On the other, just one, but his power’s obscene.
Five wolves or one Cerberus near,
Which should I dread, whom should I fear?
My mind races, trying to find a way out of this, but all I can see are two choices, both of them bad. I could stand and face these rough-looking types with Fabien or bolt and hope they decide he’s the one worth chasing.
I mean… it’s not like they’re after me, right? They’re not even glancing my way, probably wouldn’t know me from a wet cat in a downpour.
But the idea of running feels all wrong. Feels low. Mother would never let me live it down.
Fabien pulls his weapon, steel glinting in his grip.
“W-what… what did you do to these guys?” I stammer, edging back a step.
He doesn’t answer right away, gaze fixed on the men approaching like he’s gearing up to dive into their midst. His grip tightens on the dagger, every inch of him tensed and ready to spring.
“Told you hunting artifacts can get ugly,” he finally replies.
Before I can get a word in, the men close the distance, fanning out like they’ve rehearsed it. One of them—a towering fellow with a beard thick enough to lose a parrot in and a nasty scar across his cheek, steps forward, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, his voice thick with malice. “If it isn’t Fabien Rancour, the man with a face you never forget. You’ve got some nerve showing that mug around here.”
“That so?” Fabien’s voice drops low, and a look that can only be described as “itching-for-trouble” sharpens his face. I watch as something clicks inside him—the kind of something that never leads to a peaceful resolution. His eyebrow cocks up, and his smirk turns downright villainous.
Here we go.
I take a very subtle, dignified step back, easing myself a little further out of the direct line of harm. Of course, I’m not abandoning Fabien. Absolutely not. I’m simply… evaluating my position so I can, ekhem, support him best. From a safe distance. Possibly the side-lines, ideally behind something solid.
I glance over my shoulder, assessing potential “strategic retreats.” The alley behind us is barely an alley, narrow and winding, with only an alchemist’s shop offering any semblance of cover—unless palm trees are considered good hiding spots. (They’re not.) To add insult to injury, we’re at the highest point of this blasted island, leaving us exposed. The rocky path below us winds steeply down toward the market, crisscrossing toward the harbor in a chaotic tangle that offers escape routes for only the very desperate or the very doomed.
How is it that this place manages to be both conveniently hidden and inconveniently open at the same time?!
Meanwhile, the fine gentlemen approaching us spread out in a charming semicircle, thoughtfully cutting off all reasonable escapes. One of them catches me scanning theexits, and when my eyes finally meet his, he grins—a particularly sinister smile that suggests he’d quite enjoy making this my last stand.
My heart picks up its pace, pounding away like a war drum, and a cool sweat creeps down my brow. Right. No need forpanic. Just be myself: friendly, harmless, absolutely no threat to anyone’s mace-bearing enjoyment.
Yes, Vinicola, just show them you’re a polite young man who’s all charm, zero threat.
I may now be the grand champion of the Trials, set on some noble, Lady-ordained path, but I can’t forget my true calling. Just be the usual me. Easy.
With a deep breath, I smooth my expression into what I hope is a pleasant, nonchalant smile. I even dip my head slightly toward the man with the mace.
“Hello…” I greet him, keeping my tone as airy and breezy as I can manage given the circumstances. The man has a mace after all. “You.”
The burly fellow narrows his eyes, his mouth curling into a wolfish grin. He clears his throat with a sound that’s all gravel and menace before sending a glob of spit sailing right by my boot.
“Please, not again,” I mutter, my smile faltering as I glance at the offensive splat. What is it with pirates and spitting? Is there some sort of underground code I missed? Rule number one: never skip a chance to hock a loogie?
Thankfully, before I can dwell too much on that, someone says something to Fabien again, and I seize the chance to turn my gaze toward him instead. The man with the scar stands in the middle of this pirate mob. Judging by the way he stands, he’s the ringleaders of sorts.
“That so,” he says. “You don’t step foot on my island without me finding out. Everyone knows that. You know that, too, don’t you,Lost Boy?”
Fabien’s hand tightens on the hilt of his dagger. The whole air around him practically hums with hostility.
Lost Boy. Some call him like that because of his vanishing-as-a-kid thing. Somehow, though, hearing it flung at him like that sounds nastier than I thought it would.
“It’s not your island,” Fabien replies. “It doesn’t belong to anyone.”
