Captain Murphy steps into view over the man’s head, the sight of the black-clad warrior causing everyone around him to pause.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Instead of cowering, a defiant smirk blooms on the soldier’s face. He rises slowly, readying himself for a fight he won’t win. Before he can swing, he turns his head to see the face of his competition. The realization of who stands behind him cuts through his anger-filled haze and hits harder than any punch.
“Captain!” The man drops his hold on me and steps back, palms skyward in submission. “My apologies, Captain Murphy,” he stumbles.
“Don’t apologize to me.” Murphy grabs the man by his collar and forces his face towards me. “Apologize to her.”
The soldier glares at me again, eyes even harder than before.
Shit.
He’s about to make sure everyone in this place knows who I am.
“I’m not apologizing to that poisonous bitch,” he spits.
“Soldier.”
A single barked word sends the entire tavern into silence, even the fiddler stopping mid-song. Murphy’s hold on the man’s collar tightens, his toes just barely brushing the floor under the captain’s grasp. The man’s face, already reddened from drink, begins to turn a shocking shade of purple.
“Apologize to her or I’ll stand by while she runs that sword through your heart,” the captain commands in a near growl, his eyes flashing black before returning to gray.
A drop of blood leaks from the corner of the man’s mouth as he struggles to breathe. Seconds tick by like hours as therealization of who stands in their midst settles amongst the patrons.
“Sssss…sor…sorry,” he finally squeaks out.
Captain Murphy drops the soldier to the floor and callously steps over the heap. The soldier gasps for air, a dark spot creeping across the front of his gray breeches as he writhes on the floor.
“Carry on,” Murphy’s voice booms to the crowd, motioning towards me with a sweeping hand. “Your heir commands it.”
If they didn’t know for certain who I was before, they do now. I lower my cloak hood and lift my chin as a familiar scene unfolds.
Men throughout the common room openly scoff into their cups. Women turn their faces as if a single look in my direction will blind them. No one bothers to bow, salute, or clap. Not for the poisonous heir who is destined to ruin their beloved region with her hatred for their gods.
Whispers turn into chatter, filling the tavern again, though I’m positive the topics are different than when we walked in. With Poison Ivy and the Captain of Corinth present, there are better things to gossip about now.
“Both gods-cursed if you ask me,” one scoffs.
“Nobus save us,” another prays.
“Why did you do that?” I chide as I follow in Murphy’s footsteps towards a small table in the back of the room. “I could have handled that myself.”
He hails a serving girl with the lift of a single finger and three of them nearly fall over themselves in their haste to serve him.
“My soldiers, my responsibility.” The rickety wooden chair groans as he sits.
“At least they respectyou.”
“They fear me,” he corrects.
“What’s the difference?” I ask, the trio of serving girls arriving before he can respond.
Each carries a single item so that they can justify their presence. One flagon of wine. Two cups. Three giggles.
Captain Murphy never acknowledges them, pouring wine for both of us as he speaks. “There is a big difference. People do not fear you, they fear what you represent … a world that looks nothing like the one we live in. These men, they fear me and what I’m capable of.”
“What are you capable of, Captain?”
