7. Crash

7

Crash

A month later

I 've been dealing with snotty fae for what feels like forever. Back in Sin Central, all of us lived in varying states of poverty.

No matter how much the gangs tried to change the narrative, we all knew we were poor, just at different levels of being have-nots.

But here, the fae harken back to the olden times. They live in Houses according to rank, everyone working to empower the House name. Nobles rule the lands and lesser-powered fae serve with pride.

Belonging to a House is a privilege and gives the bearer status. Those rare few without a House are either community lords who are above such things, lowly servants, criminals serving a sentence, or non-fae.

I'm none of the above.

But after all I went through at the hands of a psychotic Pure and his monster minions, I vowed never to take shit from anyone ever again.

I also don't care if I live or die, so I'm balls-in with whatever fuckery comes my way.

And I make sure that everyone knows it.

I'm sitting, content in my corner of the pub that allows me to look at everyone with a wall protecting my back, and to my left, a glorious expanse of Lake Divine.

As I do the math, I realize it's only been six months since I landed in Sacred Lakes and staked my claim.

Godtown belongs to me now.

If I'm unlucky enough to continue my success, I'll own the whole fucking town by the year's end.

Others notice me and either nod with respect or look away in deference.

In fear.

I should be sorry about that, but I'm not.

I'm trying not to give a shit about anything, not caring who lives or dies. But when push comes to shove, I find myself gunning first for those who bully and oppress others.

I like to burn them, watching until they crumbled to dust.

My reputation as a firebug has earned me a new moniker.

They call me Firefly. I like it.

I used to make fireflies—fae magic bombs—that burned hot for a long time. I figure the new name suits me better than Crash.

Who needs a reminder of pain and failure hanging around their neck all day every day?

Arlen is never far from my thoughts.

As I look around, I wonder what he'd make of this place.

He'd like it, I'm sure. Always one to want to live the high life, he'd yearned to leave Eden.

He finally did, just not in the way he expected .

I stifle a sigh, the ache in my chest a little lighter but still hurting, and make myself concentrate on the here and now.

The atmosphere in The Feckless Falchion is understated elegance and danger.

The pub serves quality food, crisp ciders, and hearty ales. The serving staff is treated with respect, the customers high-earning clientele who pay for the clean, discreet atmosphere with a grand view of Lake Divine all the way across to the arena.

One wall of the pub is completely open all year round, regardless of the season.

The lake has a peaceful, healing quality to it that makes being near it a relief of sorts.

Tonight, a sea serpent continues to surface, its dorsal fin glittering with a rainbow of colors under the full moonlight. A few merfolk swim and play, while those who work for the Sacred Lakes amphibious fighting units practice on the eastern side of the lake, away from the fae who live in it.

The scent of crisp, boozy apple cider hits just as the sylph serving me nods and replaces my empty glass with a fresh one. She also refills my bowl of nuts and tray of sweet meats.

I push a few more coins than necessary toward her on the table, and she lights up, offering me a flirty smile before she hurries away.

She was pretty enough, I suppose. Not as pretty as the girl I left in the forest, but…

I scowl, annoyed with myself.

The young woman's pleading voice comes to me at odd moments, where I swear I feel a kind of regret.

It's not my fault she died. Hell, she could still be alive.

She probably isn't, not with that djinn around, but?—

By Death's Dagger, what the fuck is my problem?

I have no time for what-ifs .

I shake it off and sip my drink, dividing my focus between the people inside and the promise of liquid peace from Lake Divine.

Doing my best to stow the past in the past, I take careful note of the pub.

High fae come here to mingle with mercenaries and warriors, those approved by the Sacred Lakes military council.

Admittance to this district's armed forces branch is highly selective. Anyone trying to force their way in has to pass grueling tests of strength and fortitude. And that goes for the fae in the army and the fae contracted as soldiers for hire.

I didn't come to fight, though, but to rule.

I didn't pass any test because I didn't ask for permission.

I killed the crime boss running Godtown and moved right in to his place.

The fae was a scourge everyone was happy to see leave, headless and heartless before he burned to death.

I took over without a blink, not demanding more from anyone while keeping tithe to Rilitar, who rules the districts on behalf of the fae monarch.

All in all, everyone appreciated the handoff.

Mostly.

I glance over at Folas and sneer. Fuck you, asshole.

He sneers back then turns and completely ignores me while talking to a heavy-hitter known for his prowess in some weird tournament Sacred Lakes holds each year.

It's all very secretive, and I'm still considered new despite my standing. But from what I gather, the tournament involves a lot of hand-to-hand combat where magic isn't allowed.

Sounds pretty standard for the many elves living in town, a vicious group of fae if ever there was one.

They and their tournament are likely savage and chaotic, just the way their war god, Beyrthnel, would want it .

Not my circus, not my gray pixies.

I'm content to sit and indulge while I figure out who to hit next. I've systematically taken Godtown, and I've been putting feelers out into Asrai, which should be easy enough to overrun.

They're an agricultural district protected by Sacred Lakes's army…which is under my heavy fist.

I can't help a small grin.

My mind drifts, and I notice the quiet as a new figure enters the place.

He's taller than me and broader, built to fight, I'd imagine, yet he carries himself with a grace befitting an elf—which he's clearly not.

His face is an arresting blend of features, as if a barbarian dallied with a delicate fairy and made something new and scary. His skin is a pale cream, his eyes a glowing blue, as if alight with flame.

But he has rounded ears, five-fingered hands, and long, white hair braided at one temple despite his apparent youth.

He appears no older than me as he glances around, though I know with fae, looks are deceiving.

I watch him, interested because he doesn't seem to care that he's a foreigner who's entered a high fae establishment.

The soldiers and mercenaries watching him glower, while the nobles stare at him with disdain.

The situation promises to be violent.

And entertaining.

Especially when the intruder says, in a low, threatening voice, "Which one of you is the fuckhead with a death wish who killed Sambora?"

I smile, stand, and say in a clear voice, "That would be me."