Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Despite the enthralling architecture of the Holy City of Lisarel, Victor could not feel its radiance wash over him; in place of blessings and holy sanctuaries, he was given aching feet, a princess to safeguard, and a throbbing arm.

They’d been marching relentlessly for days, Victor and Ornik doing everything shy of starving themselves, all so the Princess could regain just a tiny bit of her strength, but to their dismay, she seemed to only develop a fever from the journey.

He saw it still, when Victor strained his eyes, he could see the hollows of Ornik’s cheeks, a sign their journey had already strained them so much.

The sound of his boots tapping on cobblestone streets merged with the rain that fell ever so furiously onto the travellers. He turned right as Lataya coughed and spluttered. She’d never been good with colder climates. He’d have to find shelter somewhere...

Anywhere.

“Ser,” Ornik began, “It’s Princess Lataya, we can’t keep walking—”

“I know that, Ornik!” Victor snapped back, “Just a bit more, just a bit further.”

Victor sneered and looked away from Ornik, with Lataya lying helpless on his back. It wasn’t Ornik’s fault; he knew that much. Even Victor, stubborn and reckless as he was, could not fool himself into truly believing that any of the men here were to blame for the death of his beloved king.

No one but him.

“Just hang on, Princess, we’re almost there.”

…

Victor hung his head dejectedly as the party walked up a brief set of stairs towards the inn. It sat crooked at the edge of Lisarel’s centre, its timber frame darkened by sea-wind and years of rain. Warm amber light spilt from its shuttered windows each evening, carrying the smell of spiced stew. But the smell of warm food and hearthiness did nothing to soothe Victor’s stern face. When he entered, Victor wasted no time getting to business.

He slammed down a small pouch, containing twenty-two Sable, on the rough wooden counter, the sound rustling the innkeeper awake.

“Ah, yes?” the innkeeper was soaked in a cold sweat, his glasses crooked and misaligned, “What can I do for you?”

Victor made no response; he merely let his eyes drift down to the small pouch.

“How many nights will this get us?”

The innkeeper fumbled around the pouch, his fingers sloppily clawing through the tightly knotted pouch, his slow and worn hands running through each gold coin, dull and adorned with the face of the king, the same one Victor had failed to lay down his life for.

“Just hurry up and give us a damn room!” Victor yelled, and the innkeeper nearly dropped the pouch in surprise.

“Y-yes, of course!” the innkeeper began, “Please, take the room to the farthest left, and this’ll get you ten days of the finest lodgings in Lisarel—”

“Come on, Ornik, let’s go.”

Victor fluttered his cape, filled with holes and tears from their time on the roads, as he began to scale the stairs of the inn.

As Ornik scrambled to follow, Princess Lataya let out a single tear.

“Father, I... please don’t leave me.”

Ornik let out a sigh, and as he let it out, it morphed into something colder. He stared at Victor, continually pressing onwards, barely registering the Princess’s delirious state.

They entered their room, plain and unimpressive, a far cry from the capital’s luxurious rooms, filled with exotic fruits and spices, with the view from the windows being so filled with wonder and beauty.

Now, Ornik and Victor merely saw the blurred grey of Lisarel, and the only sounds that accompanied them were the Princess’s murmurs and cries.

“There you go~” Ornik set the Princess down gently, “Rest now, the Outlanders can’t hurt you now…”

Ornik draped multiple blankets over her and set aside a small pouch of water beside her. Finally, he knelt down and placed a soft kiss on her hand before rising and facing Victor, his eyes stern and judgmental.

“What?” Victor began, “What is it?”

Ornik looked out of the window, letting each raindrop fall on the clear, pristine glass, before his eyes met Victor’s.

“You barely stopped.”

Victor narrowed his eyes, his gaze drifting between Ornik’s eyes, then lower to his nose, then once again he met them, cold and dark.

“What do you mean—”

“You barely stopped, the Princess, her feet scarred beyond belief, her delirious, hopeless cries for her father, the king you failed to save…”

Ornik looked aside, his arms folded as he did so.

“Maybe if the king had a better knight by his side, his daughter wouldn’t be stranded with two oafs, hopeless and running out of Sable—”

Victor closed the distance behind them, pinning Ornik into the hard wooden walls of their room. The inn rattled, and Lataya’s moans only grew worse from the noise, yet Victor did not relieve his grip on Ornik’s neck.

“You think I don’t know that?” Victor barked, “That I failed, that I was hopeless as the Outlanders stormed and desecrated everyone I love? How I failed my country, how I fell short of my oath to die for my Lord? How I fail every day in protecting his daughter?”

Ornik could only look away as Victor continued to spiral.”

“You... you think I don’t know?”

Victor crumpled to the ground. He hung his head silently as Ornik merely looked from above; his face, which was previously that of both anger and fear, could only show pity for the broken knight before him.

“Victor…” Ornik finally broke the weeps of the man before him, “What are we going to do next.”

Ornik received no reply, Victor’s head merely fell further and further.

“We don’t have time to mope, Lataya needs protection, we need to find a cure for her ailments too, not to mention the Outlanders are likely tracking us.”

