Swordmaster

Era of Conflict

I do need to be serviced...

The realization made Leandyr's blood boil from more than just the bout of fever he was experiencing. Magic coiled tight in the pits of his stomach like a viper readying to strike. And when it did strike, its bite would be deadly. Unless he got a magician to deal with it.

The scowl plastered on his face deepened. He remembered when he was but a youngling, and all of his peers became enamored with the ways of magic. Spells, runes, alchemy. The oldest pastimes of the realm of Magika.

And he'd strayed to a different path – one of cold, deadly steel. From the day he picked up his first sword, he'd vowed to make himself as sharp and lethal as its edge. Magic was all well and good, but there was something intimate about staring down the length of his blade, knowing it was the only thing keeping him from certain death.

Well, almost the only thing... His one fatal flaw was having to rely on a magician every time the magic in his body got to critical levels. Even more irritating was the fact that he had no way of getting rid of it himself. The gods – damn them – had crafted capes in such a backwards, nonsensical way.

Leandyr heaved out a breath that was near hot as fire as he walked the cobblestone of the marketplace. Vendors were closing their stalls and clearing their displays as the last bit of sun diminished in the west, plunging Abydon into the cool grey-blue of twilight. Those who didn't know him gave him a cordial smile and nod, those who did gave him a wide berth.

But there were some who trailed behind – had been trailing since he left the castle grounds. Gooseflesh rose on his skin as they ducked through the shadows, waiting, watching. The Yilmaz. Barish must have sent them to follow him. Which meant he was either desperate, suspicious or losing his damn mind.

Probably all three.

He quickened his steps and looked towards his destination. The Tarry stood three buildings down from the docks and was a hotspot among locals. Active all night long, its patrons stayed true to its name and tarried there for hours on end, indulging in food, drink and the company of the physically, mentally and sexually oppressed.

The guards at the door eyed him carefully as they parted the curtains to allow him inside. The scents of good booze and great food warmed him. This place was like a toxic lover. It made one feel good, gave respite when needed, but its sweet offerings eventually destroyed those who tarried too much and too long.

Leandyr spotted the backs of Ridivan and Enver by the stone bar at the rear of the tavern. He weaved through scores of wooden tables, the early birds suddenly becoming preoccupied with whatever was in front of them as he passed. A fleeting look here, a glance there. That was all they offered Leandyr, keeping their heads bowed.

He took a seat next to his friend, but neither he nor Enver acknowledged his presence. Not that he blamed them.

"Swordmaster." The barkeep, Anha gave him a tight smile, a dimple winking in her bronze cheek. "What can I get for you?"

Leandyr returned her smile. "Just give us a moment." When she walked away, he turned to Ridivan, who'd developed a sudden fascination with the bottom of his cup. "I'm an ass," he said simply.

"That you are." Ridivan took a sip of his drink.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness. Especially not yours, Enver."

"That you don't," Enver agreed.

Ridivan took a long draught from his tankard, before giving Leandryr a long look. His dark eyes ran the emotional gambit before he finally spoke. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to leave? Are you really that unhappy here?"

"No, I love Abydon, and I always will. But this place has given me all it can and—"

Ridivan's eyes narrowed. "So this is about greed and selfishness."

He shook his head. "I just... I want to be the best possible version of myself. Is that so wrong?"

"Oh shut up..." Ridivan scoffed. "Stop pretending like you care about anyone but yourself. You have everything anyone could possible want here. And that's still not enough for you. Nothing is ever enough for you."

"Ridivan—"

The Abydon heir shook his head. "I don't even know who you are anymore. Just go, Leandyr."

Leandyr heaved a sigh. He should've waited a while longer before trying to reconcile. "As you wish."

With that, Leandyr took his leave. Darkness had descended during his time in the tavern and a chilling, salty breeze blew in from the sea. One that made torches and shadows dance and stragglers pull their warm garb tighter around them.