Chapter 22

Blood of Blood

„She sprung like a wily rabbit, running the hills under the sun. Her trail left the fire behind her, and the fire burned the world.”

The Girl Who Burned the World, Folktales

Myrell stood somewhat pensively in front of the ordinary-looking wooden doors, clutching a stack of papers against her breast, biting her lower lip. Taking a deep breath, she moved her hand and knocked gently, hoping it would fall on deaf ears. “Come in,” it did not, however. She made her way in slowly, the doors creaking loudly enough to startle her, though not nearly as much as the scene she witnessed as she stepped into the Master’s room. It was all the same as every other time before, faintly lit, lacking any particular smell, or even the high-formed decorations all her previous Masters flaunted over – the most ordinary of rooms, in her mind, now showed her the most extraordinary of scenes.

Her Master, the man she took to be a flabby, middle-aged Dacent, just pushed himself off the floor, grabbing a towel by his side. He was topless, sweat glistening underneath the dim light of the candles and the sunrays bursting through the windows. She had seen many naked men in her life, so much so she had grown disgusted by the scene to the point she forcibly had to prevent herself from retching whenever a man would strip in front of her; yet, for the first time ever, she paused. For all the naked bodies of men added together, paled.

There was no fat, flappy belly, or man-breasts hanging like sagged satchels; there was no chest covered in thick layers of disgusting, sweaty hairs, nor low-hanging bellies that covered their crotches. Instead, he was like the sculptures in the Sept – tall, broad, muscular. But even more muscular than the sculptures. His muscles were full and round, neatly connecting to each other, forming a sight that caused her blood to rush into her cheeks, her mind spiraling momentarily.

He dried himself slowly, cleaning the sweat, before putting on a loose shirt and flashing her a faint smile, walking over to the table and uncapping a bottle of wine. Myrell stood struck still, her feet frozen to the ground; a flash of disappointment crossed her eyes. Why did he have to put on a shirt? Though she could still see plenty, she couldn’t see everything.

“… care for a glass?” his voice woke her from the stupor as he offered her a glass of wine. She’d usually reject, but, for some reason, her throat was exceptionally parched that she instinctively nodded. He smiled once again and poured her a glass, walking over and handing it to her where she stood, taking the stacks of parchments from her while her eyes still absentmindedly scrawled over his body. “Not that I mind being ogled by women, but I do think there is time and place, no?”

“A-ah! Y-yes! Forgive me, Master!” her survival instincts kicked in as she accidentally dropped the glass of wine and fell to her knees, shaking. She would be beaten, she knew. What she did, after all, was unforgivable.

"… stay still," he said in a surprisingly neutral tone, his footsteps ever approaching, her dread growing. However, the expected pain did not arrive; instead, after timidly raising her head off the floor, she saw him picking up the shards of glass around her and putting them away. “You could have cut yourself,” he added, smiling and patting her head before walking back to the table and putting away the shards. “I’m fresh out of glasses, however. Would a cup suffice?”

“…” Myrell remained mute, staring hollowly at the towering figure. The stoned floor beneath her was cold, as were the surrounding walls, yet she still found herself burning.

“Come on up, now; we don’t have much time.” Only after his voice had grown slightly sterner did she wake up, quickly shooting up to her feet, lowering her head to hide her blushing cheeks. She wasn’t brave enough to do what she did with her previous Masters – seduce. She thought rather highly of herself in that department, as she’d evaded quite a few beatings in her life through it, but not today. No, not just today, she mused; she knew it, in her heart, she stood no chance of seducing the man in front of her.

“Forgive me, Master.” She spoke timidly, standing by the desk, her eyes still lowered.

“It’s forgiven,” he shook it off, focusing on the parchments. “Summarize.”

“Ah, yes,” she took a deep breath, forcibly calming herself down. “It is as you suspected – most do not understand the concept, and think they can just take the money and not pay it back. I’ve also tried to summarize the low-end shops with the capacity of repayment based on the public records, but… well…”

“They’re hardly accurate, yes,” he nodded, stroking his beard. “It’s fine. Before I depart for Brightfloods, I’ll pay a visit to one of our naysayers, hopefully changing his mind. Right, do you know how to use makeup?”

“… uh, m-makeup, Master?” Myrell looked up, glancing dubiously at her Master. Why ask such a queer question?

