CHAPTER 3:NARROW SIGHTS
Excess Town, Gourmand.
Siah stepped inside the dilapidated building, the creak of rotting wood beneath his boots echoing up the empty stairwell. The stench of ash curled into his nostrils. He climbed the cracked steps with a casual gait, but his eyes were sharp, flicking over each corner.
At the top, he reached a room that had long since lost its door—just a frame blackened at the edges, like something had once burned through it. From inside, thick, dense smoke coiled outward, slithering into his lungs and dragging out a fit of coughing.
"Cough, cough. Damn it," he muttered, waving his hand. "Old man Michael better have something good for me today."
The smoke inside wasn't just thick—it was unnatural. Despite a broken window in the far corner, no light penetrated the haze. Vague silhouettes of men, faceless in the cloud of smoke sat around a table.
As Siah stepped in, a hoarse, grating voice cut through the smoke like a blade.
"Why didn't you knock?"
Siah froze. His back stiffened instinctively as his eyes darted back toward the doorframe he had just passed through—confirming what he already knew. No door to knock on.
Rough chuckles rose around him from the figures in the smoke, jagged like broken glass.
"Brian, you're a comedian now?" another voice called out. "Why are you trying to scare the boy?"
A middle-aged man emerged from the haze. Salt-and-pepper hair curled beneath a weathered cap, and his long coat smelled of whiskey. He gestured to a rough wooden table crowded by three men, all half-concealed in the lingering smoke.
"Come in, Siah. Come take my seat."
Siah's eyes swept the table quickly. A pocketknife lay at the edge—clean, recently sharpened. In front of the men were neat stacks of bank notes, coins sorted in tight towers of gold and silver, gleaming dully in the sickly light that barely filtered through the broken glass. The table looked more like an altar of vice than a place to gamble.
"Michael," a raspy voice chuckled from across the table, "are you trying to use this kid as an excuse to run away with our Equi? Hahahaha…"
The man who spoke—Brian, presumably—wore a long, heavy coat that twitched as he reached into it. His movements were slow, deliberate.
"Your tricks won't work on me," Brian said, eyes glinting through the haze. "You're not leaving until I win my money back."
Michael's hand moved too—but casually—drawing wary eyes from the table. From his back pocket, he pulled out a pack of smokes. He flicked it open and extended one to Siah, then stood, motioning toward the chair.
"Gentlemen, I won't leave with your money. This young man is very lucky. I just hope to profit from his luck."
Brian exhaled hard, shoulders relaxing as he turned to Siah.
"Kid. Take the first spin. I want to witness this luck myself." He nodded toward the knife. "Don't break it. It's very precious to me."
One of the others—young, maybe mid-twenties, an eyepatch drawn tight across a scarred face—pulled back his money and leaned back, his stare like an arrow aimed at Siah's neck.
"I'm out for this round."
The third man—sharp-looking, middle-aged, dressed too well for this place—took in the scene with amused detachment. His smile bloomed across his face like an infection as he patted Siah's shoulder.
"Hahaha! Kid, you scared Ted off before your first round? Who are you? Never seen you before. You look too pretty to be a nobody must be a tavern wench's son living out in the villages, huh?"
Michael shoved the man's arm off Siah, his tone stiff. "Neil, you wretch. That's the Red Bane's son."
Neil's eyes widened. He leaned forward, a grin froze on his face, sharp with recognition.
"The Red Bane had a son? Is it true, boy?"
Siah didn't answer. Neil's face kept getting closer, the hunger in his expression growing twisted—obsessive.
"Speak, boy! Who's the lucky bastard?"
Neil's breath reeked of liquor. "I need to deal with him. Who's your father, boy? Speak!"
Siah frowned, leaning back to put distance between himself and the crazed man. His heart beat faster, but his face remained cold.
"Damn it. Why do I always encounter such crazy bastards? If I stab him, this matter won't just end here. If he's with old man Michael, it means he's an underground big shot."
Michael stepped in, placing a hand between the two."Do you think I'll allow you to bully my guest?"
Neil's laugh returned like a jackal's cackle.
"Hahahaha! Michael, my good friend… the Red Bane is no more. You've got no sweet scent to sniff, no ground to worship anymore. She's locked up in the Equitentiary for life as far as I'm concerned. I can do whatever I like to her son. I will pretend he's her. They do look identical when I look closer… hahaha… The world sure knows how to hand out late prizes."
Siah's fists clenched, teeth grinding as he held himself back from reaching for the blade. Neil's stare was thick with malice.
"I'll save you for later, boy," he hissed. "First I have to deal with that father of yours. He can't be anyone of note if you're hanging out around here. When I find him, the only thing you can save him with is your body."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Go ahead, boy. Spin the knife. I always Let my ladies go first—"
Neil's hand slipped onto Siah's thigh.
Blood sprayed into the smoke. Neil's body shuddered, his throat torn open. His wide, bulging eyes locked on Siah with stunned disbelief. He hadn't even seen the boy move.
Brian, Michael, and Ted froze like statues, mouths ajar. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
"What the—how did I stab him so fast?"
Siah didn't wait to answer himself.
He swept the Equi from the table into his arm, then kicked the table towards Ted and Brian.
