Chapter 64: Confrontation [1]
Cedric.
The same pompous fool who had been humiliated in the high-class diner.
And judging from the sneer curling on his face, he was here for revenge.
The inn, moments ago alive with clinking dishes and laughter, sank into suffocating silence.
The knights fanned out without a word, steel greaves clanging in rhythm as they positioned themselves at the exits. One squad blocked the door, another lined the windows. No one was leaving without their say-so.
The customers caught in the common room were quick to take the hint. Chairs scraped, coins clinked on tables, and one by one, strangers hurried out with their heads low. Only those who were lodging upstairs remained, peering nervously from the staircase or from the corners, their curiosity battling with fear.
Oliver’s spoon rested forgotten in his bowl. He leaned back, jaw tightening as he counted helmets, weapons, the practiced movements of men trained to intimidate. He didn’t need Isolde’s narrowed gaze to know this was going to get ugly.
And then the silence broke with a single voice.
"Well, well, well..."
Cedric waddled forward, every step making the wood creak under his bulk. His gaudy rings caught the lantern light as he spread his arms, as though the entire inn had been arranged for his grand entrance.
"Imagine my surprise," he drawled, lips curling into a smug grin, "to find you two dining so comfortably. Acting as though nothing happened. As though you didn’t humiliate me — a noble of the Valtaine line — in front of half the city’s elite."
Oliver’s brow furrowed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword beneath the table. Isolde, however, didn’t move. She sat as if she were at court, one long leg crossing over the other, her expression calm — almost bored.
Cedric noticed. His grin faltered for a heartbeat, then he sneered deeper, puffing up like a spoiled rooster.
"You thought there would be no consequences, did you?" he continued, his voice rising for everyone to hear. "That you could spit on a viscount’s heir and walk away unscathed?"
The knights behind him chuckled darkly, their armor shifting as they stepped closer.
Serena, who had been rooted behind the counter, finally spoke. "Lord Cedric—this is an inn, not a battlefield. You’ve frightened my customers enough. If you have business, take it to the guild or the city guard—"
"Silence, woman!" Cedric snapped, his face mottling red. "Do not lecture me. You should be grateful I don’t burn this wretched hovel down for harboring trash that dares defy me."
The room went still again. Serena’s hands clenched against the polished wood, but she said no more.
Oliver’s blood boiled, but before he could speak, Cedric jabbed a jeweled finger at him.
"You," he snarled. "Stand up. Leave the woman. Crawl out of my sight and maybe I’ll let you live."
The knights shifted threateningly, gauntleted hands resting on hilts, their eyes gleaming through slitted helmets.
Just then Cedric’s lazy, swollen smile snapped into something hard the moment his eye caught the movement behind the counter.
"What’s that hiding there?" he barked, pointing with a ring-studded hand.
Nyra’s face went bone-white. She’d been trying to make herself small, pressed behind a stack of clean plates, but the crest on the Viscount’s men had been like a cold hand in her chest. Now that hand had found her.
Cedric pushed forward through the cluster of armored knights so his belly jutted into the room like a grotesque banner. He leaned down, peering at the girl with beady, triumphant eyes. "Well, well — aren’t you the half-elf that was sold the other day? The one who ran off?" He laughed once, venomous and thin. "What a lucky break for me to find you here. No wonder your buyer couldn’t keep you."
The words hit Nyra like ice. She scrambled back, tripping over a broom and seeking refuge at Serena’s skirts. Her whole body trembled; she pressed herself against the landlady as if sheer contact could make her less real.
"Keep your hands off her," Serena hissed, stepping in front of the girl. Her voice shook, but she planted her feet and stared up at Cedric with more defiance than she felt.
Cedric’s grin soured into a leer. "Do you think your shelter matters, woman?" he sneered. "You harbor runaways and you’ll find your little inn liable to pay dearly." He looked at Serena with a slanting, lascivious hunger—an expression that said he saw property, not people, and delighted in the power to take what he wanted. The air in the room went sour.
