Chapter 14 #3
He didn’t say it like someone who was sure. He said it like someone hoping to convince himself.
And somehow, that was worse.
Once we pushed closer to the centre of town, the streets thickened with people.
At first, they only glanced at us. Quick, curious looks. But the deeper we moved into the heart of the city, the worse it got.
By the time we neared the market square, no one even bothered to pretend.
They stared.
And the looks… gods, they were wanton.
The thirsty gazes of men and women alike slid over my companions, drinking them in like parched souls finding water after a drought.
I could imagine exactly what they saw — four masters of men, carved from beauty and raw power, impossible to ignore.
Leo’s golden warmth, dazzling and reckless, like basking on a beach at midsummer.
Phoenix’s calm gravity, steady and grounding, as inevitable as the tide.
Slade’s immovable strength, the quiet warning in the way he watched the world like he could tear it apart if he wanted.
And Thorne — my shadowed warden — cold, sharp, dangerous, coiled so tight it felt like he might snap.
I’d never been truly immune to their pull, no matter what lies I told myself. I knew they were attractive. Irritatingly so.
But seeing it so plainly, so shamelessly admired, set my teeth on edge.
The way the crowd stripped the Shades bare with their eyes made my skin crawl — a feeling I didn’t want to examine too closely.
I caught myself scowling at the cloying scent of desire hanging in the air like a heavy, stifling perfume.
Leo, ever the charmer, soaked up the attention like it was air. He grinned, accepting flowers and sweets from eager stallholders without missing a step, basking in the praise like a damn golden retriever.
Even Phoenix managed a polite smile.
Get a fucking room, I thought bitterly, just as one particularly bold woman ran her hand down Leo’s thigh.
He winked at her — flirtatious to a fault.
Before I could stop myself, a low, guttural growl rumbled from my chest.
Leo looked up immediately, half-smirking, like he’d been waiting for it.
"Something upsetting you, angel?" he asked, voice dripping with false innocence.
"No," I snapped, the word tasting like iron. "Not my business what you do. Or who."
His eyes gleamed with delight.
Around us, the marketplace buzzed — shouts of merchants, laughter of children — but none of it reached me anymore.
My attention locked onto the men around me like a chain I couldn’t break.
And gods, I hated it.
I hate that I can feel them now.
A shiver ran through me, and I turned away, bracing myself against the pull I wasn’t ready to name.
When we finally pulled up in front of a faded blue tent, its fabric worn and patched from years of use, Thorne was the first to dismount.
He moved with a fluid grace, like he was at ease in any environment, no matter how unfamiliar.
He extended a hand to help me down, surprisingly gentle, like I was something precious.
Leo and Phoenix followed suit, sliding off their horses with ease, their eyes never straying too far from their surroundings.
But Slade—Slade was different. He stood a little apart from the group, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the entrance like a hawk watching for prey.
He didn’t trust this place, didn’t trust the crowd, and certainly didn’t trust what lay beyond the blue canvas door.
Without a word, he took up a protective stance by the entrance.
Phoenix stood behind me, his presence solid and unwavering as he gently touched my back, urging me forward.
He touched me more and more these days. It hadn’t escaped my notice.
His hand lingered just long enough for me to feel the warmth of it before he stepped aside, allowing me to enter the tent first.
The moment I stepped inside, the air shifted—cool, musty, the scent of mildew and something earthy that I couldn't quite place.
The dim lanterns barely illuminated the space, casting long shadows over the few sparse furnishings.
At the far corner, an elderly woman sat hunched over a rough-hewn table, chewing on a piece of dried root.
Her gnarled fingers twisted the root between her teeth as she watched us with a look that was half boredom, half curiosity.
“Is he here?” Thorne’s voice broke the stillness. The question hung in the air, tense and expectant.
The woman grunted, as if Thorne’s question was more of an inconvenience than anything important.
She didn’t speak at first. Instead, with a slow, deliberate movement, she gestured toward the small, shadowy room behind her.
Her eyes flicked over to me, lingering for a moment too long, before she returned her focus to the root.
Thorne nodded in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward, his presence commanding the space even in the dim light.
As we moved toward the door, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the silence pressing in. The woman’s gaze followed us, but she didn’t seem interested in saying anything further.