“Hm,” he nodded, sighing. “I’m not confident enough to tinker with it, and I’ve managed to scrap only limited provisions as, apparently, fucking makeup is a luxury thing. Can you believe that shit?”

“…”

“So, do you?”

“Uh, a-a bit…” Myrell replied absentmindedly; what did her Master want her to do? He couldn’t possibly want to put makeup on himself?

“Good, then. I’ll have you shave me and make me look like someone else entirely,” the confusion quickly cleared away for Myrell; though she would never voice her thoughts on her Master's actions, it did not mean she was not understanding of them. "Preferably younger and a bit more handsome. Also, can you think of any clothes that would pair well with a flamboyant appearance while also hiding my body?"

“…” Myrell’s cheeks flushed once more at the mention of his body, though she quickly dissipated them, focusing on the question. "Gowns, perhaps, Master?"

“Gowns?” he frowned, glancing at her. “Explain.”

“Depending on the design,” she said. “It is possible to… to… uh, hide your physique… while also maintaining the image of status. I’ve seen many Lords dress like that during the festive occasions.”

“… hmm, interesting…” her Master mumbled, stroking his chin as he leaned a bit further back in the wooden chair. “Very well, I will look into it. Oh, also have Sash meet me with you tomorrow; you two will accompany me on my departure the day after, so I have to give you a quick overview of what we’ll be doing.”

“A-ah… if… if I may ask… where are we going?” Myrell said, taken aback.

“Brightfloods,” he said, smiling faintly. “I’ve promised someone to bring something very important to them from there. Though I could go alone… but, what kind of an important person travels without anyone to take care of them? And the image, unfortunately, will be rather important for my business there. Ah, right, everything is in that box by the corner. Prepare everything while I plan out for tonight."

She didn’t ask what his plans entailed; tonight, she knew, blood would flow. She didn’t know how she knew it beyond a tiny voice in her heart telling her it would be so. Since the day she met him, she recognized the disparity in who he was – he was a good person. She believed that with her whole heart; if he weren't, he wouldn't treat slaves like her with at least a modicum of respect. He gave them autonomy and trust and rewarded them when they did well, without punishing them terribly when they failed.

However, he was also not a good person – she, perhaps, knew that just as well. He gave them nothing but implications from which to draw that conclusion, but it was enough; it was his way of warning them – he will give them the opportunity to serve him properly, and they have to take it, or else. And, furthermore, she found him to be far scarier than all her previous Masters – most of whom beat her and raped her on a daily basis, floundering. From them she knew what to expect – she could read when they were in bad moods, and when they were in a good mood. She couldn't do the same with him; he always appeared to be in the limbo of moods, neither here nor there, content.

Noah carefully went over the information Myrell wrote on the first man who openly rejected to pay back the loan he was given – eighteen Crowns, sixteen days ago, two days overdue with no intention of paying back. He was a small-time butcher situated on the lower ridge of the city, living right behind the shop with a wife and eight children. Myrell described him as a ‘wide, bulging, slimy man with oily skin and balding head and a pair of snake-like pink eyes’, hardly holding back. Noah didn’t care for his appearance, or even his situation; to him, the man was just a numb name on the paper, someone who shortened him, and was to be used as an example.

He couldn’t be too overt in his actions lest the officials cast a shady eye on the name ‘Amber Bank’, but he had to be just overt enough for others to recognize not to do what the man did. Unlike the majority of situations thus far, Noah was exceptionally calm. This – this he knew. This he studied for nearly his entire life, and it was in moments like these that he felt the most at peace.

Studying the general description of the house, the surrounding area, the roads and alleys leading around and to the house, he quickly picked up on several potential routes of approach and escape. Immediately jotting down the backups of the backups, he slowly began organizing every step he’d take. It wasn’t difficult, by any means, but he still decided to be prudent. It would be the first time he’d overtly and directly influence the world, and he couldn’t help but put in extra care into his actions so that he isn’t preemptively discovered.

Considering the current wealth he possessed, totaling in nearly two-thousand Crowns, one from Prince Sigmund, and nine-hundred from Olivia, eighteen Crowns might seem like a drop in the bucket – and, it really was – but it was an important drop. It was supposed to turn into twenty-five, yet it didn't. Everything was in order, he realized after concluding his week-long planning.

