She was otherworldly. Ephemeral. Like a mirage that would disappear if one were to blink. Even among the nobles clad in gold and shimmering stones, she stood above the rest in terms of beauty.
Her silver hair danced like fresh snow on her fair skin. Her frilled, black corset accentuated her thin figure and her blue eyes, crowned with orange, glittered under the rays of the sun. She gave him a soft smile. A stark contrast to the narrow eyes of the armored men that surrounded her.
Each wore a different assortment. One wore leather while another, chainmail. Some had daggers, while others had swords. They were private guards, either hired from a mercenary corps or an adventurer's guild. Either way, they were unpredictable and dangerous.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Zander started with a dash of charm. "Because I can tell you, I've never been around these parts before."
Her eyes locked with his, but their gaze went past him. It was as if she was looking through him.
"I can assure you Sir Kelly, this is the first time we've met," she replied.
Zander raised an eyebrow. "How do you know-"
"Your name?" she interjected. "Oh please, someone with half a mind could figure out the name of the worst drunkard in Ambrosia. Also, I was the one who asked the jackals in the Shield to give you to me. Now will you sit down or do you intend to speak to me whilst standing?"
He paused. He was no stranger to insults but her words cut in the most unexpected ways. Even when the insults weren't directed at him, they slightly stung. Maybe it was her nonchalant tone or her graceful disposition. Whatever it was, as soon as he heard them, he knew that she wasn't someone anyone can mess with.
Without protest, but still wary of her guards, he took the open seat that she offered. It was a place that someone like him couldn't possibly have imagined or dreamed to experience. A place of luxury.
In front of him was a delicate spread of tea and pastries. All normally unavailable to him of course. With his dirty hands, he took one piece from the platter. It was a buttery, airy bread that he immediately chased down with chamomile tea.
The nobles around him watched in horror as he smacked his lips in satisfaction. But he didn't care. All that was running in his mind was the wonderful flavors in his mouth.
"It sounds like you're enjoying yourself," she said and took a sip of her own.
In contrast to his wild display, she was gracious, well-mannered. She took small sips, a few bites, and her posture was as straight and proper as a statue. Truly, she was a lady that no one would be disappointed to introduce to their parents.
"My next words would probably surprise you," she continued. "So hopefully the refreshments can lighten up your mood well enough so you don't pounce at me when I say them."
"Just say what you want," he replied through a mouthful. "Nothing can possibly ruin the mood I got right now."
"Good," she sighed. Then, after clearing her throat, she continued. "I didn't call you here because I wanted Zander Kelly the drunkard," she said. "I called you because I need the services of the Ghost of Ustaad."
His heart froze. Swallowed the bit that was left in his mouth. Barely though since his throat had dried up and tightened from her words. Then, with bared fangs, he scowled.
"Where'd you hear that name?" he growled, all manner of cheer escaped his body.
Her men inched closer, their hands at the hilt of their weapons. But with one hand, she dismissed them.
"You can call me Charis," she said. "Or Lady Marigold, whichever you prefer. I figured it's just fair since I know your name. Well, one of many."
"Stop that," he said.
"Stop what?"
"Acting like you know me!" he shouted, his fist hammered the table.
Cutlery and porcelain jumped at the force of the impact. The crowds murmured at the sudden display of aggression. Some welcomed the stimulus with curiosity while some shrunk from fear.
Charis, however, stayed stoic. Gingerly, she placed her cup and saucer on the table. She sighed, her breath carried obvious boredom with it. Then, with her legs crossed, she faced Zander squarely.
"Look, Sir Kelly, I'm a merchant. And for me, my time is valuable," she replied. "So I'm going to spare us the trouble and tell you what I know and why I need you. I know that you were part of the Kastani Mercenary Corps, the youngest of your division. I know that when the War of Noir's Ravine happened, Astonia hired your group to fight against Ustaad. And I know that your assassination exploits in that war earned you the title of The Ghost of Ustaad."
"Well, good for you," Zander sneered. "Since you're oh, so knowledgeable, you should also know that I never wanted to hear that name again!"
"Did your years of drinking also rob you of common decency?" she asked. "Must you interrupt me before I could tell you what I want from you?"
"Forget it," he replied. "I'm not killing anyone anymore! Not for you. Not for anyone."
And with the mention of murder, the murmurs erupted into audible gasps and curses. Some of the guests started to head to their carriages while some whispered to their guards to arm themselves.
"I for one do not care what you do with your life, Sir Kelly," she continued. "You can drink the rest of your life away. Work with the Shields for some sort of personal satisfaction. Or die," she shrugged. "But unfortunately, I need you. So even if you hate me, mock me, or think of me as a devil. In the end, we will work together."
She flicked her fingers and at once, dozens of guards paced closer, their weapons drawn. They've surrounded him. With no weapon and no allies, his body prepared itself. His heart thumped through his chest. His skin tingled with every footstep. His grin widened as his knuckles cracked in anticipation.
"Get lost you fucking beggar!" one guard said as he lunged with his sword.
The swing was wide. Slow. Zander swiftly caught the guard's wrist and smashed the sword out of his hand. The guard cried out in pain but was immediately silenced with one strike to his chin.
The next guard came from behind. One kick to the stomach sent him reeling.
