The smell hits me first, a solid wall of stale ale, unwashed bodies and a cheap tobacco. It makes my eyes water.
Even in the morning, the tavern is full. On the left, a bard plays a cheerful, out of tune melody that clashes with the grim atmosphere. On a low podium, barely clothed women dance, their movements sensual but lethargic. Men pile around them, jeering and throwing copper coins.
"Cheat! Ya filthy cheater!"
A loud yell scares me. At table to my right, a man stands up, pushing the table so hard cards fall to the ground. He accuses the dealer, spit flying from his mouth.
Gamblers. Drunks. Whores.
I keep my head down and walk straight to the bar, trying to make myself even smaller than I am.
A large man stands behind the counter, wiping a mug with a rag that looks dirtier than the floor. He has broad shoulders, lush hair and his forearms are filled with scars.
He stops wiping and leans over the bar, measuring me with his eyes.
"Ain't seen your face 'round here before, girlie," he rumbles over the music. "Bit young, ain't ya? But if yeh got coin ..." He smiles, a gap toothed grin, not even finishing his sentence and winks at me.
I shake my head. "I'm looking for Killar."
"Killar?" he raises eyebrow. "Who's asking?"
I stay quiet for moment, my heart hammering. "I'm Seraph," I say, my voice trembling slightly, "I'm ... his sister."
"Sister?" The man lets out a sharp snort. "Never heard 'bout his kin. Though yeh got the same mean look about yeh."
"Name's Axel." He grabs a half empty mug from the counter and slides it toward me, sloshing a white foam onto the wood. "Here. Wet your nose. On the house."
I hold the mug. The smell of the ale makes my stomach turn. Axel watches me, a smirk playing on his lips.
I take a small sip.
The liquid burns. It tastes rotten with a hint of fire. I start coughing violently, my eyes watering.
Axel erupts into laughter, slapping the counter with his large hand. "Hah! Ain't got the stomach for the slop, eh? He is down below. The Pit."
The Pit?
I try to smile at him, but my throat feels on fire. I don't touch the drink anymore and hurry toward the stairs at the back of the room.
A man stands guard at bottom, arms crossed. "Five ashes to enter."
I look at him suspicious. That is half the price of my room for a week. But curiosity and the need to find familiar face wins. I fish out the copper coins and drop them into his palm.
He grins, revealing mouth missing half of his teeth. "Come in young lady."
He opens the door.
A roar of noise washes over me. It's deafening. A thick cloud of smoke hangs in the air, illuminated by flickering torches. A crowd of half drunk men stands in a circle, chanting a name.
"Killar! Killar! Killar!"
I push through the crowd. I am small enough to squeeze between the sweaty, dirty bodies, ignoring their grunts of protest. I need to see.
I reach the edge of the ring and freeze. I rub my eyes, not wanting to believe what I see.
Killar is in the centre. He is stripped to the waist, his hands bound in rough cloth stained dark with blood. Opposite him is a man twice his size, a brute with shaved head and body filled with scars.
They circle each other.
The brute lunges. His fists connecting with Killar's jaw. Killar stumbles back, spitting blood onto the floor
"Killar," I yell instinctively.
He hears me. For a split second, his eyes flick toward the crowd. He sees me.
Thwack.
The distraction costs him. The brute lands another blow, this time to his ribs. Killar grunts, but doesn't fall.
Instead, I see his eyes change. The annoyance vanishes, replaced by a cold, burning fury.
He looks back at his opponent. Barely dodging the next swing with a predator's grace.
Crack.
Killar's fist slams into the man's nose. The brute stumbles back.
Killar doesn't stay back. He steps forward, becoming a blur of violence. He strikes the man's throat, his stomach and his face. The brute fell to his knees on the muddy floor.
"Stop!" another man yells, rushing toward Killar, trying to grab his hands. "He is done! You won!"
Killar doesn't stop, raining down punches. His face is twisted in a mask of pure hate.
Two other men have to help, to drag him off. Killar thrashes, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. His opponent falls on the ground, unconscious.
I stare at him, terrified. This isn't the boy I sparred with it. His elegance and precision vanished. This is a monster.
I look scared of him, at his opponent his lying on the ground, unconscious. Blood pouring from his mouth. Another few men tending to him trying to wake him up.
When Killar finally calms down, he shakes them off, annoyed, grabbing a towel. He walks towards the table, wiping blood from his face. He sits down and grabs a bottle.
I follow him, I have to try.
"Killar," I say, approaching the table.
He freezes, turning slowly, "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you. To know you are alright."
"As you can see, I am great," he says, his voice filled with sarcasm. He gestures to the cheering crowd. "I've never been better. Now leave me alone. You don't belong here."
"No, that's not right," I plea, stepping closer. "We are family. Silas ..."
"Silas is dead!" he snaps. The tavern seems to quiet down around us.
He leans in close. He smells of blood and sweat, "Go back to your castle, Princess. There is no place for you in the Slums."
"I have no castle," I whisper.
"Then rot in the street. I don't care."
He shoves me hard. I stumble back, nearly falling. The thugs nearby laugh.
Killar turns to one of them, "Take this trash out. She's ruining my drink"
A thug, with a big tattoo on his chest stands up. He grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my muscles painfully. "Time to go, Princess," he says chuckling.
"Killar, please!" I cry out.
Killar turns his back on me and takes a long swig of his drink, like I don't even exist.
The thug drags me to the exit. I'm too in shock to fight back. He shoves me up the stairs and then out the door onto the cobblestone.
"Don't come back," he sneers, slamming the heavy door.
I stand there, breathing hard. The cold air bites my skin.
People walk past me, ignoring me sobbing.
I feel it then. The true weight of it. Silas left me. And now, Killar has thrown me away.
I am truly alone.
I touch the locket underneath my shirt, then reach down to my boot and pull out the black dagger. The metal is cold, absorbing the weak winter sunlight. Those are the only things, that haven't left me.
I wipe my face with my sleeve.
Fine, I think, a hard knot forming in my chest. If I'm trash, I will be the sharpest trash in the pile.
I sheath the dagger and walk away from the Blood Tavern.
I will survive.
Myself.
And I will rely on no one ever again.