“What’ll you have?”
A deep, resonant voice cut through the tavern’s perpetual din, drawing Leni’s attention.
A burly, broad-shouldered bald man stood firm in front of their table, his imposing figure casting a shadow over them.
Daggers, their hilts worn smooth from use, hung conspicuously from his belt, and his sharp, scrutinizing eyes swept over Blayden’s stark black cloak and the hilt of his sheathed sword, assessing him with a professional quickness.
“Just so you know, executioner, we don’t serve human flesh.”
The man’s words carried a cynical edge, a subtle dig at Blayden’s perceived profession.
“Good to know. The smell alone is sickening,” Blayden retorted gruffly, his voice a low rumble that betrayed no hint of offense, only a weary dismissal.
He then ordered, his tone flat and unyielding, “Lamb and potato stew and ale.”
“Milder tastes than you look.”
The man grunted, a sound of grudging acknowledgment mixed with lingering suspicion, and was about to turn away.
But his gaze, still sharp, lingered for a moment, then fell unexpectedly on Leni, a curious glint in his eyes as he took in her small stature and wide, apprehensive gaze.
Blayden, sensing the man’s lingering interest, cut him off with an abrupt command.
“Just shut up and bring the food.”
His voice held a sharp, dangerous edge, a warning that brooked no argument.
Startled by his fierce demeanor, the man’s eyes flickered, betraying a brief moment of fear.
He glanced at Leni one more time, a fleeting, indecipherable look, then turned and walked away, his potbelly protruding, a waddle to his gait.
Once he was out of earshot, safely beyond the reach of Blayden’s intimidating presence, Leni leaned across the rough wooden table, her elbows propped against the worn surface, and whispered, her voice barely audible above the tavern’s background noise.
“He called me your wife, why didn’t you say anything?”
Her brow was furrowed, a mix of confusion and indignation in her expression.
Blayden replied, his voice a raspy, gravelly sound that seemed to scrape against the air.
“Should I have drawn my sword and yelled? That the squirrel-like little kid in front of me isn’t my wife?”
His tone was dismissive, almost mocking.
“I’m not a kid!”
Leni stomped her foot under the table in frustration, a small, futile act of defiance against his infuriating composure.
Blayden merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise impassive face, ignoring her protest as if even bothering to speak was too much trouble.
He looked around the bustling tavern instead, his gaze sweeping over the various patrons, assessing rather than observing.
Blayden continued to scan the travelers, his eyes missing nothing, before he unexpectedly stood up.
With a fluid movement, he reached for the iron chain hanging on the wall, a heavy, utilitarian fixture.
He unwound the coiled chain, its links clinking softly, and took two rough wooden bowls from its end, placing them with a quiet thud on their table.
“What are these?”
Leni gestured at the shallow, unadorned dishes placed before her.
Fine cracks marred the edges of the bowls, evidence of long use and rough handling.
The bowls were so old she suspected they might be worm-eaten, their surface dulled by countless meals.
“Since the slave won’t serve, the master has to move himself, doesn’t he?”
Blayden’s retort was laced with sarcasm, a subtle jab at her supposed inaction.
“No, I mean, why are you taking bowls from the wall?”
Leni clarified, trying to cut through his teasing.
“These are for executioners only.”
His words were stark, devoid of elaboration.
Leni’s mind immediately connected the dots.
Executioners were scorned, reviled as those who tainted their hands with blood, who dealt in death and despair.
They were classified as a low-status profession by law, ostracized by society.
Despite the high pay often associated with their grim work, people avoided associating with them, fearing ill fortune or contamination from their gruesome trade.
So, this is how it is.
The realization settled in her mind.
I’d heard there were separate areas and segregated items for executioners in public places.
Then, by extension, was this their designated executioner’s table?
Their table was tucked away in a corner, abandoned and isolated, an unspoken boundary around them.
The surrounding area was conspicuously empty, a wide berth given by the other patrons.
