The Great War: Chapter 52
A den of darkness
Walking alone on the crowded streets of Ica feels… strange. Not to draw to much attention to himself, Devin removed what little armor he wore, striding around casually in his black robe. He even left his scythe behind, armed with only a dagger strapped to the inside of his right wrist, hidden by his sleeve. The good thing about Samuel being hidden away in the castle for so long and rising to power just this cycle is that Devin can still blend in with the crowd without much fear of being recognized. As time drags on, however, that will drastically change for certain.
His entire being crawls and itches with great discomfort; it knows he shouldn’t be this far away from the being he’s sworn his life to protect. Ezra is hardly combat trained at all, and by Mathew’s own words he can’t be fully trusted, either. Even if Samuel’s surrounded by the best guards ever trained, worry still weighs heavy on Devin’s mind.
He turns into a tight side street, shaded by the buildings that make the alley’s walls. Even though this is his first time going this way, he knows the route like he’s walked it all his life. His father made him study and remember all the different buildings and businesses across the entirety of Korodon. The only time he’s allowed to get lost is when he’s traveling to a foreign island, and even then he’ll pour over many maps well in advance to the voyage.
The alley is long, at its end a single slim door made of black metal stands before him. Even though the door appears to be quite thick and heavy, he can still hear the drone of merriment beyond it.
He bangs his fist on the cold metal. If he were here under any other circumstance, he would have brought some guards with him and have the door ripped right off its hinges. But that wouldn’t grant him audience with Cassie. It would send her the wrong message. So, for now, he’ll have to put up with the criminal activity he’s about to witness.
A little slot opens about eye-level with Devin, and he’s met with a pair of dark green eyes. They’re narrow, squinting at Devin, trying to make sense of who he is. Beyond the eyes, the din of music and chatter fills his ears.
“What do you want?” the being on the other side of the door shouts.
“I’m looking for a fix,” Devin replies, doing as he was once taught.
“You meeting some being here?”
“Yes.”
The eyes narrow further; Devin can sense the being’s skepticism. Maybe he sounds too proper? Maybe he’s still too neatly dressed for this being’s liking? It’s not the end of the world if he’s turned away here. There are other places in Ica he can try to infiltrate. To be frank, this is very much a blind pick. Even if Cassie is known to frequent illegal bars such as this one, there’s no telling when she visits and where she’ll be. But he knows some contacts that might prove to be helpful, and they’re presences are much more reliable than tracking Cassie down directly.
The slot promptly closes without a word, but before Devin writes this location off, the door swings open. A burly wizard - most likely the bouncer, or one of them - waves him in. A wall of sound and smell hits Devin square in his face. The sweet yet bitter taste of wine buzzes on his tongue, even though he’s still standing out in the alley.
With a slight nod, he steps into the large room filled with beings of all shapes and sizes. There are no windows, the only lighting coming from small lamps scattered about. It’s nearly just as crowded in here as it is out on the surface streets. Most beings are dressed in rags or dirty, wrinkled clothes. If they’re not addicts, they’re refugees with nowhere left to turn.
Making his way to the bar, shoving through the sea of bodies, a pang of sadness stings Devin’s heart. So many beings have sought refuge here, most likely knowing the punishment if they were ever caught in a place like this. And there’s no way any of them are freeloading, either.
The seats at the bar are all full, with beings standing in the spaces in between. Devin isn’t looking to get a drink; on an important mission such as this, having a glass of wine now is insane. It’s probably cheap wine, too, the kind that makes his nose wrinkle with disgust at the mere sight of it. If he wants a drink, he’ll get one from the castle’s stores.
No, he needs to meet with one barista in particular. This being has information that Devin needs. And with any luck, they’re still here.
He manages to grab a standing spot at the bar, leaning forward on his arms to signal that he’s waiting to order. The barista’s are busy tending to the numerous other beings up and down the bar, weaving in and out of each other as they carries cups of colored liquid back and forth.
