As Finn's gaze sharpened on Ingrid's form, a sudden realization dawned upon him.
It wasn't just the tavern Mythralis, now a cacophony of screams and shattering wood, had transformed into a battlefield of survival.
The flickering flames outside cast a sinister glow on the scene, reflecting the turmoil within Finn's own heart.
He couldn't escape the chaos!
Ingrid, usually so composed and enticing, looked almost feral as she manoeuvred beneath the table.
Her eyes, wide with a mix of fear and adrenaline, locked onto Finn's.
At that moment, she pleaded without saying the words.
Finn and Ingrid's connection traced back to their earliest years when life's harsh winds had tossed them into each other's orbits.
Finn, a young orphan with eyes too old for his age, had first encountered Ingrid in the shadowed alleys of their shared misfortune.
She, a slave girl, had borne the weight of a life that had offered her little but had not broken her spirit.
Their bond was complex, woven from strands of shared hardship and mutual reliance.
It was not love that tied them, nor was there any hint of romantic entanglement.
Instead, their relationship was one of deep-rooted utility, they used each other.
Ingrid, with her connections and cunning, had been a guiding force in Finn's life. She had introduced him to the clandestine corners of passion and pleasure, her network leading him to the arms of various women over the years.
Even Finn's first encounter with the tender flames of desire had been orchestrated by her, through one of Mr. Doan's girls.
But beyond the fleshly pursuits, Ingrid played a more pivotal role in Finn's true vocation—thievery, well he would call it taking what you can.
Finn loved stealing, his skills honed by years of necessity and survival.
Privateering was but a façade, a means to an end.
Ingrid, ever the informant, was his most trusted source. Whenever whispers of a lucrative score reached her ears, Finn was the first to know.
They operated in a world where words were often superfluous, where actions and gestures spoke volumes.
Ingrid's tip-offs had led Finn to some of his most successful scores, and in return, he had always ensured her safety and well-being, well he tried to.
Finn quickly assessed the chaos.
The rioters, blinded by grief and rage, were tearing the Salty Siren apart.
Barrels smashed, tables overturned, and amidst it all, the ominous scent of whale oil grew stronger, a grim herald of the fire to come.
He knew they had mere moments before the flames would claim the tavern. His mind raced, analyzing every possible escape route.
The front door was a death trap, swarming with the rioters. The only viable option was the back exit, usually reserved for discreet departures.
Grabbing Ingrid's arm, Finn pulled her from her hiding spot. "This way!" he shouted over the din, his voice barely audible.
They darted through the chaos, dodging flailing arms and flying debris.
WHooosh!!!
The fire finally came, a ravenous beast unleashed. It devoured the Salty Siren with a ferocity that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
The heat from the encroaching flames was intense, licking at their heels as they made their escape.
As they reached the back door, Finn glanced back at the Salty Siren.
The tavern that had been a sanctuary for so many nights was now a hellish inferno. The sight seared itself into his memory, as he licked his lips.
The air was dry, he was thirsty!
Outside, the night air hit them like a wave.
The riot's clamour was still loud, but it was muffled by the walls of the buildings around them. They were in the narrow alley behind the tavern now.
Ingrid, still clutching Finn's hand, looked up at him.
Her eyes shone with a mix of gratitude and something else, something deeper. Finn could only nod, understanding that words were futile in the face of such raw emotion.
They needed to move, to put distance between themselves and the Salty Siren before the rioters decided to expand their search.
Finn led the way, he activated his spiritual vision, every shadow and sound scrutinized. They moved swiftly aware that danger lurked in every corner.
Finn's spiritual vision allowed him to perceive auras and even the Ether Body, enabling him to anticipate the presence of beings with Spirit Bodies.
As they navigated the maze-like alleys, Finn's thoughts raced.
Who had started the fire?
Was it an accident, or something more sinister? And what of the chapel?
Have the people from the ships started attacking?
The questions swirled in his mind, each one adding to the weight he felt.
For now, though, survival was paramount. Answers would have to wait.
The night remained long, and amidst the labyrinthine backstreets of the city, Finn and Ingrid alternated in guiding their path.