The bustling tavern, with people murmuring at long tables crowded together, laughing and gambling, seemed like another world beyond an invisible, yet tangible, wall that separated them.
Leni looked at Blayden’s black cloak, observing it with new understanding.
The man who took their order, the tavern keeper, had seen that and immediately assumed Sir Rehat was an executioner.
Executioners were, in fact, legally obligated to wear black cloaks in public places as a warning to others, a visual marker, to avoid physical contact and the perceived contamination of their trade.
Why didn’t the Red Wolf correct the misunderstanding?
The question burned in her mind.
Wouldn’t someone praised as the kingdom’s greatest warrior be displeased by such a demeaning assumption?
It seemed incongruous with his fearsome reputation.
She doubted Blayden would answer even if she asked.
He wasn’t the type to be kind enough to satisfy someone’s mere curiosity, let alone explain his personal choices.
Moreover, a disturbing thought began to form: she felt he was deliberately wearing the black cloak, choosing it precisely to encourage the misunderstanding that he was an executioner.
There must be a reason he’s disguising his true identity, or at least allowing this false identity to persist.
Should I report this to the prince when we return to Klaville?
The thought flickered, a strategic consideration born of her enforced mission.
As Leni pondered the implications, Blayden spoke, his voice cutting through her thoughts, almost as if he could read her mind.
“If you were hoping for a luxurious life, abandon that expectation. You’ll often receive this kind of treatment when you’re with me.”
His words were devoid of apology or regret, simply a blunt statement of fact.
He truly looked as if this situation was familiar and insignificant to him, a minor inconvenience at most.
Leni recalled the rumors circulating in the market, whispered behind cupped hands: Traitor. Turncoat. Spineless wretch.
People whispered such things about the Red Wolf, the once-revered warrior.
The boy whose father, the king, had died, who was then deposed from the prince’s seat and became a prisoner.
That boy, Blayden Rehart, had then received a knighthood from the very enemy and became a warrior fighting for them.
An unexpected pang, sharp and unwelcome, in her chest made Leni turn her head away from him, towards the wall.
I won’t pity this man.
She tried to harden her heart against the flicker of empathy
There are so many pitiful people in the world; I have enough of my own burdens.
A sigh escaped her lips as she pursed them, a small, involuntary expulsion of air.
Even if I pitied him, would he accept it?
This man doesn’t even treat me like a person.
The thought was a bitter truth.
Cutting through the scattered murmurs and general hubbub, a snatch of conversation drifted clearly from a table four or five steps diagonally across from them, drawing her ear.
“Heard the rumor? Luminar, the owner of the Saphire Market, died?” one man whispered, his voice hushed but distinct.
“Luminar? The candle shop?” another responded, his voice incredulous.
“Yeah. The shop rumored to supply candles to the royal palace.”
Four middle-aged men sat two on each side of a square table, drinking heartily.
They seemed to be wool merchants, their wide hats embroidered with stylized sheep.
“Heard he made a fortune, how did he die?”
“They say he was attacked on the street at night. His throat was slit with a knife.”
The bluntness of the statement made Leni shiver slightly.
“Hmph, he probably didn’t even make a sound. Flaunting his wealth like that, he became a target for thieves. If you want to live long, don’t show off your money or your power.”
The speaker’s tone was cynical, imparting a dark wisdom.
“They even bought a daughter from a Kiacbeck noble family, went so pointlessly.”
“That widow’s luck burst. Her father forced her to marry an old man, but now that her husband’s kicked the bucket, she’ll take over the shop and all the assets, won’t she?”
“Hah, yeah. Only she got lucky, it seems.”
The name Luminar sounded vaguely familiar, and as she listened, Leni realized it was the candle shop she had visited with Thomas in Saphire Market, a memory from a time that now seemed impossibly distant and carefree.
Leni recalled the young shop assistant with the pale face and crushed ear.
He was a kind person, she remembered, offering a gentle smile.
