Tracking a dragon egg[iii]

Commander Barwin sat in solemn silence in the dimly lit bar, the weight of his thoughts heavy on his broad shoulders. His rugged face, was etched with worry and exhaustion. The room was filled with the low murmur of conversations, but Barwin barely heard any of it. His mind was stuck on the treachery that had torn apart his sense of loyalty.

His best friend had committed treason, stealing a dragon's egg—a crime punishable by death. Barwin's scarred hands tightened around the empty bottle on the bar in front of him. Over the past few days, multiple knights had come to him, demanding answers, their faces twisted with suspicion. He had given them some half-truths, vague details, enough to throw them off without fully betraying his friend's location. Despite the betrayal, he couldn't bring himself to hand his friend over to certain death.

The plan had seemed simple at first. Steal the egg, trade it in the Free City's black market for a fortune, and disappear. But things had spiraled out of control. A week ago, Barwin had gone to the hiding spot to update his friend on the increasing pressure from the knights. He had imagined they'd laugh about the near misses over a drink, planning their next move. Instead, what he found chilled him to the bone.

His friend wasn't there. In his place stood a figure clad in black armor, the surface glistening unnaturally, almost as if it were alive. The knight moved with terrifying speed, fighting off a swarm of monsters as though possessed by something far darker than any ordinary man. Barwin had stood frozen in the shadows, the air thick with the stench of blood and the guttural roars of the beasts. If the knight hadn't been so preoccupied, Barwin knew he wouldn't have had the chance to flee.

He slumped forward slightly, running a hand over his face. 'What happened to him?' His heart pounded as his mind looped the same questions over and over. 'Was it the egg? Had it cursed him?'

Barwin had no idea that he wasn't too far from the truth.

"Aish! It's all so frustrating!" he muttered under his breath, grabbing the bottle and tipping it to his lips, only to realize it was already empty. Barwin cursed softly under his breath, glancing down at his hands, calloused and trembling slightly from the stress. He fumbled in his pocket, searching for any spare coins, his movements sluggish, tired.

Before he could pull out the last of his cash, a young boy with long braided hair slid into the seat beside him. Barwin stiffened, his jaw tightening instinctively, but the boy's calm presence halted his initial irritation.

Without a word, the boy passed a wad of cash to the barman, who gave him a curious glance before nodding. "Give my friend here the best you have," the boy said, his voice smooth and unhurried.

Barwin narrowed his eyes, turning his head slightly to get a better look at the boy, the dim light catching on his unusual purple eyes. The boy turned to him, a smile creeping across his youthful face, eyes glinting with a strange familiarity.

"It's nice to meet you, Commander Barwin," the boy said, his smile widening as though they were old friends. Barwin's eyes narrowed as he glanced at him cautiously. 

The boy raised his hands in mock surrender. "I assure you, I'm no spy. Just a curious soul. Besides, I'm not looking for anything specific—just a hint"

Barwin drank a long gulp of his drink, considering the boy's request. He had seen numerous adventurers and battleslaves, as well as knights and nobles, come and leave, each with their own motivations, but none dared to approach or hurt him. He was curious to see what the kid would do, so he said, "All right, I will bite. But know this: information comes at a price."

"Name it," the boy said, leaning in closer, his expression earnest.

Barwin smirked, sensing an opportunity. "A drink for every piece of information I share. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," the boy agreed, signaling the bartender for another round. As the drinks were poured, Barwin leaned in, lowering his voice.

"The commander you seek is a man of ambition. He's been gathering forces, and not just from his own ranks. There are rumors of battle slaves—drones, if you will—being deployed for missions across the region. Some say he's building an army, while others believe he's preparing for something much larger."

'What arrant nonsense!', the boy thought inwardly though his eyes widened with interest. "What kind of something?"

Barwin shrugged, taking another gulp from his drink. "another war, perhaps. Or a coup. The nobles are restless, and the common folk are growing uneasy. It's a powder keg waiting for a spark."

the boy, nodded thoughtfully. "And what do you think he plans to do with this army?"

"Who knows?" Barwin replied, his tone grim. "But I wouldn't want to be caught in it. The city is already on edge, and if the commander makes a move, it could change everything."

The boy leaned back, absorbing the information. "Thank you, Barwin. That's more than I had before." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small pouch, placing it on the bar. "For your trouble."

Barwin glanced at the pouch, feeling its weight, and then said with a greedy smile " Hmmf, now get out of my sight!"

"I will," the boy replied, no one saw the dangerous smirk he had on his lips. With that, the boy stood up, adjusting his cloak before heading toward the exit. Barwin watched him go, a mix of admiration and concern swirling in his gut. As soon as the door shut his face turned into an angry scowl.