But Devin spots the being he need to talk to, a boy with dark brown hair. At first glance, the boy appears to be healthy and fit; one might feel sad that he wound up down here working for criminals and serving addicts. But then he turns around, revealing his face. A bright redish-purple hand mark stretches across his face, the palm starting around his left eye, the fingers curling up his forehead and into his hair. Wherever the hand mark is, hair refuses to grow, giving the boy a rather atrocious hair line when looking at him straight-on.
Devin knows much about this boy and his family. His father was once part of the royal guard, but was caught taking bribes and was jailed for a short period of time before being discharged. He was divorced and left to care for his only son, Argent, when he came to Ica and began working for this very bar as a bouncer. He had been a contact for the guard for a good long while, and in turn his place of work was left alone, so long as it avoided crossing too many lines. But Devin’s heard the old man retired not that long ago, sustaining quite the injury to his leg in a bar brawl. Otherwise, there would have been no need for Devin to venture this far into this seedy establishment.
Argent himself has had some run-ins with the local guard for petty crime when he was younger. His list of charges is quite the read. The horrible pickpocket had an unfortunate run-in with the wrong being one cycle, and now he sports that scar and works to the bone to make amends. Amends that won’t ever be fulfilled, knowing Cassie.
Devin waves Argent down furiously. After dropping off an order to a different patron, the boy hurries his way to Devin. Up close, the scar is much more pronounced and distracting. Argent’s eye is puffy and partly closed, the white around his iris dark red instead. Shades of gray decorate the underside of his other eye. His glassy gaze is trying desperately to stay focused.
An overworked criminal is still a criminal.
“Your order?” Argent asks. Devin detects dryness to the boy’s voice, though it’s hard to tell for certain over the noise all around them.
“Ice burn,” Devin replies straight and serious. Argent’s eyes widen; is he scared or surprised? Probably both. Devin points directly at the scar and adds, “I want to meet him.”
Argent’s mouth hangs open for a moment, processing the request.
“You,” he eventually replies, “don’t want to.”
Devin stares directly into the boy’s eyes with every ounce of seriousness he has. He leans over the bar and hisses, “Interfering with a royal order is punishable by death.”
This finally seems to get Argent’s attention. The boy’s body jolts with panic, finally realizing the sort of being he’s dealing with. Now he must pick his poison, to either face the wrath of the Queen of the Underworld or the execution order of the King of Korodon.
“Do anything stupid, and this place will be closed come nightfall,” Devin adds.
Argent nods furiously. “O-Of course. Meet me at the back.” And with that, he starts to hurry towards the far end of the bar.
Devin follows as fast as he can, ducking and weaving through the crowd with ease. He doesn’t want to lose sight of Argent. He also doesn’t want to push or shove. In a room half-full of drunks and criminals, any being could have a short temper, ready to step in his way.
He makes it to the back of the room, where Argent stands anxiously near a curtained doorway, roped off with a sign saying STAFF ONLY. Devin almost lets out an amused huff. Even illegal bars need some civility to them. The boy waves Devin over the rope and through the curtain, where he’s led into a tight hallway just barely lit by whatever lamp is able to be shoved in this cramped space. A couple other rooms branch off from this hall, doors made of thick wood and held in place by iron locks separating them from the noise of the bar but a few solid bricks away. And it’s through one of these doors Argent leads him.
Stepping inside, Devin is greeted by a lavish interior devoid of all noise. A rosy aroma pleasantly replaces whatever mess of sensation he was enduring just moments ago. Red cushions pad the space, covering the floor and piling up in the corners. In the room’s center is a simple table with a candelabra. The small flames of the burning wax are the only things illuminating the space.
“Why are we here?” Devin asks, turning to Argent. The boy appears about ready to faint, his face paler than white. To be expected; he’s still just a kid, after all, roped into something far beyond his power.
“If you really want to meet Mitch that bad, he’ll be here later,” Argent replies.
“Is that a guarantee?”
“Y-Yes.”
Devin nods. “Then you can go.”
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