Chapter 8 #2
“Funny,” Lyon said, already motioning for a drink from the barmaid, unfazed by her second eye roll. “You know you should have killed him. Someone that idiotic doesn’t deserve a place in Cinders, let alone be one of the Dark Knights.”
She shrugged. “With a mouth as careless as his, I figured he’d meet that fate, one way or another.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, nodding. “Still, if it were me he’d spoken to like that, I’d have been writing his fate rather than waiting for it.”
He shrugged, entirely too casually, then opened his mouth again.
“But then again…” His mouth curled into a grin. “I’ve never been particularly good at self-control.”
She believed that. He was the man who murdered his parents in cold blood. Who marched their severed heads up the castle steps.
“I noticed,” Ellaryn said simply, taking a swig of her drink.
He smiled teasingly. “Oh, really, what else have you noticed about me?”
“Apart from the fact that you’re a self-centred asshole, with a major attention problem?” She said, and a dry laugh escaped his mouth.
“You forgot devilishly handsome.” He shot back, threading a hand through his dark hair.
“Devil’s right,” Ellaryn muttered beneath her breath, taking another swig.
He shook his head whilst taking a long lug of his ale. “What about you, Ruin? You kiss the blade before you sink it into your victims?”
“You kiss your parents before you took their heads?” Ruin was cold and calculated; she knew how to sear an edge before she stuck it in.
Lyon didn’t know her before. Didn’t have the pleasure of meeting Ellaryn before her nickname became her.
He saw her as a ruthless killer. Maybe she was.
But she did have a conscience; it may have been murky, but she always knew where the line was—between good and evil.
But her orders were her orders; she could not defy the King. No one could. And so that line became nothing but a measure to see how far the heads rolled.
Lyon paused for a moment, analysing her; for a heartbeat she thought she twisted the knife too hard, but then he let out a low chuckle. “You’re good.” He pointed at her, and she forced a smile before he turned back to his chalice.
“That’s not what the people say,” Ellaryn whispered beneath her breath before draining her liquor.
When the steel cup hit the wood of the bar, she turned to him, her mind now sharp with ways she could use him—make a dent, a cut deep enough to rattle the King.
She wondered if he had noticed anything strange—anything off about the King, or the city itself.
But she didn’t dare voice it, not until she knew she could trust him.
Or get something honest out of him.
Cinder’s was a place where trust was almost as scarce as food.
Flames were hungry things; they seemed to deliberately target anything that could cause a ripple big enough to spark a wave in Cinder’s.
Hope was its favourite meal; trust came second, then rage.
Ellaryn was sure that if a revolution ever occurred, the fires would consume everything.
Maybe she didn’t need to speak her thoughts out loud. She could wait—wait until he was drunk enough to let something slip. Lyon commanded an entire regiment; he was bound to know something.
“On second thought,” she said, smirking as she raised her chalice, “I think I will drink with you.”
She clinked it against his.
Lyon’s eyes widened in surprise. He was so used to Ellaryn biting back at him that he didn’t quite know how to respond when she leaned into his touch instead of being repelled by it. He lifted his chalice to meet hers, a smile tugging at his lips.
“If you can keep up with me.” She added dryly.
He chuckled, dimples deepening as he paused mid-drink.
“I do love a bit of healthy competition,” he said, signalling the barmaid for another round.
The woman slid an ale down the bar and into his hands.
Ellaryn stopped him with a raised finger. “I was thinking something a little stronger.”
Her eyes met the barmaid’s as she spoke. The woman gave a knowing nod and slid two shot glasses filled with dark liquor in front of them.
“What’s the occasion?” Lyon asked, curling his fingers around the glass.
“Don’t talk,” Ellaryn said. “Just drink.”
She downed the shot in one. It burned like acid rolling down her throat—easily the strongest drink in all of Cinders. Ellaryn was fairly certain it was brewed with kerosene, and more than certain she’d go up in flames if a stray cinder touched her now.
But it was fast.
And fast was what she wanted.
Lyon chuckled, watching her for a moment longer than necessary, before following suit.
The barmaid kept the shot glasses topped up.
After a few rounds, Ellaryn learned how to fake the burn—tilting her head back just enough to sell it before tipping the liquor over her shoulder.
