Chapter 26 #2
“Well, look who it is,” Lyon smirked at her from a booth where he sat with a handful of other knights, pints of ale and bottles of liquor scattered across the table. He pushed himself to his feet and strolled over.
“Fuck off, Lyon.” Ellaryn barely spared him a glance. “I’m not in the mood.”
A chorus of oohs and ahhs erupted from the table behind him.
Lyon raised both hands in surrender, grinning as though she’d only entertained him.
Ellaryn ignored them and headed towards her usual seat.
Two knights occupied the space, deep in conversation, but she had no time for niceties—not with her blood and skin still burning from her encounter with Xander.
She stopped over them.
They were young. Too young, perhaps. Fresh-faced enough that she guessed they had only recently joined the King’s army.
“Move,” she instructed.
She didn’t have to say it twice.
The two exchanged a nervous glance before scrambling to their feet, and Ellaryn slid into the newly vacated seat without another word, tapping twice against the worn wood to signal the barkeep.
“Something strong,” she said, and the woman gave her a knowing look before reaching beneath the counter and pouring a shot of dark liquor.
Ellaryn knocked it back, savouring the burn as it scraped down her throat, then tapped the bar again.
Another shot appeared.
Her gaze dropped to her fingers. Blood still stained them, dark beneath her nails and smeared across her knuckles.
“Actually…” She pushed the empty glass towards him. “Leave the bottle.”
The barkeep gave a single nod and set it down, and Ellaryn poured herself another shot, swallowing it in one.
Then another.
“Rough day?” Lyon asked, dropping onto the stool beside her.
She exhaled heavily, staring at the bottle.
“I thought I told you to fuck off.”
“Ash in my ears, remember.” He pointed to his head. “Always forgetting that damned helmet.”
Despite the heaviness in her gut, Ellaryn found herself smiling at Lyon’s comment. The liquor was doing its job, taking the edge off everything and making the world feel a little less unbearable.
“Is that—” Lyon pointed at her, his grin widening. “Was that a smile?”
“Don’t push your luck.” She shot him a warning look, though the corners of her lips betrayed her.
Ellaryn tipped the bottle back and took a long lug. The clear liquor burned like a struck match, heat flooding her chest as it went down. She hissed softly through her teeth before setting the bottle down harder than necessary and sliding it towards him.
Lyon caught it with a grin, his amber eyes glinting beneath the lantern light as he took a swig.
“So, go on then.” He broke the silence, lowering the bottle. “You going to tell me what’s got you especially ruinous this evening?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ellaryn feigned innocence, knowing there was no way she could explain what had happened anyway.
“If you say so,” Lyon muttered, leaning back. “I won’t try to cheer you up, then.”
Ellaryn almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the statement.
“You?” She snorted, turning to him. “Cheer me up?” A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Lyon looked offended. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re the last person I’d expect to cheer anyone up.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning outrage. “And here I was thinking I was your favourite knight.”
“You’re not my favourite anything.”
“Ouch.” He animated offence. “You know, despite what you think you know about me, I’m not a complete asshole.”
“So you didn’t slaughter your family just to earn an audience with the King?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, but she didn’t regret them. Not one bit.
Silence stretched between them. Lyon yanked the bottle from her grip and drank deep, jaw clenched.
“I did what I had to do,” he said at last.
Cold settled in Ellaryn’s chest. The King hadn’t made him this way—he’d simply rewarded it. And here she was, sharing a bottle with him, wasting breath on someone who didn’t deserve it.
“If you say so,” she muttered, taking the bottle back, the glass clinking against her teeth.
Lyon’s mouth curled. “What, now the King’s executioner has a conscience?” His gaze sharpened, uncomfortably clear. “You’re just as bad as I am, Ruin.”
She saw herself reflected in his eyes—the version he believed in, the name he used like a verdict—and she looked away.
“That’s bullshit,” Ellaryn snapped, shaking her head. “You chose cruelty before the King ever touched you. I was moulded by him.”
It didn’t absolve her. She knew that.
But she refused to be his mirror.
“I didn’t kill my mother,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear.
Ellaryn stilled. “What?”
“My father was a drunk. Used my mother like a punching bag.” His gaze stayed fixed ahead, jaw locked. Ellaryn said nothing, letting the silence stretch—giving him the space he seemed to need. “One night, I came home, and she wasn’t moving. He’d sunk his dagger into her chest.”
He blinked hard, as if the memory still burned behind his eyes.
“I saw red,” he continued. “We fought. I won.” His grip tightened around the bottle. “He got what he deserved.” Another rough swallow. “I wanted a better life for myself. So yes—I demanded an audience with the King, holding my father’s head. Better to inflict pain than spend a lifetime taking it.”
Ellaryn’s expression didn’t soften. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
Lyon finally turned to her. “Tell me, Ruin,” he said quietly, “is everything they say about you true?”
The question settled between them, heavy and suffocating, thick like the smoke that consumed the streets.
Ellaryn didn’t answer. She took the bottle from him and drank instead, welcoming the burn as it scorched its way down—anything to drown out how close his words had come, how sharply they’d scraped against things she kept buried.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Ellaryn said quietly.
Lyon didn’t look at her. She saw the shine gather at his lash line, the way he tipped his head back just enough to keep it from spilling.
“And I’m sorry about yours,” he replied after a moment.
He swallowed hard, then took another swig of the liquor, as if it might drown whatever threatened to rise next.
There was a pause between them before Ellaryn muttered: “This city is so fucked up.”
“Tell me about it.” Lyon agreed, passing her the bottle.
“It seems I may have gotten you all wrong,” Ellaryn commented, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she took the bottle from him.
“Oh, really?” Lyon chuckled, brows lifting. “Have I finally earned my place in Ruin’s world? Maybe I should start sharing my childhood trauma with you more often.”
Ellaryn nudged him with her shoulder, smirking—until the smile slipped away.
A glass mug on a nearby table slid an inch on its own.
Her pulse stuttered.
Surely not.
He couldn’t be that stupid.
Then the tavern door swung open by itself, hinges groaning as cold air rolled in.
Ellaryn stared at it, eyes narrowng. Beside her, Lyon shifted in his seat.
“Must be the wind,” he said lightly, shrugging as he took another sip.
The door was old. It creaked when it pleased. That was normal.
Still—
Something did not seem right.
“I’m just going to get some air,” Ellaryn said, already pushing back from the table.
Lyon glanced up, a crooked smirk pulling at his mouth. “You’re not standing me up, are you?”