Chapter 103: Maren Eryn [1]
Aura grumbled under her breath, tugging at the tough fabric with visible irritation.
Ronan looked at her.
She looked completely different from her usual self.
Instead of the obsidian-haired, purple-eyed demonic noblewoman, she now appeared as a blonde-haired, brown-eyed girl in coarse traveling clothes that made her seem forgettable at best.
"You look good," Ronan said. "Better than you do normally."
Aura scoffed. The statement was so absurd she couldn’t even find it in herself to get upset at it.
She tugged on the rough fabric again with open disdain. "I am an aristocrat. I should not be lowered to such a pathetic state. Neither should you. We are above this."
Ronan shrugged. "Don’t complain too much. I’m doing it too. Misery shared is misery halved, or so they say."
Aura glanced at him, then away, her expression flat.
"You don’t actually have similar pride, clearly," she said simply, as if pointing out a fact rather than an insult.
Ronan smiled faintly but didn’t argue.
He adjusted the hood of his own rough cloak, noting how the disguise made him look like a commoner traveling through the outer districts. No Ashbourne crest, no fine tailoring.
Nothing to draw attention to him or the demoness next to him.
Just two nameless travelers heading toward the neighboring kingdom, Xyta.
Aura crossed her arms, the blonde hair shifting unnaturally across her shoulder.
"We leave in ten minutes," he said. "Try not to scare anyone before we’re even out of the kingdom."
—
The first thing Ronan noticed when they both arrived at the neighboring kingdom, Xyta, was the poverty.
Beggars lined the streets in clusters. Some were missing limbs, others were hollow-eyed and skeletal, clearly not having eaten for perhaps days. Children with unwashed faces and clothes sat against the crumbling walls, palms outstretched toward passing merchants who ignored them as easily as breathing. The cobblestones were cracked and uneven, were missing paint in more than a few areas, and the air carried a sour smell, like unwashed bodies and rot.
"Sir, please spare a coin..." an elderly man pleaded, hands outstretched.
Ronan ignored him, not even bothering a second glance as he continued analyzing the setting.
Even in Fayloria’s – their main kingdom – worst districts, Ronan had never seen desperation displayed so openly. They hid it well.
Here, it wasn’t hidden behind closed doors or confined to shadowed alleys where no one could see them.
It was displayed in the open, unavoidable, as if the kingdom itself had stopped caring entirely.
Aura walked beside him, her expression neutral beneath the hood of her plain traveling cloak. Ronan caught the brief flicker of disgust in her eyes as they passed another cluster of hollow-faced children.
But there was some sympathy behind her gaze as well.
"So," she said quietly, keeping pace with him as they moved deeper into the town. "What now? Where do we even start looking for this ’cult’."
Ronan glanced at a woman slumped against a building, too thin to stand.
"I have a feeling they won’t be hiding very hard," he said.
Aura frowned. "What do you mean?"
"If the information you found was that easy to get, they’re not trying very hard to stay hidden." Ronan gestured vaguely toward the street ahead. "Let’s find a tavern. Ask around. We’re in disguise anyway. No harm in testing the waters."
Aura didn’t look very convinced, but she didn’t argue either.
They kept walking until Ronan spotted a small, unremarkable building tucked between two larger shops. The wooden sign hanging above the door was faded beyond readability, and the exterior didn’t look like what you’d expect from a tavern either.
But through the cracked door, Ronan could see movement inside – bodies packed close together, loud voices and laughing, loud music.
"Found one," Ronan said, nodding toward the door.
Aura followed his gaze and wrinkled her nose.
"That place?"
It was clear what she thought of it.
"That place."
They pushed through the door, and the smell of cheap booze and unwashed bodies hit his senses immediately.
The interior was dim, lit by a few oil lamps, and packed with people of every type – merchants, laborers, travelers, and a few suspicious figures lurking in the corners who looked like they belonged to no honest profession. Perhaps mercenaries.
No one paid them any attention. Good.
Ronan adjusted his posture, and he let his shoulders slump slightly.
His posture loosened into the swagger of someone who was three drinks deep. He’d seen enough drunk men in his previous life to imitate one flawlessly.
He made his way to the bar and leaned against the counter, addressing the barkeep with a lazy grin.
"Two beers," Ronan said, his voice just a bit too loud. "No, make it three!"
The barkeep, a thick-necked man with a rough, scraggly beard, grunted and slid two mugs across the counter without a word.
His gaze lingered briefly on Aura, then flicked back to Ronan with a crooked smile. He was missing a tooth.
"Your girlfriend thirsty too, eh, pretty boy?"
Aura stiffened beside him, her mouth opening to snap a correction–
"He is not my–"
Ronan cut her off smoothly, slinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to his body.
"Wife, actually," Ronan said, grinning wider. He pulled her even closer as he said it.
Aura went still.