As their hands moved, slow with shock, Siah turned and sprinted toward the broken window. Without hesitation, he leapt through it, glass scraping his sleeves. He hit the street with a forward flip, boots slapping hard on the stone as he vanished into the narrow alleys across the crowded market street.
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Outskirts of Gourmand City.
A castle loomed like a jagged fang on the horizon. Its twin curtain walls rose one nested within the other, each lined with grisly watchtowers that pierced the low sky like spears. A wide moat curled around the outer wall, fed by a sluggish, winding stream. The water ran black—thick, sludgy, and teeming with dark figures that moved just beneath the surface, indistinguishable.
This was the Blood Pound—base of one of the seven Blood Covenants knight squadrons that watched over Gourmand under the Eidolon Pantheon. This was the home of the Blood Hounds.
In the inner courtyard, heat shimmered above the stone as blood and sweat stained the training ground.
Theal lay shirtless on the hard ground, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. His arms throbbed from the relentless hits he has been taking, but there was no time to recover. A monstrous shadow loomed over him—the towering figure of Sir Gael.
Just as Theal's senses caught up with his body, Sir Gael was already above him. Muscles coiled, teeth grit, both hands gripping a wooden longsword as he thrust it straight for Theal's chest.
There was no time to think.
Theal's vision was instantly consumed by Sir Gael's harsh features—his broad skull, square jaw, and wide nose. Thick black eyebrows drew down like thunderclouds over deep-set eyes, and a heavy beard framed his face like a lion's mane. This monstrous sight triggered Theals survival instincts.
He rolled to the side just as the sword struck down, the loud CLANK of wood slamming against stone ringing out where his back had been.
Sir Gael didn't pause. From his crouched position, he pivoted into another motion—but Theal was already upside down in a sudden handstand. He kicked out at Sir Gael's head with all his weight behind it.
A casual tilt of the wrist.
The blow never landed. Sir Gael parried the kick effortlessly, and in the same breath, swept his leg in a reverse arc meant to strike at Theal's arms—the only thing keeping his body balanced above the ground.
But Theal moved with desperate instinct. He flipped forward just before the leg caught him, landing back on his feet in a low stance.
He saw an opening.
Sir Gael was still low from his sweeping strike. Theal stepped onto the knight's thick arm with a burst of agility, aiming to wrest the wooden longsword from his grip.
But just as his fingers neared the weapon—
CRACK!
A right hook slammed toward him from his blind side. The intense pressure parting the air warned him—every hair on his body stood on end. He twisted away mid-motion, bracing both arms across his chest.
The fist found him quicker than he expected.
The impact was like a boulder. Theal's eyes bulged, his breath fled his lungs, saliva flew from his mouth as his body was launched ten steps back. He rolled hard, landing with both arms numb and his chest screaming in agony.
Sir Gael's booming laughter echoed through the courtyard.
"Hahahaha! Young Theal, those book worms in the capital weren't wrong you are as strong as they say. A squire fresh out from the academy has never pushed me this far!"
Theal remained still, pale-faced, arms limp from the blow, sucking air through clenched teeth.
"But since you couldn't take the sword from me, you failed the test."
Sir Gael approached, voice calm.
"I might be harsh. Against another knight captain, you might have disarmed them. But this—" He tapped his chest. "This is my specialty. And the rules state: if a squire cannot disarm their knight captain, they are not fit to join the mission."
He paused, letting the words fall heavy.
"You are ready to ride with the Blood Hounds, but rules are rules. Everyone has to go through this."
Sir Gael's tone softened.
"Train diligently. This was your first attempt. On your next, you'll surely disarm me."
Theal nodded, face blank, pain coiled deep in his limbs. The throb of his arms matched the pounding in his chest.
Sir Gael's tone changed again—graver now.
"If you're desperate to really go on this mission, I'll have to be serious. I'll use my stillness abilities and infuse my body with Hue increasing my speed and strength breaking the mortal restraints."
He stepped forward, gaze iron-hard.
"You're still a mortal. Against that… you'll die without even knowing how I killed you."
A silence hung over the training grounds.
"The Hue beasts at the peak of Mournmound are the same," Sir Gael said, voice low. "They are not something mortals can handle."
He turned and waved Theal toward the keep.
"From now, go to Dame Elira. She's in the administration room. Seek knowledge about the stillness world from her. Prepare to fight for your spot on the squadron when i return."
He stepped back into the shadows of the archway, his voice trailing behind like a war drum. "When we return, you know the tradition. You will pick out a knight, and challenge them to single combat with mortal restraints."
He gave Theal one last look.
"If you win—you take their spot. And the knight you defeat drops down to squire. Just like you defeated the previous squire and sent him home taking his squire rank."
Theal gave a slight nod. No words.
He turned from the courtyard, body trembling slightly, but his steps steady. As he walked toward the keep, the echo of steel on stone rose behind him—screeches of swords drawn, armor clashing against walls, bootsteps pounding down stairs.
Sir Gael's voice rang out like thunder.
"Halric! Ewan! Alden! Make ready—we leave for Mournmound at noon!"
Theal stopped at the threshold of the keep and looked up at the sky. The clouds swirled above the castle's spires, the wind beginning to howl.
His chest still ached. His arms still limp. But his eyes darkened with resolve.
A vow to not be left behind.