Another nocked a crossbow and aimed for Zander. Quite confident that she'd hit the mark through the crowd of guards. Zander grabbed a nearby fork and, with one fluid motion, flung it to the mechanism of the crossbow, causing it to jam. The guard squeezed the trigger but nothing came of it. Panicked, she checked for the error but one heavy pot crashed into her skull before she could figure it out. Her consciousness dissipated soon after.
They were uncoordinated, chaotic. Each of them had their own agenda. A desire to prove themselves to their employers or to have a bit of much needed stimulation after a dull day watching arrogant nobles drink tea. Whatever the reasons were, none of them wanted to work together. None of them wanted to share the glory. Thus, Zander dispatched each guard one swift strike at a time. Their bodies fell with a dull thud, and their pained groans filled the venue.
After a while, it was clear: they lost. The guards knew it. Even their feet stepped back without their consent, as if their own bodies wanted to spare them from harm.
Zander grinned. He relished at the look of astonishment and fear on their faces. They were considered the elite, he was considered trash. They were professionals, he was a mere tavern brawler. The result should've been their victory. Instead, the grimy, dirty beggar was the one dropping bodies like sacks of potatoes.
No one can tell him what to do or who he was supposed to be. Not anymore. He was free. Unchained.
He turned towards Charis' direction to see the kind of face she was wearing. Was she scared? Did she realize that messing with him was a bad idea? No. At the sight of his demonstration, she kept sipping her tea. Her eyes lacked even a glint of interest.
"You should look at your opponents, Sir Kelly," she said.
"What opponents?" he scoffed. "These guys're no challenge."
He stepped forward to engage the next guard but his knees buckled. Did he trip on something? He was sure nothing hit him, but the warmth on his side was telling him that something was wrong. So he looked. And as soon as he saw the damage, his eyes went wide. It was frozen. Shards of ice crystals dug into his flesh as the cold temperature singed his skin.
"He's got a wand!" one of the guards yelled.
"Get out of the way!" another followed.
The other guards hurried off in a panic. Like sheep in the presence of a predator. As they parted, a young man stepped forward. He was unlike any of the other guards. He wore no armor. Instead, he proudly flicked a multicolored robe. He also wielded no weapon. Instead, he held a single item in his hand: a gnarled branch, something that a child could pick up at the nearby forest. From one look, it would seem like trash, but the pain in his side was evidence of its destructive power. The man wore a huge grin as he approached Zander.
"What's the matter old man? Can't handle a bit of frost?" he said.
"Fuck," Zander said through ragged breathes. "Do they give wands to anybody nowadays?"
The man scoffed and pointed the wand at Zander's head.
"Make sure to know your place in your next life, peasant," he said. "Frost!"
The wand quivered. At the voice of its master, it glowed a mute blue color. The air vibrated with unknown energy. The crowd watched at a safe distance, eyes wide in anticipation. Prepared for the icy death that has come for Zander.
However, before the wand could meet their expectations, Zander smirked.
"Mist!" he shouted. His voice boomed throughout the entire space.
The wand shivered and instead of listening to its master's first command, it produced a gentle trail of mist.
"What the hell?" the man exclaimed as he shook the wand. "Is this thing broken? Frost!"
"Sand!"
And again, the command didn't hold. The wand shot a puff of harmless sand.
"What's going on?" he shouted, frustration clear in his voice as he stomped the ground.
Zander winced as he carefully got up. The frost has started to melt and crimson poured from his wound. Nothing vital was damaged but the frostbite would need some urgent care.
"What did you do to my wand?"
"Really, I should complain to Hartwin. If an idiot like you can get a wand so easily, this kingdom's screwed" Zander chuckled.
"How dare a peasant like you call me an idiot!" he rebutted. "Frost!"
"Feathers."
And again the wand followed the second command.
His patience tested to the limit, the mage shook his wand like a child whose toy refused to work. During this time, Charis approached the fight with a cane as her guide.
"Wands follow the user's imagination over their words," she interjected. "For someone like you who has the focus of a toddler, it's easy to change what you're thinking before the wand can finish its process."
The man turned to her and pointed the wand at her direction. "You bitch dare insult me too!"
Charis waved her hand and the man froze. Unmoving. He tried to speak but even his jaws were shut tight. She then turned to Zander.
"Isn't it about time to end this senseless show of aggression?" she said.
Zander grimaced. "I'm not gonna help you."
He remained defiant despite the gaping wound on his side. But his resistance has met its end when it was at that moment when something pricked his neck. It was something sharp, as small as a bee's sting. The pain from his torso made his reaction slower and by the time his hand reached back, he only grabbed the air. He whipped his neck back as one of Charis' guards backed away from him. He held some sort of contraption with a long giant needle emerging on one end.
Soon after, Zander's vision blurred. His knees buckled and his insides were on fire. His stomach knotted. A bell rang in his ears and his head was bursting at the seams.
"What'd you do to me?" he shouted, groaned really.
Then his muscles shook. His heart spasmed. His insides twisted and soon enough, he regurgitated everything he just ate.
"Don't worry, this is just your body cleaning itself up from your years of abuse," Charis replied. "I need you to be sober for the job I have for you."
"You bitch!" he barked.
"Oh, don't be like that," Charis smiled. "I'm not a monster so I added some sedatives in my potion. You should pass out in three, two, one."