Page 38 of A City of Flames

Guilty, for the first time, I feel guilty that I’d captured these creatures, and this is where they ended up being sold as slaves or who knows what else. I’ll set it free as soon as I pay the seller, but I don’t have much on me. Despite being a trainee, we don’t get the payments a true venator would.

The man lets out a nasty phlegm-like laugh. “Why would you want a goblin for?” His rotten grin revolts me. “I think you’re lost, sunshine. Why don’t I point you in the right direction back to the brothels?”

Oh, I’ll break his hand, then cut it off and feed it to the goblin.

Glaring with such maliciousness, I reach for my dagger then stare at those stocky fingers caked in dirt. I’m about to lunge at him with it, but a firm voice from behind causes me to cease my movements.

Why does everyone stop me!

“That’s not how we speak to people, Tig. You should know that by now.” The man now comes to stand close beside me. I sneak a side glance up at the dark hairs curling below his ears and his black cloak like mine. “Learn to be more respectful unless you’d rather end up in one of these cages.” He smiles mockingly towards Tig. “Though I doubt that’d be humiliating enough for you. I’d much rather see you being chased by a rümen.”

I swallow the laugh prickling at my throat.

“Archer,” Tig mumbles. “Always a delight when you visit.”

“I’ll take the goblin. He must tire from seeing your face every day.” Archer hands over some copper coins and, despite Tig’s grumbling hesitance, he takes it. Turning to me, Archer narrows his brown eyes with a glint of humor. “Nice dagger.”

My gaze shoots down to the blade still tucked inside my fist. The edge isn’t as sharp, neither does it shine like a knife should, but it’s one I’ve had for years and still manages to work.

I sheath it back in, staring up at him. Strange... For whatever reason, it’s as if he looks like everyone I’ve known in my life merged.

“What is your name?” He asks, a smile rippling from his lips.

“I’m—” I pause just as my attention snags on a wooden sign behind him, at the far ends of the street. The Crescent Eye. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking back at him. I do not have time to talk with people I’ll likely not see again. “I have to go, I—thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he says, and I draw my brows in at the familiarity of him. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He bows, and I nod another thank you regardless before rushing past him towards the tavern.

Reaching the doors, I peek over my shoulder only to see Archer gone, as well as the cage where the goblin was held.

I can’t tell what type of person Archer is, whether the goblin is safer with him, I’ll never know.

Pushing back that thought, I forget the goblin and everything else as I set foot inside the tavern. Sweltering heat from drunken bodies fills the crimson room, their brays of nauseating laughter and brawls among tables. Nothing but drabs of brown ripped dresses and men in ragged tunics that blend with the entirety of the vast Inn. Such starkness to the bright shades of clothing in the center of the city.

A tankard is hauled across the tavern, splattering mead on the walls as I make my way to a barmaid at the edge of the bar. I ask for Leira, and the woman doesn’t smile, doesn’t react. She just bows her head, extending an arm towards the back of the Inn, and leads me through a beaded curtain doorway.

The barmaid silently leaves me by the entrance, and I take a breath. Guttural noises from the tavern become muffled as my gaze shifts to every corner of the dim room full of shelves stacked with herbs and oils, likely for healing. But there’s no windows nor paintings in this barren place and I wonder if I should have come at all.

A clatter drags my eyes to the center of a small oak table, where Leira stands behind it. “Naralía,” she breathes a smile. “You came.”

I don’t answer, observing as her smile fades and she approaches me instead, placing one hand on my back and signaling me to sit on the chair.

She lights a candle and settles herself opposite me, resting her arms against the table. Beads and all sorts of bracelets dangle from her wrist as the flame flickers between us.

“You live here?” At last, I ask.

“We reside here most of the time, but my wife Aelle owns a cottage far out of the city.”

A slow nod comes as my reply, gazing off to my right at the shelf of books above a mahogany counter, all bound in leather, before I look at the one out in full view. The same violet amethyst Leira carries in her hair is embedded in the core of the book.

Amethyst, a crystal many spoke of as a witch’s symbol. And that book isn’t an ordinary one, if not a grimoire. “You’re a witch,” I say, gazing back at Leira all too warily.

Her eyes move to where the grimoire is, and she sighs. “I understand you’re cautious of me.”

“It’s not every day I get a witch asking in a secretive manner that we meet in the Draggards.”

It’s not every day one accepts that offer.

She chuckles despite my mistrusting tone. “I understand. As witches, we’re often depicted to be dangerous though, if we used any magic—” Her stare, empty as she looks away. “—We’d be better off dead.”

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