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“I’ve cooked plenty of worg,” Zyranth says through gritted fangs. “You’re welcome to stay and eat for a bit.”
She looks around the room. I’ll admit that it’s a bit cluttered. Zyranth has a penchant for collecting things, whether they’re useful or not.
Suspended from the entryway ceiling are several pots, which hold various crops and spices. It’s exactly what I envisioned for us, but sometimes I worry about how other people perceive Zyranth’s eccentricities.
“You have a lovely home,” Mirose says, finally joining the conversation. She acknowledges Zyranth.
“And yes. That sounds delicious,” she says, smiling.
Zyranth nods awkwardly, moving over to the fireplace.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” I say absentmindedly, as we move over to the dining table.
“Mess?”
I gesture toward all of the clutter, and all of the cages and pots suspended from the ceiling.
“Your home has character,” Mirose says. “I think there’s more character in your living room than the entirety of Dirnyn’s manor. So don’t ever apologize.”
I nod, relieved. Zyranth brings over several wooden platters of meat, the platters all charred and scorched from repeated use.
As I tear into the well-sauced and seasoned flesh, I am glad to be eating these worgs – animals which once threatened to devour me. I can joke about the hazards all I want, but Zyranth is an excellent cook.
I smile at him as he takes a seat across from me, barely fitting his legs under the table. He’s done a great deal to try to make me happy, and I’m grateful for it everyday of my life.
“By the gods,” Mirose says, biting into the worg. “I thought you said he –”
I step on her foot as Zyranth looks suspiciously between the two of us.
Mirose turns to look at me, suddenly cognizant of the mistake she almost made.
“This is delicious,” Mirose exclaims, tearing into the worg with enthusiasm. “You’re a fantastic cook, Zyranth.”
Zyranth grunts in acknowledgement before joining us in eating.
32
MIROSE
The cobble streets of the Dark Market sweep past me as I gallop atop this dark green equu, which Dirnyn has so graciously lent to me.
Many of the faces in this market that blur across my vision I have come to know and hate, though the influx of new disreputable faces never stops. Under the new hand of Lord Dirnyn, I am protected, and the vile work of the Dark Market seems to have slowed a bit, though that may be blind optimism.
Dirnyn has always been kind to me – far better than Everan – but it doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of just as much ruthlessness. I am in a privileged position, and I take care to never forget where I came from. I have a hard time seeing myself as ‘lucky,’ but compared to most of the people here, I am.
“Whoa,” I cry out. “Watch out!”
A dark elf teenager wanders into my forward path, and I pull on the reins, guiding the equu’s rocklike hooves to steer off course and to the right. His parents, following him from a nearby market stall, scowl at me as I ride away, and I offer them an apologetic expression.
I’m not sure what parent would ever bring a child to a cesspool like this. I suppose any dark elf who wanders the Dark Market can’t be credited as a responsible parent. They’re probably bonding over the brutal spectacle, laughing at the tortured humans being sold to new masters.
To their eyes, I am a dark elf man with scars that run jaggedly across my face, down my neck, and to my shoulders. Lord Dirnyn’s protection has not meant informing everybody in the Dark Market to start treating humans as equals. The thought is completely laughable.
This is an illusory enchantment, visible to everybody but a select few. The only people who will see me as I am are the people I intend to see me.
It’s still a step up though, I remind myself.
The number of buildings thin out and become more derelict. I arrive at the seediest part of the Dark Market, where an overgrown fountain sputters swamp like water. There were rumors that Lord Everan would take his most despised slaves and leave their corpses underneath the fountain, and that their bones still linger.
