Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Roremar
“Has it always tasted like piss?” Roremar Silventa muttered as he fell onto the sofa in the basement apartment of his best friend, Desmond’s, tattoo parlor and swallowed another large gulp of the bitter ale.
The russet velvet fabric was worn, the arm beneath his elbow nearly void of color after years of stress on the surface.
“Expert on the taste of piss, are you?” Desmond chided, smirking.
He planted his feet wide, leaning back in the creaking wooden chair beside the sofa.
The mismatched furniture surrounded the fireplace, a log just sparking to life in the stone hearth.
Though the Constellation Isles never got too frigid, the warmth and the accompanying smoky scent worked its way beneath Roremar’s skin, encouraging his tense muscles to unwind.
“Sure, from great experience,” he said dryly, studying the patterns of the dancing flames as if he could memorize them. “I mean it, has the ale on the Isle always tasted so horrible?”
Desmond shrugged, picking at a splinter in the arm of the chair. “From what I hear, they’re importing cheaper stuff each month.”
A cheer echoed from the street above as drunken fools bet on some card game Roremar couldn’t care less about.
Spirits, he didn’t know the last time he did something so unintentional, like getting absolutely wasted and stumbling down the Promenade of Revels, indulging in whatever entertainment the isle provided for the night.
He rarely had time for fun anymore, and when he did, it didn’t feel right. Not with so many responsibilities on his shoulders.
“Lack of quality doesn’t seem to deter anyone from the taverns or liquor bars,” he said, planting his elbow on one of the throw pillows and sinking into the cushions.
“Circumstances get worse, people get more desperate for a hint of frivolity. A tale as old as the Angels.” Desmond pulled out the band tying back his dark-blond hair, running his tattooed fingers through it.
“It’s not a new development. The Promenade is lit up more often than not these nights.
People are getting creative in filling their time.
Two nights ago, a woman was dancing with starfire right outside my door, collecting coins in a little dish for the performance. ”
“Starfire?” Roremar repeated, scoffing.
“So she claims. She was some fanatic down from one of the jungle settlements.”
“Probably an illusion.” As if the Fates or Angel or any Spiritsdamned higher being out there would provide easy access to something as rare and powerful as starfire purely for entertainment’s sake.
It was only conjured in strictly monitored ceremonies, typically requiring some kind of divine intervention or blessed oils.
“Served its purpose for entertainment,” Desmond said, taking a swig of his drink. He smirked. “She did, too.”
Roremar jabbed a finger at the sunken cushions beside him, preparing to spring up. “Tell me it wasn’t on this sofa.”
Desmond had the decency to act surprised. “I’m a gentleman, Rore.” Roremar sank back down, and Desmond gestured toward the back of the room where some kind of leviathan was painted on the wall. “I fucked her against the wall over there.”
Laughing, Roremar nodded toward the back corner. “You have a bed five feet away.”
“Couldn’t wait.” Desmond shrugged, finishing his drink and rounding the eclectic seating area to retrieve his reading supplies from the wooden table strewn with half-finished artwork in the center of the room.
Just beyond it, clearly too far for use, the messily made bed was partially hidden behind a partition opposite the kitchen.
As Desmond sat back down, he laid the crushed herbs and thin slips of paper on the table before the sofa, preparing a neat roll.
Where most Starsearchers favored incense to communicate with their Fate tie, this had been Des’s preferred method as long as Roremar had known him.
He said it was stronger. Got the job done quicker.
Desmond lit the roll and took a hit. His shoulders dropped as the smoky, blood-orange scent seeped across the dark wooden shelves on either side of the fireplace, a collection of small, hand-made sculptures lost in the fog.
“Want any?” Desmond offered. When Roremar shook his head, his friend pushed, “Pheasantos not loud enough?”
“He’s not, and I’m not really in the mood to read,” Roremar said at the mention of the Fate of Passion and Exile. “We don’t all have to as often as you.”
Desmond needed sessions more often than other Starsearchers, especially at the end of long shifts when he spent so many hours focused on the art he was inking, he forgot the rest of the world.