The barkeep’s grin widened. "Ah, newlyweds, are ya? Lucky man."
Ronan laughed, his voice low and suggestive, "Very lucky. Can’t keep my hands off her. She’s insatiable."
The barkeep barked out a laugh, slapping the counter.
"I bet she is!"
Aura’s face turned red. Not from embarrassment, but from fury. Her fingers twitched at her side, and Ronan felt a faint flicker of demonic energy threatening to unleash itself.
He squeezed her shoulder warningly, his smile never wavering.
Aura clenched her jaw and stayed silent, but her glare promised retribution later.
The barkeep chuckled again, clearly misinterpreting her red face for ’shy embarrassment’ rather than ’murderous rage’.
"Congratulations to ya both. First round’s on the house."
"Appreciate it, boss," Ronan said, raising his mug.
The barkeep moved away to serve another customer, and Ronan took a slow sip of his beer, already scanning the room for useful conversations.
Aura leaned in close, her voice barely a hiss.
"I’m going to kill you."
"Later," Ronan murmured, still smiling. "Right now, you’re my loving wife. Try to look less homicidal, and more lovey dovey. Give me a kiss for good measure while you’re at it."
Aura stepped on his foot with a little too much pressure.
She opened her mouth to say something–
But before Aura could respond, a tall, bulky man stumbled past them, his shoulder slamming into hers hard enough to make her stagger.
He didn’t apologize.
Instead, he turned and sneered down at her.
"Watch it, little missy," he slurred. There were stains of alcohol and food all over his shirt.
Aura didn’t say anything.
She also didn’t apologize.
The drunk man turned fully toward her, and his glazed-over eyes narrowed. His face flushed red, veins bursting out against his neck.
"You not gonna say sorry?" he slurred, his voice rising loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. Everyone in the tavern was not looking their way.
Ronan felt Aura tense beside him, and he saw the slightest bit of mana gathering at her fingertips.
He moved before she could do anything stupid.
"Sorry about that," Ronan said smoothly, stepping between them with an easy, apologetic smile. "My wife didn’t know where to stand. She’s not from around here."
The man’s attention shifted to Ronan, then back to Aura. His angry face twisted into something worse – a lecherous grin.
"Your wife, huh?" The man looked Aura up and down slowly, deliberately. "She looks very nice."
Ronan kept his expression neutral.
The drunk man puffed out his chest, clearly pleased with the attention he’d drawn. "Name’s Greg. Mercenary. Tier 1 magician."
The effect was immediate.
The nearby conversations died. People shifted away from their table, some standing and moving toward the exits. The barkeep’s hand dropped and gripped the sword at his belt, his knuckles going white around the grip.
That was the effect a mage had on common people. Greg alone could probably massacre an entire tavern of untrained civilians if he wanted to.
But Ronan noticed some people, including the barkeep, seemed to recognize him. It seems that Greg was a frequent troublemaker.
Greg noticed the reaction and grinned wider, clearly enjoying the fear.
He turned back to Aura, his expression smug and cruel. "Tell you what. I’ll forgive the little missy if she apologizes properly." He tapped his boot against the floor. "Get down there and kiss my feet."
Ronan sighed internally, knowing where this was going to go.
This was it. Aura was going to blow their cover, tear this place apart, and probably kill half the tavern in the process.
He instantly started figuring out ways to get out of this situation. Perhaps they would have to change their identities again.
But then she spoke, and the words that came out of her mouth surprised him.
"I apologize," Aura said, her voice flat.
Greg smiled wide at the obedience. His ego clearly thrived in positions like this.
Ronan didn’t move, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"However," Aura continued evenly, "I won’t kiss your feet."
Greg’s smug expression vanished instantly, replaced by theatrical outrage.
He threw his arms wide, his voice booming across the tavern.
"That won’t do! That won’t do at all!"
Greg slammed his mug of beer on the floor.
Several people in the tavern flinched. The happy, whimsical environment was long gone, replaced with fear.
He stepped closer, circling around her like a predator.
His eyes zoned over her body again, slower this time, lingering on her assets.
"If you won’t kiss my feet," Greg said, his grin returning as he stopped beside her, "then I’ll need to receive payment another way."
His eyes dropped lower.
"You’ve got quite the ass on you, sweetheart."
His hand moved.
Ronan saw it in slow motion – Greg’s thick, dirt-stained fingers reaching out toward Aura, aiming for her backside with zero awareness of the possible consequences.
The hand never made contact.
SLASH!
In the blink of an eye – faster than even Ronan could track – Greg’s hand was simply gone.
Severed.
It fell to the floor with a wet thud, fingers still curled in the grasping motion.
Blood sprayed from the cleanly cut wrist, painting the floorboards.
For a heartbeat, no one said anything.
Greg stared down at the stump where his hand used to be. His expression was blank and confused, as if his brain hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were seeing.
Then the pain registered.
He screamed.