At his call, a tall knight detached from the formation and moved forward: broad shoulders, a jaw set like iron. His helm was tucked under his arm, revealing a face that tightened as it took in Nyra’s small, shaking frame. The knight’s eyes flicked to Cedric for instruction, then to Nyra — and a complicated look crossed his features: duty, disgust, and something like reluctance. This was Darius, one of Cedric’s senior retainers; the conflict in his face made it plain he had not come to this alley-raids line of work by choice.
"Darius — get that girl," Cedric ordered, voice silk over steel. "Bring her to me. And while you’re at it, take care of the insolent one at that table. He needs to learn his place."
Darius’s mouth tightened. He swallowed audibly, eyes flicking unwillingly to Serena, who planted herself even more firmly in front of Nyra. "You can’t—" she began, voice rising.
"You will do as you are told," Cedric snapped. "You’ll find when you cross the Valtaine family you pay with far more than words. And don’t be clever — I’ll bankrupt you and hang whatever pride you have left from the rafters." He chuckled at his own malice. "And thrash that white face, too," he added, jerking his chin toward Oliver. "Make an example."
The knights shifted; metal scraped. A low murmur ran through the remaining patrons. People edged toward the door — not to leave, but to get a safer distance. Some clutched chairs, others paled and looked for escape routes; the common room felt suddenly much too small.
Darius stood there, torn. The code of knighthood he’d sworn to was clear: follow the lord’s orders. But his jaw worked as if chewing an answer he hated. For a heartbeat he simply stared at Serena and the frightened girl at her side.
Nyra pressed herself tighter to Serena’s side. "P-please," she whispered, voice barely a thread. "Don’t—"
Darius inhaled, one hand reaching for the knightly gauntlet at his side — not yet for violence, but to steady himself.
The entire inn held its breath.
"Move," Cedric ordered quietly, with that casual cruelty of men who believe people are objects to be sorted. "Now."
Darius took the half-step forward as if pulled, the reluctance plain in the stiffness of his shoulders. Serena planted both hands on the counter, meeting his eyes with all the fierceness she could muster. "You will not take her," she said. "She is under my roof."
Cedric’s laugh was a wet, dangerous sound. "We’ll see which law holds more weight in Valebridge — your little hearth or the Valtaine’s claim."
Darius’s hand closed, and in that instant the room felt poised on a knife-edge — the moment before a blade falls.
Darius’s gauntleted hand closed into a fist, his boot shifting forward on the wooden floorboards. The inn held its breath.
And then—
"And that’s the closest you’ll ever get to them."
Isolde’s voice cut through the tension like steel against stone. Arrogant, calm, and cold enough to raise gooseflesh.
Every head turned as she moved. A single step, a leap, and with a fluid backflip she landed squarely between Serena and the approaching knight. Her long hair rippled, the hem of her nightdress swaying as mana sparked faintly around her.
Darius froze mid-stride, his eyes meeting hers.
"I see your struggle, knight," she said, her crimson gaze locking on him. "Step back now, and you may keep your limbs intact."
Darius’s jaw clenched. His voice was steady, but heavy with conflict. "A knight never steps back from his lord’s order."
Oliver stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "Even if that order is wrong?"
Darius’s eyes flicked toward him, the hesitation plain for a heartbeat before he forced the words out. "There is no right or wrong for a knight. Only orders to follow."
The room went utterly still.
Isolde’s smirk vanished, her expression hardening into something cold, merciless. "So you’ve chosen death."
Mana rippled off her skin like heatwaves. The nearby lanterns flickered.
Cedric leaned back smugly in his chair, fat rings glinting on his pudgy fingers as he sneered. "Finally, some entertainment. Darius, cut her down. The bitch is getting uppity again."
Isolde’s crimson eyes narrowed, her killing intent flooding the room. "Then let’s see if your pride still holds after I tear it from your body."
Darius drew his blade. Steel whispered free of its scabbard.
The fight erupted.
******
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!