Phoenix stayed outside, keeping watch like a shadow. Leo, ever attuned to my moods, reached over and squeezed my hand, the gesture grounding me in the moment.
“What are we doing here?”
“Don’t worry so much. You’ll like this, I promise,” Leo said, his voice light but tinged with something more serious beneath the surface. His grin was an attempt at easing my nerves, but I wasn’t sure it was working.
We stepped into the dim room, the air thick with the scent of old leather and rusted metal.
The walls were lined with shelves stacked high with weapons of every size and shape—some pristine, some old and worn.
It was a treasure trove for anyone who appreciated the art of battle or simply had the coin to spend.
At the far end of the room stood Tyrone, a stocky, rough-looking man who didn’t seem to notice us at first. He was hunched over a workbench, hammering away at something.
When he turned around, his small, beady eyes widened with recognition.
A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on a rag, though the gleam in his eyes wasn’t one of warmth—it was one of calculation.
“Thorne, Leo!” Tyrone said, his voice rough and thick with accent. “Been a while. Didn’t expect you two to come back here.” His eyes flicked over to me, appraising me with the same kind of greed that filled his every movement.
“Tyrone,” Leo said, his voice terse but his eyes gleaming with hunger. He scanned the array of waiting weapons like a kid in a candy store, his gaze locking onto the longsword Tyrone had been polishing. “How’s my girl coming along?”
“She’s nearly ready," Tyrone said, lifting the gleaming silver blade with its ornate, leather-wrapped handle. "Balance is spot on—you’re going to love her.”
Leo’s expression turned downright reverent as he reached for the sword. He let out a low, almost indecent groan. “She’s gorgeous.”
Tyrone chuckled. “Just waiting on the final jewels for the hilt, and then she’s yours. As promised.”
Leo practically bounced on the balls of his feet, barely containing his excitement. "You're a damn artist, Tyrone."
“Anything for you boys. Something else I can get for you today?”
Thorne barely acknowledged him, only offering a terse nod. “I need something. For her.”
Tyrone’s gaze shifted back to me, this time lingering a little too long. But then he shrugged, as though losing interest in me just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Something special, eh?” he muttered, turning away to rummage through a chest by the wall. “Well, I might have what you need. Hold on a sec.”
Tyrone pulled out a selection of blades and laid them out on the bench, each one gleaming faintly in the low light.
All were finely crafted, their edges sharp and gleaming.
Thorne made a point of examining them all closely, picking a few up, weighing them in his palm, testing their balance.
His brow furrowed as he examined the craftsmanship, his focus unwavering.
But my attention was drawn elsewhere, to a simple silver chest at the back of the shop, almost hidden behind a stack of weapons. It sat there, plain yet strangely out of place amidst the polished blades and ornate handles.
"What's in there?" I asked, my voice uncharacteristically soft, as if I were unsure of even asking.
Tyrone paused mid-motion, a quick flicker of unease passing across his face before his grin returned, forced and wide. “Ah, that? Nothing you need to worry about. Just some old things I’m not keen to part with.”
But there was something about the way he said it that made my pulse quicken. There was a tension in the air, a subtle warning in his words. I couldn’t help myself—I took a step closer, my gaze locked on the chest.
Thorne, who had been inspecting a blade, glanced up, his expression unreadable. He could see my curiosity, the way I was drawn to it. Without saying a word, he took a step toward me, his presence solid and steady, the warmth of his body just behind me.
“Is there something specific in there?” he asked, his tone neutral, but there was an edge to it that made Tyrone stiffen.
Tyrone’s grin faltered for a moment before he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Nothing for someone like you, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t be interested in it.” His eyes flicked nervously between Thorne and me. “It’s just… old junk.”
But I didn’t move. My gaze was still locked on the chest, an odd sense of familiarity creeping up my spine. There was something about it—a feeling I couldn’t shake. It tugged at me, subtle but persistent.
“Open it,” I said, surprising myself with the demand.
Thorne glanced at me, his eyes softening with a hint of something unreadable. He didn’t argue. Instead, he took a step forward, the power in his movements almost predatory. Tyrone, however, hesitated, his hand twitching as if he was about to stop us.
