I'm sitting in the backroom counting our coins. The flickering light of the oil lamp casts dancing shadows across the worn wooden table, glinting off the small piles of currency before me. I count 3 silver coins and 180 bronze coins I've stacked neatly in piles of ten. The metallic clink of the coin against coin fills the air as I double-check my count, a sound that would normally bring comfort but now only serves to heighten my anxiety.
"Damn," I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. "I'm one silver off."
The realization sits heavy in my gut, a leaden weight of worry that threatens to drag me under. The bank is coming in a couple of days to collect the monthly mortgage, and we're cutting it closer than ever before. I can almost hear the tick of an invisible clock, counting down the hours until their arrival.
I lean back in my chair, the old wood creaking in protest. The room around me seems to shrink, the walls closing in as the magnitude of our financial troubles settles over me like a suffocating blanket.
The scent of dust and old parchment mingles with the faint aroma of ale that perpetually clings to the inn. It's a familiar smell, one that usually brings comfort, but today it only serves as a reminder of our dwindling patronage. We've been having fewer guests than ever, the common room more often empty than not.
"We're barely going to make it this month," I whisper to the empty room, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
I hear the bell on the door ring in the common room, its cheerful jingle a stark contrast to my somber mood. With a heavy sigh, I push myself up from the rickety chair.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the brighter light, and as they do, I feel my breath catch in my throat. Standing there, silhouetted against the open doorway, is a face I haven't seen in years. Asaf Mov, his broad shoulders, and scarred face as imposing as ever.
"Asaf," I call out, surprise coloring my voice. "Long time no see."
Asaf's blue eyes lock onto mine, a flicker of recognition passing through them. He gives a curt nod, his expression as stoic as I remember. Without a word, he makes his way to the bar, his heavy boots thudding against the floor with each step.
I hurry behind the bar, my limp more pronounced than usual after sitting for so long. The familiar motions of grabbing a clean mug and positioning myself behind the taps bring a sense of normalcy to this unexpected reunion.
Asaf settles onto one of the barstools, the old wood groaning under his weight. Up close, I can see the new scars that mar his face and arms, testament to the dangers he's faced since we last met. His armor, though well-maintained, shows signs of recent repairs.
"Hello," Asaf says, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet room. It's as terse a greeting as ever.
I can't help but smile, memories of our brief interactions in the dungeons flooding back. Asaf was never one for many words, preferring to let his actions speak for him. It seems some things never change.
"What brings you to Dord?" I ask.
Asaf's eyes meet mine, a flicker of determination sparking within their depths. The scars on his face seem to deepen as he speaks, his voice low and gravelly. "I wanted to try the dungeon here," he says, each word measured and deliberate.
I feel a chill run down my spine, memories of the treacherous depths beneath Dord flooding back in a rush.
"It's one of the most dangerous. Are you still C rank?"
Asaf nods a slight movement that speaks volumes. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the patchwork of scars.
"Asaf," I continue, "Dord is an A-rank dungeon."
The words hang in the air, heavy and foreboding. I watch as understanding dawns in Asaf's eyes, a flicker of doubt crossing his stoic features.
Asaf leans forward, his calloused hands clasped before him on the bar. His gaze is intense, boring into me with an earnestness that takes me by surprise. "If you tell me I shouldn't do it," he says, his voice low and serious, "I would listen to you blindly, Senior Orth."
I shake my head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I've been out of the game for a few years now," I admit, running a hand through my hair.
"But all I'm saying is," I continue, leaning in closer as if sharing a secret, "I wouldn't take on the dungeon without at least two or three A-rank companions."
Asaf sighs heavily, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of my words. "That won't be easy," he rumbles, his voice low and gravelly. "A-rank adventurers are rare, and most don't take kindly to babysitting a C-rank."
I nod sympathetically, remembering the fierce independence and pride that comes with the adventuring life.
"How much for a room?" Asaf asks suddenly, breaking the contemplative quiet.
"Five bronze," I reply, the familiar words rolling off my tongue.
Asaf reaches into his pouch, the leather worn smooth from years of use. As he opens it, I can't help but notice it's filled with a mix of bronze and silver coins. The lamplight catches on the metal, creating a dazzling display of wealth that seems at odds with his mid-rank status. Despite his C-rank, it appears Asaf is still making quite a bit of money.