Once again, the only replies Ornik received were the occasional whimper of Victor’s tears. He let out a sigh before dusting his clothes off, then walked to the door of their room.

“Think long and hard, Victor.” Ornik said as he turned the doorknob in his hands, “Think about how you want to serve your liege, now that his legacy is in your hands.”

…

Ornik never liked the rain, not one bit, he’d grown up where he sun basked over the hills and mountains with a glory he could only imagine, his mother would always say:

Let the Northerners have their rain, their cool climates and fiery indoor hearths, we Southerners have home.

Home was a far way away for Ornik now, all he had to remind himself of it was a few hours of sunshine, in comparison to days of light-filled meadows and flowers, it seemed like a pitiful and cruel joke.

As a gust of wind hurled at him particularly harshly along the streets of Lisarel, a tavern piqued his interests, sounds of cheers and the sloshes of liquids crept in. With the Princess in a fever, and Victor.

Well, Victor…

A few moments to himself wouldn’t hurt, taverns were always filled with weary travelers, adventurers, and other wayward vagabonds, maybe he’d even find a lead on Thrania’s book, or even better, how to cure Lataya’s fever.

As Ornik stepped inside, the tavern immediately bursted with energy.

“Here’s the Knights’ Secret special beverage!”

Ornik turned his head as he saw a barmaid, her hair brunette and in a tight bun, frolicking around with a flowery dress and a huge smile, carrying an absurd amount of drinks in a small wooden plate.

“We only serve the finest drinks here~”

When the young barmaid left, Ornik noticed the men she’d served lingered on her a moment longer than needed, their eyes soft, their heads cupped in one hand, it almost made him snicker.

Even in a time as dire as this, there were still men in the kingdom foolish enough to fall for a simple barmaid.

Ornik walked further in, dodging spilled drinks and rowdy drunks at every corner, and before long found himself a nice seat at the counter, far to the right.

“Excuse me.” Ornik called out to the barmaid he’d seen earlier, “Yes, you, can I get a drink please?”

The maid turned her head.

“Of course! What would you like?”

“Well,” Ornik stroked his chin, grazing the slight hairs he’d been growing, “I’m not sure, what do you think I should get?”

The barmaid looked off to one of the men in the tavern, his drink spilled over the table, quietly, his body rose and fell, whatever he’d drank had completely sent him to sleep.

Ornik did not linger on the man too long.

“I’ll get the—”

“You should get a regular ale.”

A voice from beside him cut through, both Ornik and the maid turned to see who it was.

Beside him, a slim figure sat, with four bottles surrounding her, dressed in a black cape and a dark blue shirt. Whilst her wrists were pale, Ornik could make out the faint wear of them, and the even fainter cuts and bruises adorned on her body.

“You should get an ale.” She repeated, “Unless you want to end up like the man three tables down.”

She nudged begrudgingly at the man Ornik had been looking at earlier.

“Right…” Ornik finally replied, “Can I get two regular ales please—”

“And another Knight’s Secret for me, Rosa.” The woman added, “You know how I like it done.”

At the last sentence, Rosa seemed to flinch.

“Um, yes! Of course, right away!”

…

In the time it had taken Ornik to drink one ale, the woman beside him had drank three Knight’s Secret’s, yet still, whenever the barmaid passed by her, all it took was a stare from her for Rosa to go back and get her another drink.

“So…” Ornik began, “You a local? I appreciate your recommendation, but I’m actually here for more than just a drink.”

The woman merely grunted and continued to twirl her finger around the rim of her cup, the stench of ale and alcohol lingered on her fingers. Her hair, which was a dark brown, seemed to blend in with her dark attire.

“Well,” the woman finished circling her drink with her finger, “you might not be here just to drink, but I am, a woman needs someway to forget about the Outlanders…”

Ornik caught himself as she said that word.

“You know about the Outlanders?”

The woman scoffed.

“Do I know them?” she laughed once more, a dry, empty laugh, “I know them too well, how they stormed the capital, murdered the King, then murdered his daughter too, how they burned and pillaged everything in their sight…”

Her face softened for just a moment.

“I know them, I know them too much, and I will kill them.”

At this, he could not help but lean in closer at her words.

“The Princess still lives,” Ornik whispered, “Not all is lost, but if you know this area, please, we need to find a healer immediately, or at least a vendor with mana herbs to heal her.”

The woman leaned back twirling her light brunette hair as she thought.

“How do I know what you say is true? What was the Princess’ true name?”

Ornik let out a brief smile before he spoke.

“Princess Lataya.”

Her eyes widened, a single tear falling down her face. She stood and knelt in front of Ornik.

“Please,” she began, “Forgive my earlier impudence. I am a former member of the Twin Moons, the King’s secret mercenary warband. We all fought valiantly to protect him from the Outlanders attack but, all my brothers and sisters were massacred, I alone survived the carnage.”

She drew her sword and placed it in front of Ornik.

“I beg of you, show me to Princess Lataya, and I have some mana herbs on me, that will not be a problem.”

Ornik let out a smile, the first in a long time.

“What is your name, lady of the Twin Moons.”

“Rosaline.” She said.

“Rosaline, Commander of the Twin Moons.”