Since the owner died so suddenly and violently, what would become of him?
A bitter smile appeared at the sudden, almost inappropriate thought.
This was no time to be worrying about others, about a mere shop assistant.
When she had bought the candelabra there, a seemingly innocuous errand, she had no idea her life would get so twisted, so irrevocably turned upside down.
I should focus on myself.
The survival instinct reasserted itself.
As Leni looked at Blayden sitting opposite her, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the tavern, the bald man approached the table with their food, his heavy footsteps thudding on the wooden floor.
There was lamb and potato stew overflowing in a deeply hollowed black barley bread, its aroma rich and inviting, and two mugs of ale, their wooden surfaces gleaming faintly.
The meat and stew were placed in the center of the table, a communal offering, and one wooden mug of ale was placed in front of Leni and Blayden respectively, a tangible sign of their shared, albeit awkward, meal.
“Eat up, cutie.”
The man’s voice was surprisingly soft as he addressed Leni, then he winked, a thick, lecherous gesture. He nudged the bowl of meat closer to her, his gaze lingering.
“You need to grow up quickly, for your husband’s pleasure.”
He’s not my husband!
We’re nothing to each other!
The furious protest roared silently in Leni’s mind.
She clenched her fists under the table, her nails digging into her palms.
She lifted her head, her eyes flashing, and opened her mouth, ready to unleash a retort, but something unexpected came out instead, a childish burst of indignation.
“I’m already grown up!”
The man threw his thick neck back and guffawed, a loud, booming sound that drew a few curious glances.
“Grown up, are you? No matter how I look at it, your heights wouldn’t match.”
He was openly mocking her, his eyes twinkling with crude amusement.
With a sly, knowing smile, the man brought his thick, meaty hand towards Leni’s head, as if to pat her dismissively.
As soon as his hand brushed her hair, a fleeting, unwelcome touch, Blayden’s own hand shot out with astonishing speed, clamping down on the man’s wrist.
“Aargh!”
The man shrieked, as if burned, startled by the sudden, vice-like grip.
Blayden was twisting the man’s wrist, his expression icy, his eyes radiating a cold, dangerous fury.
“I don’t like anyone drooling over what’s mine. Get lost.”
Blayden’s voice was a low snarl, a clear warning.
“A… all right. I’ll get lost, just let go of my hand.”
The man pleaded, his reddened face contorted in pain and fear.
Should it be called pathetic, or comical, to see him stomp his feet in a manner unsuited to his large physique, a giant reduced to a whimpering child?
Hmph!
He’ll learn that messing with others comes with a price.
As Leni inwardly gloated, a small spark of dark satisfaction rising within her, Blayden released the man’s hand with a powerful shove, sending him stumbling backward.
“Ugh, damn it. What a temper.”
The man grumbled, rubbing his reddened wrist, his eyes still wide with fear, but seeing Blayden’s sharp, unwavering gaze, he wisely chose discretion over valor and bolted, disappearing quickly into the crowd.
As the table fell quiet once more, the tension having dissipated, Blayden downed his ale in a single, long gulp, looking as if nothing had happened, his composure utterly unshaken.
Leni watched his thick Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he drank, then lowered her head and sighed, a heavy, weary sound.
He’s really treating me like his wife.
The thought was both unsettling and strangely humiliating.
I thought being a slave was the most terrible thing in the world, but it seems things can get even worse.
The depths of her predicament seemed endless.
She recalled the commotion that had occurred just after they left Klaville Castle.
The Kynolf squad was passing through Jeto Plaza, its wide expanse usually bustling with vendors and citizens.
Blayden had unexpectedly dismounted his horse and walked directly towards the execution platform in the very center of the plaza.
On the wooden execution platform, a grim structure that had thirteen empty compartments, hung only one head: Princess Kiabel’s.
It was a gruesome, stark display.
Blayden looked up at the head, which was stiff like a pale stone and bore dark red bloodstains, for a long, unsettling time.