Lyon, on the other hand, kept drinking. And when his words finally began to stumble, overlap, and sway like the cinders carried by the wind, she knew this was her window.
“Did you hear about Magnus?” She asked, her question testing the waters. She kept her voice steady, though her heart betrayed her, thumping relentlessly in her chest.
“Magnus?” His brows pulled together as he questioned her.
“The jeweller… a dweller.” She continued; this conversation was a rope; a lead to the truth, or a noose to hang herself with. Still she kept her eyes steady on his.
“Ah. The newest addition to the dungeon?” This was more of a statement. He knew.
“What was his crime?” She asked, “What made the—” She hushed her words when she said his name, “—King so suspicious of him?”
Lyon swayed in his seat, smiling down into the brown liquid as it rippled with his breath.
“Ruin,” he chuckled, “talking business in the tavern? Are you feeling alright?”
“Are you going to answer the question?” Her eyebrow raised, and he just chuckled again before straightening.
“The old man was caught with his trousers down, so to speak.” He glanced at her over the dark armour of his shoulder. “Talking of a revolution in the streets, recruiting dwellers, speaking of change and newfound hope.” His voice trailed off as he spoke with his hand. “Blah-Blah-Blah.”
“What?!” Ellaryn leaned in. She couldn’t believe it.
Revolution was futile—everyone knew that. Even speaking of it was foolish, especially out in the open for everyone to hear.
But that was the thing. Magnus… Magnus did not seem like a foolish man.
“I know,” Lyon said, throwing a peanut lazily into his mouth. “Like I said, trousers down.”
“Okay,” Ellaryn breathed, leaning back in her chair, which gave a quiet squeak beneath her weight as she considered it.
Something about it didn’t sit right.
A revolution was punishable by Ruin.
Her hand.
Their head.
Not the dungeons. Never the dungeons.
“But he lives.” She whispered, almost to herself.
Lyon looked over at her, eyebrows furrowed.
“What?”
“The King let him live.” She said, voice unwavering. “Why?”
“Sometimes to live is the harsher punishment,” Lyon said into the rim of his glass as he took another swig.
Although his words rang true in Ellaryn’s mind, she somehow did not believe it.
“Maybe.” She hummed. “Or maybe there’s something else.”
“You want my advice?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m going to give it to you anyway because I like you.” He waved a finger in her direction. “Despite that sharp tongue of yours.”
Ellaryn gave him a mocking glare.
“If you search for trouble in Cinders, it will find you first, and it will show no mercy.”
“Aw, are you worried about me?” she chimed, innocence lacing her tone.
“I mean it, Ruin.” His voice hardened. “You go down this path, and all you’re doing is putting a target on your back. Look what happened to Selcrose.”
Ellaryn’s smile faded.
“The King is keeping Magnus alive for one reason and one reason only…” He paused, letting the words settle. “Suffering.”
A chill crept down her spine.
“Magnus will spend his final days losing whatever’s left of his mind, and then he’ll lose his head. That’s all this is.”
His eyes fixed on hers.
“And unless you fancy joining him, I’d suggest you stick to your orders.”
Ellaryn took another shot, letting the burn of the liquor chase away the chill his words had left behind.
He could be right.
He could be.
But his explanation did nothing to soothe the unease gnawing at her. If anything, it only made the itch beneath her skin worse—an insistent, restless feeling that something was wrong. Something she couldn’t quite name. It seemed to live in her bones, refusing to be silenced.
He chuckled. “You didn’t listen to a word of that, did you?”
“Oh, how rude of me, were you talking?” She mused, feigning concern.
“Unbelievable.” He breathed, a smirk on his lips.
Ellaryn pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.
He caught her arm.
“Think about what I said.”
Ellaryn’s eyes drifted to his grip, and he followed it before letting go of her.
She continued out of the tavern. As she walked, a young knight called to her.
“Leaving so soon?” Liquor laced his words as he tilted his head up at her, running a hand through his blond curls.
“At least let me walk a young woman like you back to her chambers,” he teased, pushing himself to his feet. “Haven’t you heard? Cinders can be a dangerous place at night.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I think I’ll be just fine.”
And with that, she left.