He pulls out five bronze coins, placing them on the bar with a soft clink. The sound seems to echo in the empty common room, a stark reminder of our dwindling patronage.
"Oh, Orth," Asaf says, his tone suddenly casual, "have you heard anything about the local brothels?" He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. "I know you're married, but maybe some of your customers know which establishments are the nicer ones?"
I pause, my hand hovering over the coins Asaf has placed on the bar. The room suddenly feels too warm, too close, as Asaf's words echo in my mind.
My thoughts drift unbidden to a week ago, to the night when Babin and Sirre... The memory of her lips wrapped around his long cock, the sounds she made, the way her body moved, it all comes flooding back in vivid detail. I feel a familiar stirring in my loins, a mixture of shame and arousal that leaves me dizzy.
Sirre's words from that night replay in my head: "I'm never going to do it without you asking me. So if you want to turn me into some bar whore, you're going to have to take the lead." The raw intensity in her eyes, the fierce love and devotion it, was all there.
I glance at Asaf's coin pouch, still open on the bar. The glint of silver catches my eye, and suddenly, an idea begins to form. A way to satisfy my deepest, darkest desires while also solving our financial troubles. Two birds with one stone.
My heart pounds in my chest, blood rushing in my ears as I contemplate what I'm about to suggest. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my palms growing clammy. The room seems to spin around me, the familiar sights and smells of the inn blurring into a dizzying whirl of sensation.
"You know," I begin, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat and try again, forcing the words out. "You know, for three silvers, you could... blow off steam with Sirre tonight. Instead of trekking all the way to some dirty brothel."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I hold my breath, waiting for Asaf's reaction.
Asaf's eyes widen, his stoic facade cracking for a moment to reveal genuine shock.
"Your wife?" he asks, his deep voice uncharacteristically high with disbelief.
I nod slowly, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure Asaf can hear it. The room suddenly feels too warm, too close.
Asaf leans back, the old barstool creaking under his weight. His calloused hands grip the edge of the bar, knuckles white with tension. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, words seeming to fail him.
Finally, he manages to stutter out, "But... but she's an A-rank mage!"
The words hit me like a physical blow, memories of our adventuring days flooding back. Sirre, her auburn hair whipping around her face as she called down lightning from the heavens. The crackle of electricity in the air, the scent of ozone mixing with the musty smell of the dungeon. The raw power that had radiated from her, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
I shake my head, composing myself. "She's retired," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "There's no need to think of her as a high-ranked mage. She's just a person."
Asaf looks at me nervously, his blue eyes searching my face. "Wouldn't that be upsetting for you, Orth?" he asks, his voice low and hesitant.
I pause, considering his question. Asaf is kind to consider me. I dismiss it quickly.
"The offer's on the table if you want it, Asaf," I say finally.
But as soon as the words leave my mouth, a wave of panic washes over me. Images flash through my mind, Sirre in Asaf's arms, her face contorted in ecstasy.
"But," I add hastily, "condoms would be a must. Uhhhh and no kissing."
Asaf nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. His calloused fingers drum a slow, contemplative rhythm on the worn wood of the bar.
Finally, Asaf's deep voice rumbles through the quiet room. "I think I will take you up on your offer, Orth."
I nod, a mixture of excitement and anxiety churning in my gut. "After dinner," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, "I will send her up to your room."
"Understood," Asaf replies, his tone neutral but his eyes glinting with anticipation. He pushes himself up from the barstool. His heavy footsteps echo through the empty common room as he makes his way to the stairs.
As Asaf disappears up the staircase, the bell above the door chimes again, its cheerful jingle a stark contrast to the tension hanging in the air. I turn, expecting another weary traveler seeking refuge for the night.
Instead, my blood runs cold.
Framed in the doorway, backlit by the fading afternoon sun, stands my sister. Her tall, athletic frame fills the entrance, her long dark hair pulled back in a braid. The crimson accents on her leather armor seem to glow in the warm light, matching the sharp red of her eyes.
I feel the color drain from my face, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure she can hear it from across the room.
"Mira," I manage to choke out, "why are you here?"
Mira's lips curve into a wild grin, her teeth gleaming in the fading sunlight streaming through the doorway. The sight sends a shiver down my spine, memories of that same predatory smile haunting my dreams for years.
"It's been so long, little brother," she purrs, her voice silky smooth yet carrying an undercurrent of danger. "Yet that's how you greet your sister?"