His gaze was direct, unwavering, and his expression was calm, almost contemplative.
His demeanor was serious and thoughtful, as if he were admiring a sculpture, not a decapitated head, its vacant eyes staring into the void.
He seemed to feel no guilt or regret about having killed Princess Kiabel, the act having no visible impact on his stoic facade.
Watching Blayden from her vantage point on the horse, Leni felt a shiver run down her spine, a profound chill.
As she held her breath, chilled to the bone by the cold display, a passing knight, dressed in his ceremonial armor, challenged Blayden, his voice ringing out.
“Sir Rehart, I heard you beheaded the Princess!”
He was a young black-haired knight in a vibrant crimson cloak, with a magnificent longsword strapped to his side, brimming with youthful indignation.
Blayden ignored him, his back to the knight, and tried to return to his horse, a silent dismissal.
But the knight, fueled by honor or perhaps a desire for glory, wouldn’t let him go easily.
He took off his leather glove and, with a flourish, threw it at Blayden’s feet, a formal challenge.
“I challenge the one who desecrated royal remains to a duel!”
His voice was loud, echoing across the silent plaza.
Blayden tilted his head, his gaze directed upwards at the sky, his actions enigmatic.
It was as if he was checking for rain, a strange, almost absurd gesture in the face of such a grave challenge.
Then, slowly, he picked up the glove from the stone ground and approached the knight, holding it casually in his hand.
The knight puffed out his chest, his shoulders taut with tension, and glared at Blayden, clearly ready for a fight.
Blayden stopped at a distance where their faces were almost touching, a provocative closeness, and then, instead of returning the glove as a sign of acceptance, he offered it back to the knight, a seemingly conciliatory gesture.
He gripped the knight’s seemingly flustered shoulder with one hand, then bent his head, leaning in close.
He whispered something into the knight’s ear, so low that Leni, even from her perch, couldn’t discern the words.
Whatever was said, the young knight’s face instantly turned ashen, as if he had seen a ghost, all bravado draining from him in an instant.
The knight, with a dazed, horrified expression, snatched the glove from Blayden’s hand and fled the plaza, his magnificent longsword forgotten, his steps hurried and undignified.
And Blayden, as if nothing had happened, simply returned to his horse, his usual impassive demeanor restored.
As soon as Blayden mounted the saddle, his movements fluid and unhurried, Leni, unable to contain her burning curiosity, blurted out, “What did you say?”
She had completely forgotten her resolve not to speak to him, to remain a silent observer, and had succumbed wholly to the irresistible urge to know.
Blayden, holding the reins loosely in his left hand, gently kicked the horse’s flank with his right heel.
As the horse galloped through the wind and left the plaza, leaving the grim spectacle behind, Blayden finally spoke, his voice cutting through the rush of wind.
“If you call me ‘Master,’ I’ll tell you.”
Hmph!
I won’t be curious.
Leni bit her lip, a wave of defiance washing over her, and clenched her fists, her resolve hardening once more.
As she leaned forward, trying to get as far away from Blayden as possible, creating what little distance she could, his hand wrapped firmly around her waist, a cold, inescapable grip.
Her body, caught by his firm grip, was pulled inexorably into his embrace, pressed against his back.
“Do you think being a slave is the most terrible thing in the world?”
His voice was low, thoughtful.
Then what else is there?
The unspoken question hung in the air between them, a desperate plea for understanding.
“If you’re alive, things can always get worse.”
Blayden tightened his grip, his words chillingly precise, a statement that could be either a warning or a subtle, insidious threat.
Leni twisted her body in defiance, a futile struggle against his superior strength, but it only constricted her breathing more, pressing the air from her lungs.
Leni sighed, a long, weary sound, and let the tension drain from her body, accepting her momentary captivity.
Blayden’s breath brushed her ear like a scoff, a sound of dismissive amusement.
“Good thinking. If you’re luggage, act like it and be quiet.”
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