Chapter Forty-One: Turmoil During the Fieldwork (Part Three)

The ruckus outside the tavern spoiled the drinking mood for many and fueled a buzzing chorus of gossip, the noise even surpassing the clinking of glasses and the shouts of drinking games. Yet, none of this managed to disturb the drinking spirit of a certain woman.

Inside the tavern, by the window, there was a long table with a chair backed against the wall beneath the sill. Seated there was a breathtakingly beautiful woman—her beauty so extraordinary it stunned any who beheld her. Though she appeared young, there was nothing naive about her. No trace of hardship lingered in her lustrous hair, and her arms and face were as flawless and white as the purest jade, soft as silk. Her eyes sparkled with a dazzling light, as clear as a cloudless night sky.

Flint Sher sat wearily across from her. His old bones had carried him long enough; it was time to let them rest. The old man drank greedily from his mug of malt beer, draining it quickly. The local brew of this small town was unique, awakening a craving in Flint's seasoned gut.

"I should never have agreed to accompany an old man on an adventure," the woman muttered, watching Flint’s drunken antics. Though she spoke loudly, there was no one else inside to hear—everyone had gone outside.

"Jeffrey, disdaining your elders is hardly the mark of good noble breeding," the old man grumbled.

Jeffrey, the beautiful woman, batted her large eyes and noticed the commotion outside growing louder. She suppressed her curiosity and asked, "Grandfather, may I go have a look?"

Flint let out a small drunken burp, then reassured her: "Nothing worth seeing. Just some petty, tiresome scheming."

Still, her gaze wandered. "But we came here for adventure. Shouldn’t we find something exciting?"

Years of solitary adventuring had made the old man prone to talking to himself. Placing both hands firmly on his knees, he declared, "If I ever again think of traveling with a woman, may the gods curse me!"

She brushed aside a stray lock of hair and corrected him, "It’s adventuring, not traveling."

For an old man who’d trekked all day through the crisp autumn air, finding a decent tavern and a comfortable seat was a rare pleasure.

Flint lay back quietly, letting the mingled warmth of malt beer and drifting thoughts seep into his bones. But his brief contentment was soon interrupted by his granddaughter, Jeffrey Sher, who insisted he join her outside.

The two stepped out of the tavern.

Patrolmen sent by the Stevenson family thundered into town on horseback, over a dozen strong, churning the street into a cloud of dust.

"My own hearth at home has long since gone cold," Flint murmured softly. He shook his head, annoyed at his own sentimentality, and settled onto a vacant bench outside, using another mug of malt beer as punishment for his mood.

Jeffrey watched the growing chaos, releasing her hold on Flint’s arm in excitement.

Just then, one of the mounted patrolmen shouted, "Our young master says not to disturb the town’s peace—clear the way!"

"I didn’t know this land even had a lord," came a voice from the crowd—Carlos. Seeing the reinforcements arrive, he stepped forward, groom Grant close behind. Eyeing the arrogant, blond, scar-faced man, Carlos said, "If you’re curious, the dungeon would be a fine place to find out!"

Seated on the bench, old Flint couldn’t make out what was happening in the crowd. Suddenly, he paused mid-drink, calmly set his mug down, and stood on tiptoe to peer at Jeffrey’s hand in the center of the scene.

He let his hand drift to the axe at his back and rose to search the crowd’s center. That voice was so familiar—the only one he’d recognized in years. Yet, he couldn’t recall whose it was.

Flint narrowed his eyes, gazing at the street bathed in sunlight filtered through the haze.

He saw a slender youth step from the crowd into the street. Flint, imitating his granddaughter, rose on his toes for a better view.

The newcomer moved with a nonchalant grace, his frame slight, but his clear features and pitch-black eyes shone with confidence. Beneath a green cloak, Flint stared, transfixed, as the youth approached Carlos. Suddenly, he exclaimed, "My heavens, he looks exactly like his grandfather."

The burly, blond, scar-faced Jink glared at Carlos, who had appeared before him so suddenly and spoken so menacingly. Jink sneered, ready with a retort, but Laurent quietly laid a hand on his arm, and Jink wisely fell silent.

Carlos ignored the blond man, turning instead to Charles and Malt.

"You want to take Malt out into the wilds too?" he asked.

Charles’ face darkened, stubbornly lifting his chin to meet Carlos’ gaze. "It’s better than having her mother force her into the tavern to be humiliated."

Carlos nodded, then turned to the silent Malt. "And you, Reina? Have you decided to become a hunter?"

Malt’s lips were pale; after a long moment, she shook her head.

Carlos smiled reassuringly and said to Charles, "Charles, you’re forcing Malt just as much as her mother is, aren’t you?"

Charles frowned. "But I’m doing it for her own good."

Carlos shook his head. Who was to say Malt’s mother didn’t want her to have a better life as well? To someone like Charles, an orphan with pride carved into his bones, even a sidelong glance was an insult—he’d never set foot in his aunt’s house and looked down on Reina’s mother. He couldn’t bear the thought of Malt becoming like her.

Truthfully, Carlos didn’t want to see his friend become a barmaid either—not because he looked down on them, but because he believed Malt deserved better. Simply put, if Malt had become his friend after already taking up that life, Carlos wouldn’t have judged her, but Charles would have kept his distance.

"If you don’t want to be a hunter, then come with me. Find work at the manor, settle in, and when you know what you want, you can leave," Carlos said, offering her a warm smile.

Malt’s heart fluttered; she looked up in surprise, her delicate features softening as tears glimmered in her eyes. The tension in her body melted away, and a faint smile curved her lips.

"Alright."

Seeing Malt had made up her mind, Charles fell silent, face set, hardly daring to meet Carlos’ gaze.

"Clap! Clap!" someone applauded from behind, speaking in a tone that brooked no argument, "The friendship of young people is truly moving. I, Laurent, would love to grant your wish—but unfortunately, I’ve already paid for the lady’s company tonight. No one takes what’s mine."

Malt’s cheeks flamed scarlet. Carlos gave her a reassuring look.

He turned, spread his hands, and narrowed his eyes. "So you intend to break the rules here?"

"This dusty little town belongs to no lord—so whose rules must I obey?" the man replied, his hawk-like blue eyes sweeping the crowd. "And if there are rules, why not just trample over them?"

As he spoke, a cloud of dust rose at the edge of town, the earth trembling with a thunderous roar.

The Astrolabe Guild’s hunting party—over a hundred strong—was returning from hunting the beast wave in the Rodney Mountains, weary and road-worn as they stepped onto the soil of Saltwell Town.