Here we fucking go.
Ronyn lets out an exaggerated laugh. “No need for discussions about ball sacks, love.”
He wraps his arm around Jax’s shoulder, urging her to stand down. She tries to squirm out of his hold, but he grips tighter.
Ginger Beard closes the gap completely, pushing his barrel-chest into Ronyn’s chin. “Your bitch has some bark in her. Put her on a leash, or I’ll do it for ya,” he promises, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth.
Jax moves to open her mouth, and her hand flies to the chakram at her hip.
Ronyn squeezes her tightly again, desperate to deescalate the brawl that’s about to ensue.
So he takes a step back, offering a light laugh and a dismissive wave, and changes the topic. The art of distraction has never been wasted on an incensed man. And he’s survived long enough to know it works better than force.
“I am rather good with a hammer, actually. I was raised by a Dravari weaponsmith who told me great stories about the skilled men of Vyrhal. We’ve come to see your famed weaponry for ourselves. Isn’t that right, Jaxxy?” Ronyn spreads a fake, too-big smile on his face.
Jax mutters something indecipherable under her breath.
At least she didn’t outright insult the man again.
“We don’t trade to outsiders unless they’re willing to work for our trust first,” the man grunts, eyes never leaving Jax. “Weapons are for those who bleed for Vyrhal. Or at the very least, for those who won’t turn the blade back on us.”
Ronyn picks up the rules of Vyrhal instantly—the same rules he learned long before he had the words for them:
No one here cares what you believe in.
They care about what they can take from you.
Trust, coin, labor.
In Vyrhal, it’s a game of proof.
Ronyn removes his leather armor, leaving only his tunic and pants.
He rolls up his sleeves.
Ronyn has survived worse places than this—the gambling dens of The Barrier District, The Black Stream Markets, The Tannery, the front lines of an army. And they all follow the same rules:
Hunger teaches you when to grin.
Poverty teaches you when to bow.
Violence teaches you when to hurt quietly so others don’t notice.
And distrust teaches you exactly when to create opportunities to disprove it.
But survival teaches you that who you pretend to be can matter more than who you are.
“Show me what to do, my friend.”
Jax scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “I owe these people nothing.”
Ronyn huffs an agitated exhale.
Why can’t she just play the fucking game? Why can’t she trust that he’s handling it?
“Wait for me at the tavern, Jaxxy. I’ll meet you there after.” He spins back to the ginger-bearded man. “Assuming we all head to the tavern for an ale later?”
He silently pleads for Jax to keep her mouth shut.