He'd first have to leave the city itself and go to the nearby forest to dig up the daggers he left there, before returning back. Thanks to Olivia's position, he was able to craft several fake identities for himself over the past two weeks – two of Royal Dacents, his own, the current one, and Ryvor, the name he gave to the slaver Q’sal. Two of his other identities were of merchants, one in charge of general sales, and the other one being a slaver. He even had a special identity of a vagrant ready at the backend, which was perhaps the most important for him. All that was left… was executing his plans properly.

**

Ricarrd Towlsoth had just closed shop as the sun began to set beyond the horizon. There was a somewhat sullen expression on his face, as the day’s earnings hardly matched his expectations. The business was slow despite the winter having passed a few months ago. However, the sullen expression was quickly turned upside down as he remembered a peculiar event that occurred two weeks ago – he had been given eighteen Crowns by a random stranger on the mere promise he’d ‘pay back’ twenty-five within half a month.

He still couldn't help but snicker when recalling the moment, and the stupidity of that woman who gave it to him. Eighteen Crowns – that was, for him, a fortune. Even if he wanted to pay twenty-five in some bizarre case, it would take him years to actually save up. Bursting out into short, bellied laughter, he shook his head and sat down, taking out a gourd of ale and wetting his parched throat. He had no intention of going back home just yet, as he was even considering leaving – with eighteen Crowns, he could travel to some more distant town and become the rich, local Lord, rather than spending his days here, with an old, ugly wife and eight disrespectful children. The dreams were cut short as he suddenly felt a cold sensation on his throat, and a numbing hand pressing against his shoulder, keeping him tightly in place. Though he wanted to scream, he didn't dare to – the shine of the dagger was right beside his folding neck, ready to cut in.

He couldn't see anything save for that glimmer, his eyes restlessly bumping around the sockets, his heart ready to burst out of his chest. He was terrified – no, beyond terrified.

“… twenty-five Crowns. Do you have them?” the voice that greeted him was cold, hollow, terrible – the voice of the reaper himself. Ricarrd shuddered, his eyes widening further. Twenty-five Crowns? He couldn’t understand what the voice was talking about.

“W-what are—”

“Twenty-five Crowns. Do you have them?” the voice asked again, interrupting him harshly. He wanted to scream in defiance, as this was clearly a robbery. However, in that second, a voice pegged at him from deep down – the eighteen Crowns he borrowed.

“—I…I…”

“… no, then?” the voice seemed to sigh for a moment before Ricarrd felt his world turn black as the shimmering silver of the dagger slashed across his throat. It was a swift motion, one that left Ricarrd stunned and confused just before his death. He was a butcher with nearly twenty years of experience, and even he couldn’t even come close to such a clean slice. In his last moments, beyond fear and horror of death, he also found himself admiring the hand that killed him.

Noah held tightly onto the grimly tattering body of the butcher, ensuring he didn't fall off and make a sound. The blood gushed out of the throat, dousing his hands in a warm, sleazy sensation. He hardly took notice of the haunting sight, instead lurching around with his eyes, ensuring he wasn't seen. He was draped in a black cloak and a hood, almost perfectly blending in with the shadows cast from the candles.

As the man’s body slowly stopped spasming, Noah frowned as he tried ignoring the pervasive stench of piss and the released bowels, digging through the man’s pockets, finding a small, palm-sized satchel in his inner one, right next to the sweaty breast. Moving around, into the light, he crouched in front of the man and, ignoring the unsightly scene, ripped the latter’s shirt open, exposing the folding collection of sagging meat.

Moving up the dagger, he slowly shaved off the hairs as cleanly as he could while putting away the satchel that seemed to contain seventeen Crowns based on the quick headcount. Immediately after cleaning his chest up, he moved the dagger to the left side and dug it an inch into the man's skin, causing blood to trickle out once again. With rapid, cold, and calculated movements, he quickly carved out 'AB' across the man's chest, using the latter's shirt to clean away the muddying blood.

Following another quick look-around and noticing nothing strange, he paid one last glance at the man before vanishing back into the shadows, using the butchery’s backdoor to escape into the nearby alley, ducking under the night’s darkness and using the back roads to wound around toward the top-end of the city, stripping his black hood and cloak and cleaning the makeup that made him seem fifteen years younger from his face. Save for the cleanly-shaved beard he lacked this morning, he was back to being himself – with the world being none the wiser about it.