Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 58

"What do you know about the Culling?"

"Enough to solve this shortage of weaponry."

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Gazes shifted, candles burned and flames flickered.

An eerie calm ruled the table when Xenro made his quiet way into the hall with some others, placing his bundle of firewood in one corner. He brushed the snow off the fur-lined cloak which Captain Walric had quite literally forced him to wear because: 'those rags won't do you no good 'round here. In case it has not gotten through your thick skull yet, winters are harsh and merciless on these parts!'

When he'd tried to explain why the cold winds were the least aggravating thing about Lord Edis, she'd muffled his protests with a bright red, woolen scarf with little chickens on it : 'Shut--'

He now leaned against the wall close to the hearth, one among the many other mercenaries standing guard over the meeting, and listened.

He tried not to look at a certain bushy head, bobbing over the backrest of one of the chairs.

I will leave the company of mortals. Once and for all.

All things considered, it was better if he did not get too close. Deep down, he was doing Farren an injustice, being drawn to her only because he saw someone else in her, someone no longer of this world.

Leave her company, Xenro. Or you are in for a great torment. His brother's words.

He swung his gaze away.

Ryffin, accompanied by a blond-haired man with a bandage around his head approached the table to take a seat. It took Xenro little effort to identify the other as a Royal Sorcerer, for their gold-trimmed uniform had, by ways of a tragic lack of revolutions in fields of Midaelian fashion, remained roughly the same for five centuries.

"Are you feeling well now, dear friend?" came a smug voice from among the group. The regal young woman smiled up at them, one hand folded beneath her chin.

Ryffin looked away at once, fascinated by a very interesting wall.

"Much better, Your Highness," said the Royal Sorcerer haughtily, shrugging off whatever the princess possibly implied and ran a tentative finger along the gauze piece tied to his forehead. "Thanks to Mr. Wellis, I am feeling fine, and will continue to feel so--until you toss me into that wagon of death again on our way back."

Wagon of death? The God wondered, an amused smile spreading across his face. Are the Dark Saints carriages still just as bad? Last time he and Dresius had hijacked one, they'd crashed it in a swamp and decided to never speak of it again.

Another group of soldiers arrived shortly after he'd entered, and in the lead strode a young man, stern-faced and clad in black from head to toe. A sergeant, by the looks of his silver emblem. Most likely to die from lack of sleep, by the looks of the shadows under his eyes.

Then it struck him.

Xenro recognised not his face, but his soul. This was the same young man he'd helped save the night he had been set free.

Not a trace of sorcery in his mortal soul, but he commanded a powerful aura no less than a skilled mage; his eyes exhausted yet alert, expression stoney and detached, yet aware of every move, each intake of breath in the room. His stormy grey eyes halted at Farren and held her gaze.

"Apologies for the delay, there was quite a... situation at Brittlerock that needed to be taken care of," he announced.

"You are Sergeant Linder, I take it?" asked the captain. "Have a seat. We've only just begun."