RFC-Mini Arc 2: Elven Garde-03 (Patreon)

“Stop drooling,” Micah said, snapping Callan out of his reverie.

“I’m not,” he said, stifling the urge to run the back of a hand over his lips.

“You think you’re the only one thinking about it? Elf or not, she’s rich and she’s an instructor. It’s a free pass into the Hall. Even I’d do her for that.”

The next urge he had to restrain was his hand’s pressing desire to backhand the crass man. “You should watch the way you speak about a lady,” Callan said evenly, his voice laced with a hint of menace.

Micah scoffed. “What are you going to do, furniture boy? Saw the legs off all my chairs? Calm your tits. I’m not interested in beanstalk over there. Besides, rumor is she’s married.”

“She isn’t.” He’d heard the rumors himself from a few of the acolytes that were willing to speak with him. They claimed that Kierra was married, had been for nearly a year, and traveled to the Grand Hall along with her spouse. An initiate. And, if that weren’t unbelievable enough, they claimed the initiate was a young woman of unremarkable visage and talent, from a lower noble house.

He didn’t know why they had spoken such ridiculous lies. Who did they expect to fool? Women could not marry one another. It made no sense.

He considered that they were joking with him, or perhaps concealing the information at Kierra’s behest. But she showed no signs of marriage. Her husband did not come to introduce himself, as normal when a wife decided to put off having children for work. A good thing, as Callan knew several others who would join him in the temptation to bury him under the foundation fields where they normally gathered.

She also kept her family name. He supposed she might have married a common man with no last name but he couldn’t imagine Kierra being charmed by a man of common means. Beyond that, she wore no ring nor any jewelry depicting the house she supposedly married into to.

The main reason he didn’t believe the tales of her matrimony was Kierra herself. The way she walked. The way she talked. The looks she sometimes gave the fighters. No one in a committed relationship would act the way she acted.

“Even if she isn’t,” Micah continued, lips turning up in a mocking grin, “why would she be interested in you? There are noble brats and future knights mixed in with this lot. No reason to ignore all the best pieces of meat and go scraping at the bottom of the barrel.”

“Mind your own business, shit shoveler,” Callan growled. “Just because any woman with a sense of self-respect would walk away from you after catching of a whiff of the horse piss you practically shower in, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to content ourselves to paying a whore to carry on our family line.”

“You—"

“Hey, you two.” Lucius stepped between them. He gave Callan a look that made the apprentice carpenter look away. “Micah, don’t dish it out if you can’t take it. Callan, we’re all in this together. Try to remember that.”

Callan nodded in acknowledgment and Micah turned away. It was as close as the two of them could come to reconcilement, the peace strained but strong. After all, Lucius’s words were true. They needed each other.

As non-acolytes, they were at a distinct disadvantage in Elven Garde. They rarely won their individual fights but there were also team challenges. The acolytes constantly fought with one another but the artisan apprentices, restaurant servers, and street sweepers who found themselves fighting against magic with nothing but their bare hands could easily set aside their differences in the face of an overwhelming foe. Their unity and numbers were their only advantages. Worth far too much to be shattered over a few rude comments.

“Good. I guess it’d be asking too much to suggest hugging it out?” He laughed at their sour expressions. “Just keep quiet for a bit then. I think our hostess is going to speak.”

Callan turned, gaze focusing on Kierra. She stood in the center of the ring formed by the crowd, shoulders relaxed and wearing a small smile. She didn’t speak a word but her force of presence was enough to grab the attention of the crowd, their voices quieting as they paid her their full attention.

When the clearing was quiet and all eyes focused on her, Kierra straightened up. “Good evening, everyone. I’m glad to see you all had no trouble finding my home.” She flashed a charming smile and Callan felt his normally stiff lips mirroring the expression. “As you know, tonight…is a very special night.”

She gestures into the crowd and someone walks out from the press of bodies. Callan’s good mood dies as Brahim swaggers from his friends to stand beside her. His stomach turned as the man grabbed the hand that beckoned him and kissed the back of it.

Kierra smiled at him indulgingly. “Presenting our current champion.” His team, a group of foundation acolytes, roared from their place in the crowd. Brahim raised his arms, prompting them to call out a few more cheers before a wave of Kierra’s hand quieted them.

“Tonight, he will defend his title. You all know the rules. Anyone is able to enter the ring. Matches are to first blood. Winning three rounds gives the challenger the right to face the champion in a normal round. But this will not be an ordinary fight. This is the third time Brahim will be defending his title. As so, if he is successful, he will receive…a reward.”

Her smile turned teasing. The crowd stirred and Callan felt his blood boil as he imagined the reward. The ideas were outlandish. Some thought it meant enough gold for the champion to live like a king for the rest of their days. Other unsavory types speculated a more carnal reward. Callan wasn’t willing to give up on either. No one had yet to defend their title for three months and he refused to let Brahim be the first.

“Good fortune in battle!”

The crowd cheered. Along the edges of the crowd, drummers started up a fierce rhythm that made the air vibrate and his heart pound. Wineskins and jugs were passed around as the first fighters jumped into the ring, the energy of the gathering immediately spiking. Kierra stepped back, hovering on the fringes of the crowd, arresting but untouchable.