*********
******
***
The atmosphere in the dimly lit corridor was tense as the two men approached Marcellus and Ralf, their jovial banter silenced by the sudden unease that washed over them.
These were the very men whom Severin had duped into abandoning their posts, only to return now that the false rumour had been dispelled.
The burly one scratched his head, suspicion gnawing at him as he examined the faces of Marcellus and Ralf.
They exchanged jests as they neared, but as the burly one took a closer look, he furrowed his brow, realizing he didn't recognize Marcellus and Ralf.
Merely a scant three feet from their destination, Ralf, his portly figure casting a shadow of authority, delivered a stern admonition, "Retreat. You cannot pass through here."
The moment Ralf uttered those words, a gunshot rang out from the upper floor—a deafening bang!
Ralf pondered, Severin appears to have taken action.
The sharp bang echoed through the floor, and everyone on the floor, including Marcellus, momentarily froze.
Their attention was drawn upward, towards the source of the gunshot.
In that tense moment, as the echoing gunshot reverberated through the corridor, everyone on the floor seemed to collectively hold their breath.
Their eyes darted upwards to the source of the unexpected sound, fixated on the ceiling as if it held the answers to the sudden disruption.
But Ralf, the rotund knight, remained unmoved by the distraction.
He knew all too well that this gunshot was Severin, taking action.
Ralf possessed the knowledge that Severin was a notorious criminal, a fact that should have stirred his conscience.
However, such concerns held little sway over him.
Severin, despite his criminality, held the rank of Sequence 7.
Ralf, on the other hand, had dedicated four decades of his life to the church, earning the esteemed position of Sequence 9.
It was an injustice that gnawed at his soul, a glaring disparity in fate.
Thus, when Severin approached him, Ralf was already predisposed to favour the offer, even before learning the man's true identity.
Instead of joining the others in looking up, he continued to scrutinize the two men before him, his keen gaze unwavering.
As the strangers tried to piece together the unfolding events, their faces revealed hints of confusion, concern, and perhaps a touch of anxiety.
Ralf's watchful eyes took note of their every movement, ready to react to any sign of hostility or deception.
In the face of mounting tension and uncertainty, the two approaching men, their expressions fraught with alarm, instinctively reached for the concealed firearms at their sides.
Fingers wrapped around grips, they slowly began to draw their weapons, their eyes darting between Ralf and the source of the gunshot from above.
Ralf, recognizing the danger and the potential threat posed by the armed men, tightened his grip on his sword hilt.
As the tension in the corridor escalated, Ralf wasted no time.
In a display of practised precision, he drew his sword from its scabbard, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light.
The metallic hiss of steel leaving its sheath filled the air. Ralf stood ready, his stance firm and unwavering, his eyes locked onto the armed men before him.
Before the two men could even level their guns, Ralf was upon them.
His movements were a blur of steel and skill.
In mere seconds, he had expertly sliced off their trigger fingers and deftly tripped them, leaving them sprawled on the ground, their guns scattered.
Pain and panic surged through the would-be assailants as they let out anguished screams, their hands bleeding profusely and their weapons out of reach.
Ralf stood over them, his sword gleaming ominously.
Witnessing the swift and brutal display of violence, Marcellus blanched.
It was a swift, Ralf stood there, his sword held with a steady grip, a warning to anyone else who might dare challenge their path.
In the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the room, the two grown men lay on the floor, writhing in pain, their fingers severed and bleeding profusely.
Their cries of agony pierced the air, a desperate plea for help as they struggled to staunch the relentless flow of blood.
Ralf attempted to speak, but the men's high-pitched screams drowned out his voice.
Frustrated by their incessant wailing, unable to bear the piercing screams any longer, resorted to drastic measures.
With a swift and powerful kick to the windpipe, he silenced the screaming men, their cries abruptly cut off.
The atmosphere was filled with a tense stillness, broken only by the sound of their laboured breathing and occasional moans of pain and gurgles of blood.
With a stern look, he continued his message, "You are free to leave or stay, it matters not. But do not attempt to cross this staircase."
His words carried a weight of authority, and he hoped they would heed his warning else this would be a night of cries of agony.