Roremar didn’t find the same release in his magic, though.
To him, it was a stifling need to rely on the fickle Fates, one he avoided whenever possible.
The room quickly filled with clouds of incense as Desmond read.
With only small rectangular windows near the ceiling, the dark tones, hand-painted murals, and herbal scents made the space feel smaller.
Closed in, but in a secure way. A way that meant Roremar didn’t have to look over his shoulder—or anyone else’s for that matter.
Fates, his bones ached under the weight of that pressure to hold everything and everyone in his life together.
“You should find a way to unwind more,” Des drawled.
His eyes were glassy already, half of his mind being tugged by a Fate tie, the celestial readings eager to pump through his blood.
It made Roremar jittery. He studied his friend closely as Des tapped the end of the roll against a homemade clay ashtray.
“I can’t,” Roremar said as the singed clumps fell.
He couldn’t unwind in the way Desmond meant at least. Sure, he could find an occasional woman to fuck on the rare nights he was able to get out, but it was always a fleeting few moments behind a tavern or in the stranger’s bed before reality sank back in.
He couldn’t let go of all the responsibilities, though. As the main provider for his family, what would happen if he wasn’t there to take care of them? Guilt thickened his throat at just the consideration.
He took another sip of the piss-ale to try to force it down.
That stress was how he’d ended up at the doorstep of Desmond Alvanti’s tattoo parlor.
His best friend had been surprised to say the least. While they saw each other nearly every day, it had been months since Roremar had shown up unannounced during the busiest hours of the night and marched down the stairs into the basement without a word.
He drew abstract patterns in the condensation of his bottle as Desmond read, trying his hardest not to go through the mental checklist of everything he had to do tomorrow.
Instead, he studied the mystlight sconces on the walls and how the light streaked through the clouded incense.
He recited how the magic was channeled all the way from the mountains on the continent—the source of all magic on Ambrisk, guarded by another warrior clan.
How it flowed through the land and cypher trees, to keep their little isle running.
He noticed where one orb was cracked, and he wondered what had happened to it, how he could fix it.
When Desmond was done with his session—the subject of which he didn’t elaborate on—he set his empty drink on the table between them, leaning back. “Want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”
“No,” Roremar clipped, his pinkie slipping in a burn mark on the sofa’s arm. He should patch it next time he was here.
“Rore…”
Roremar groaned, knowing Desmond would push until he gave him something, and he was too tired to fight it.
“It’s the same old shit.” Roremar drained his drink and set it down on the table with a loud thunk.
Tipping his head back against the pillow, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
“Managing all of my father’s work. There are letters every week from his old business partners, and I never knew about any of this shit he was involved in.
Have barely learned. I’m trying to balance budgets to keep everything afloat and manage the schedules of the younger kids.
I need to sort out their schooling. I just… needed a break.”
He didn’t explain the crushing sensation on his chest or the tightening of his throat as he sat before a desk piled with papers, business ventures that were his responsibility if he wanted to keep his siblings fed and clothed as he had since their father died a decade ago.
Didn’t explain the guilt haunting him that they were in this situation at all.
“Stay as long as you need,” Desmond said, rising and heading toward the kitchen. He clapped Roremar on the shoulder as he passed.
“Thanks, Alvi,” Roremar muttered, the nickname from their days in the army rolling off his tongue. It was much more lighthearted than the one Roremar had received: Reckless.
His teeth ground at the thought, the reputation following him everywhere on this damn isle.
“Anytime, brother.” Desmond pulled out another bottle of ale. “Want a second?”
Roremar pursed his lips, calculating. “I shouldn’t.”
Desmond didn’t argue, but Roremar saw him slyly grab him one.
It was one of Roremar’s favorite things about his best friend.
How they could spend an entire day debating something as inconsequential as theories of how Wisteria Falls—a ring of waterfalls on the continent—had formed, but also how Desmond knew when not to push.
When to let him simply fucking be and provide assistance without him asking for it.