Before I can react, Mira closes the distance between us in a few long strides. The scent of the road clings to her, dust, sweat, and something metallic that might be blood.
She pulls me into a tight hug, her strong arms wrapping around me like steel bands. I stiffen at the contact, my body going rigid as if preparing for a blow. Mira's breath is hot against my ear as she whispers, "I've missed this."
The words send a jolt through me, a confusing mix of revulsion and longing that makes my stomach churn. When she finally lets go, I'm shaking, anxiety coursing through my veins like ice water.
"What brings you to town?" I manage to ask, my voice sounding strangled and distant to my own ears.
Mira's eyes flash, a flicker of amusement dancing in their crimson depths. She reaches out, her calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. The touch is gentle, almost tender, but it makes my skin crawl.
"Dord is a city, Orth, not a town." She corrects, her tone lightly chiding as if speaking to a child. Her hand lingers, trailing down my cheek before falling away. "And can't one of the most famous warriors in the country visit her brother?"
The claim isn't an exaggeration. Tales of Mira's exploits have spread far and wide, her name spoken in hushed, reverent tones in taverns across the land. The Crimson Blade, they call her, a title as much for the color of her eyes as for the bloody wake she leaves behind.
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump that's formed in my throat. "Of course," I say weakly, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "It's just... unexpected."
As I fumble for a response, I hear the creak of floorboards behind me. The familiar sound of Sirre's footsteps descending the stairs fills the room, each step measured and deliberate. The air seems to thicken, tension crackling like static electricity as Sirre makes her way down.
I turn to see my wife, her auburn hair cascading down her shoulders in wild waves, the fiery strands catching the light as she moves. Her emerald eyes, usually so warm and full of love when they look at me, are now blazing with a fierce intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.
As Sirre reaches the bottom of the stairs, her gaze locks onto Mira. The change in her demeanor is instant and terrifying. Her entire body goes rigid, her shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees, a chill emanating from Sirre in palpable waves.
"Oh," Sirre says, her voice dripping with venom, "sister-in-law is here?"
Before I can react, Sirre is at my side. Her hand grips my arm with surprising strength, pulling me towards her possessively. The warmth of her body against mine is a stark contrast to the icy fury radiating from her.
"Well, it was a nice reunion," Sirre says, her tone falsely sweet but laced with unmistakable hostility. "See you later, Mira."
Mira's laughter fills the room. Her crimson eyes dance with amusement as she regards us, a predatory smile playing on her lips.
"I actually came here for room and board," Mira says. With a fluid motion, she reaches into her pouch and produces a silver coin. It glints in the fading sunlight as she tosses it onto the bar, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence.
I feel a sigh escape me, the weight of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. The coin on the bar seems to mock me.
Sirre's grip on my arm tightens, her nails digging into my skin almost painfully.
"This place isn't fit for an S-rank adventurer," Sirre says, her eyes never leaving Mira's face. "I'm sure you can find more... suitable accommodations elsewhere in the city."
Mira's rich laughter fills the room once more.
"Nonsense," Mira says, her voice smooth as honey but with an undercurrent of steel. "I'm used to roughing it in the wild. This is high class compared to that."
Her crimson eyes gleam with amusement as they sweep across the common room, taking in the mismatched chairs, the slightly crooked bar, and the threadbare rug by the hearth. Each imperfection seems to delight her as if she's cataloging every detail for future reference.
"Why, just last week, I was bedding down in a swamp," she continues, a wry smile playing on her lips. "The mosquitoes were as big as pigeons."
Sirre scoffs, the sound sharp and cutting in the tension-filled air. Without another word, she turns on her heel and stalks towards the kitchen, her movements tight and controlled like a coiled spring ready to snap.
"Whatever, Mira," she mutters under her breath as she reaches the kitchen door. Her hand grips the doorframe, knuckles white with tension. She pauses for a moment, her back rigid, before whispering in a low, dangerous tone, "Stay the fuck away from my husband."
The kitchen door slams shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the common room like a clap of thunder. The silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, filled with unspoken threats and simmering hostility.
Mira's eyes follow Sirre's retreat, a predatory gleam in their crimson depths. As the echo of the slamming door fades, she turns back to me, her lips curving into a slow, sensuous smile.
"Hmm," she purrs, her voice low and husky. "She seems excited to see me again."