons, I can't be sure.
“If you want to sleep in a bed and not on the forest floor, yes. It’ll be nightfall soon and the nearest village is still hours away. The rest of us might be able to maintain our body temperature, but you can’t. Unfortunately, this is the closest place to stay.” Loric takes my hand as I swing my leg over the horse's back, trying to make sure my dress doesn’t catch on the saddle.
My feet collide with the ground with a jolt, my weight shifting onto my ankle, making the joint twist sideways. I don't get a chance to throw my hands out as I go down. A strong arm loops around my middle and crushes me against a body that feels like it’s made of stone.
Loric curses beneath his breath. “Gods, woman. You're more of a hazard to yourself than anything else in this damn realm. I thought princesses were supposed to be graceful.”
“So did I… Trust me. I'm just as frustrated as you are.” Testing my ankle, I hiss. “It's these damn boots. I'm not used to wearing them–or any shoes for that matter beyond flats.”
He gives my shoes a scrutinizing glance and he twists his lips. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I'll be fine.”
“Good, because you're going in with me.”
“I am?” I cringe as I hobble as quickly as I can after him.
My question dies in the air between us, as if it reaches his ears, and I'm thankful for his slow, leisurely pace. If he walked any faster, there's no way I would be able to keep up. The sharp pain in my ankle slowly fades to a deep throb as we make our way from the woodline toward the cliff, blocking us from traveling forward. We’ll have to go around it come morning.
I’ve always wondered what it’s like for my father’s subjects… How they live, their hobbies, the day in, day out normalcy they’re used to. I'd be lying to say I’m not the least bit curious, and sort of excited to finally lay eyes on a normal home within our realm. I know it won’t be a castle, and the larger fortresses are in the main villages of our land. They won’t have golden cutlery or velvet curtains that are hand-embroidered, but I never truly wanted that. All I wanted was to feel safe and welcome, to sit at a table and share a meal with people besides Asmo. I wanted friends and a quiet life where the only thing I’d worry about was collecting the spoils of our garden and deciding what wall I’m going to paint.
Maybe this place, where we stay the night, will be a taste of what my future will hold–a glimpse into the life I could have one day, as long as I survive.
As we near the cliffside, I spot a round, wooden door, built into the obsidian rock wall. A silhouette of a yellow duckling is painted in the middle of it, and a curtain of vines and vegetation are pulled to either side, resting iron hooks that have beendriven into the mountain. Had the vines been covering the door, we could’ve walked right by and never known it existed.
Do all the creatures in Solaria live in cave dwellings? Did I misinterpret something from my books?
It’s soundless, save for the bird singing and wildlife skittering within the woods, but as the door creeps open, music spills from the crevasse. Dozens of voices blend into white noise and the heady scent of alcohol and cigar smoke floods my nose.
It's not a home… It's a gathering place? A pub, maybe?
I tilt my head, tracking the orc man who pushes through. He lets the door slam behind him, and the silence returns. A glass jug of a dark red substance–wine, maybe–is clutched in his hand as he stumbles past us without a glance and disappears into the dusky forest.
It's not until I notice how deep the shade has become, how hard it is to make out the mossy bark of the trees beyond the forest line, that I realize how right Loric is. Nightfall isn't far away. The light is already dimming, the colors becoming more muted as the moons begin to block out the hell flame. It'll be pitch black before long.
“The others didn't want to come in with us?” I glance to where Loric’s friends are, resting against the trunks of the trees. The phantom mares we rode here nibble at the grass close by.
“No. We stopped here on the way to get you and Brenn and Jesper got into it with a few of the regulars and were told not to come back. I don't want them causing a scene again. Once we get our rooms, we'll figure out a way to sneak them in or they can shiver together in the woods.”
Loric moves toward the door but my feet are rooted to the spot.
“Come on, Chaos. We don’t have all night,” he says, gripping the curled iron handle and retching it open.
Pausing to read the hand-written sign pinned to the stone wall, I furrow my brows, but I don’t have time to ask questions. Loric ushers me inside and as my eyes focus through the haze of smoke, my jaw drops. This place is nothing like I expected it to be.
It's not a cottage. I'm not sure a pub can define it either. There are small tables that litter the border of the room, and there’s not an empty seat in the entire place. Barrels upon barrels of liquid and wine are stacked to the stone ceiling, but it’s the people who surprise me more. Not a single person here looks friendly. Quite the opposite. I’m certain someone has died on every solid surface inside this place and I’m certain the crimson stain on the stone floor is from blood.
Having grown up in a dungeon, you’d think I’d be used to being around killers. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Everyone here is strapped with swords and daggers, and clearly, they all ignored the sign by the door, demanding they leave all things sharp and pointy outside. At least you can see their physical weapons. There’s no telling what sort of magic hums in their veins, or what gifts the creatures here can command.
I’ve never seen so many intricate tattoos in my life. Some are made up of foreign symbols and others images that could spawn nightmares. The nearest man to us is flipping a tiny dagger that looks sharp enough to cut through bone, the blade sliding easily between his fingers, one by one. His hands are stained with blood, like that dagger made its way into someone’s jugular moments ago.
The variety of scars alone could strike fear into a person. Not even having Asmo as a father figure prepared me for it. Asmo hardly ever wears a shirt, displaying the layers of scars on his body like trophies, but these… These aren’t war scars. They’re defensive wounds, like deep slashes from nails driving through flesh and tearing through muscle in a desperate attempt toescape, or missing eyeballs, likely poked out so their victims could get away.