“Don’t make her say it again,” Thorne’s voice was low, like the growl of a predator, and Tyrone’s bravado cracked instantly. The merchant’s mouth snapped shut, and he reluctantly moved aside, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Thorne reached for the chest. The hinges creaked as he lifted the lid, revealing dusty old objects — and one thing that caught my eye instantly. A dagger.
It wasn’t like the others. It was simple, with an aged handle, yet there was something about it that felt… familiar. My fingers tingled with the urge to touch it, and without thinking, I reached for it.
Nestled beneath a piece of blue silk, the dagger looked unassuming at first—dusty, forgotten, like something left behind in haste. But as Thorne pulled it free and turned it toward the light, something shifted.
The blade itself was long for a dagger, forged in a sleek curve that caught the dim light and reflected it like quicksilver. Its metal was not the polished steel of the others, but a softer, moonlit hue—almost silvery-blue—like it had been shaped from liquid starlight and cooled in shadow.
Its hilt was wrapped in worn midnight leather, smooth from age and touch, and just beneath the cross guard, carved into the base of the blade, was a faint symbol: a winged crest, subtle and nearly erased by time. The Virell crest.
It was neither ornate nor flashy, but there was something alive in the way it sat in the hand. The balance was perfect. It vibrated faintly with some kind of dormant magic, like it was waiting—watching.
The moment my fingers brushed the hilt, a strange sensation swept through me—a sharp, almost electric current ran up my arm, like the weapon itself was alive. It felt like a part of me, like it had always been mine.
Thorne’s gaze flicked to my face as he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. “This one?”
I nodded, unable to speak. There was no reason for it. It didn’t make sense, but I knew, deep down, I needed this blade.
Thorne eyed me for a moment longer before turning back to Tyrone.
“How much for it?”
Tyrone hesitated, his fingers twitching as he dragged the velvet back over the dagger, half-concealing it. “That one’s not for sale,” he said quickly, too quickly.
Thorne’s voice darkened. “Everything’s for sale, Tyrone.”
“It’s not what you think,” Tyrone muttered, glancing toward the entrance as if expecting guards to burst in.
“That blade… it’s old. Dangerous. Carved with outlawed marks.
” He dropped his voice, barely above a whisper.
“Virell symbology. You know what they do to people caught with that kind of filth?”
I stepped closer before I even realized I was moving. “But where did it come from?”
Tyrone scratched at his jaw, eyes darting between Thorne and me. “Ruins out west. Scavengers pulled it from under a collapsed wing of the old keep. Said it was lodged in stone like it didn’t want to be moved. Been sitting in that chest ever since. I don’t touch it.”
Thorne’s patience thinned. “How much.”
Tyrone swallowed, bravado shrinking fast. “I—look, maybe I can find you something else. Something… safer. You don’t want the kind of trouble that blade brings.”
Thorne took a single step forward. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous. “Name. Your. Price.”
Tyrone backed up a little, lifting his hands. “Alright, alright! Seventy sovereigns.”
Thorne didn’t blink. “Ten.”
Tyrone looked like he might choke. “Ten?! That wouldn’t even cover the velvet!”
“You’re not selling the velvet,” Thorne replied coldly. “You’re selling something you’re too afraid to display. And you’re lucky I’m paying at all.”
Tyrone worked his jaw, weighing greed against fear. Eventually, he spat to the side and jerked his chin at the dagger. “Fine. Take the cursed thing.”
Thorne tossed the coins onto the counter with a casual flick of his wrist, grabbing the dagger from the chest. I took it from his hand, feeling its weight settle against my palm, and for a fleeting moment, I almost thought I could hear a whisper of something ancient in the air.
It felt right. It felt like mine.
“Look, you want my advice?” Tyrone called out as we turned to leave.
Thorne paused mid-step, slowly turning back with a glare that could've cut steel. “Why not,” he drawled, his voice cold. “Impress me.”
Tyrone raised his hands in mock innocence, but the edge in his voice betrayed a thread of real concern. “Wrap the handle. Hide the crest. Or they’ll come for you.”
Thorne’s gaze narrowed. “Who’s they?”
Tyrone gave a thin, nervous smile. “Whoever’s still watching. Whoever still gives a damn about what that blade means.”
His eyes flicked to me. “Just don’t wave it around, girl. Relics like that don’t stay quiet for long.”