"Tsk, these insolent battleslaves", he then smiled as he caressed the small pouch pleased with his successful scam. Barwin took another gulp from his drink, pondering the encounter. Barwin continued drinking, his tired eyes half-lidded as he stared into his glass. The night had worn on, the once-quiet bar now bustling with noise and laughter. He had tried to drown his thoughts in alcohol, but nothing could quite erase the dark images of his friend and the cursed egg. His hand moved sluggishly to lift the glass—but something kept gnawing at him.

The entrance creaked open, its sound cutting through the noise. At first, no one reacted—it was just another patron, or so they thought. But the bar fell into a sudden, eerie silence as a young man walked in. He wore sleek black armor that gleamed ominously under the dim lights, twin scimitars strapped to his back in a menacing cross. His shoulder-length black hair framed his angular face, and his eyes—deep, obsidian orbs—swept across the room with cold detachment. His very presence seemed to drain the warmth from the air, the buzz of conversation dying as everyone watched him in tense stillness.

He moved slowly toward the counter, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the now-dead silence. As he reached the bar, he stopped directly behind Barwin, his shadow falling over the seated commander like a suffocating weight. The tension in the room spiked, but Barwin, feeling the presence looming behind him, gritted his teeth and raised his glass to his lips. He pushed himself into finishing the liqueur, tightening his grasp on the cup as he sought to clear his mind.

'Tsk, looks like another brat wants to try his hand in a brawl with me'. He attempted to appear casual as he placed down his cup; no one had ventured to attack him in a long time, so this was going to be intriguing.

But before he could set down his glass, a hand grabbed his short hair and yanked it with severe force. Pain exploded in Barwin's skull as his hair was nearly torn from the roots, and before he could react, his head was slammed down violently onto the bar counter. The impact was immediate and savage—his forehead smashed through the glass and wood, sending shards scattering in every direction, and the force of the blow split the wooden counter in half with a sharp, splintering crack.

Barwin's vision blurred for a moment, pain radiating from his forehead as warm blood dripped into his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, and fury ignited in his chest. "You bast—" he spat, his voice a growl of pure rage, but the words barely left his mouth before the black-armoured figure seized both his arms in an iron grip.

With a sickening pop and a tear of flesh, the man twisted Barwin's arms violently from their sockets. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot fire ripping through Barwin's body as his arms were torn from their joints, dangling uselessly at his sides. His scream of agony was cut short as he gasped for breath, choking on the sudden rush of pain. Blood gushed from the ragged wounds, but before the crimson droplets could even hit the floor, an arcane energy crackled through the air, sealing the wounds in an instant.

Barwin's eyes, wide with shock and disbelief, darted to the torn stumps where his arms had once been. The glowing remnants of the arcane energy still buzzed around the sealed wounds, leaving no trace of blood, but the loss—the violation—was unmistakable.

The bar remained frozen, the patrons watching in horrified silence, too afraid to move, as the black-armored man stood above the broken commander, his face devoid of emotion, as if tearing a man apart was nothing more than a routine task.

"Come on, Omen, I said to retrieve him quietly," Virgo's voice cut through the tense air, her tone sharp with irritation. She stood at the entrance, arms crossed, her frown deepening as she took in the scene. Kol stood beside her as well. Even in his pained state, Barwin recognized Kol—the boy who had bought him a drink just hours before.

Omen turned to them, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. His black armor glistened faintly. "I wanted to test myself on a commander," he said, his voice casual as if discussing a mundane chore. "Seems like this one is only the level of a captain." He glanced down at Barwin's broken body with thinly veiled disappointment, as if the commander's suffering wasn't nearly enough to satisfy him.

Without hesitation, Omen bent down and grabbed Barwin by the neck. The commander weakened and barely conscious, let out a faint, strangled sound as Omen's hand closed around his throat, his grip merciless. Barwin's body was dragged across the floor like a discarded rag, his legs trailing behind him, lifeless.

No one in the bar dared to speak. The onlookers, who had once filled the room with noise and laughter, now stood in a suffocating silence, their faces pale and eyes wide with horror. They all knew the status of battle slaves—mere tools, their rank below even that of normal citizens—and yet, no one dared to challenge Omen, not after the display of brutality they had just witnessed. The bar's patrons instinctively moved back, giving ample space, terrified that drawing attention might invite the same violent fate.

As Omen dragged Barwin toward the door, the only sound was the heavy scrape of the commander's body sliding across the wooden floor. The atmosphere in the room felt suffocating, the tension palpable. Virgo's eyes flicked over Barwin's barely breathing form, her displeasure evident, but she said nothing more as Omen hauled the defeated man toward her.

"Let me go, and I'll forget this ever happened," Barwin offered, breathing heavily as he tried to buy time. He knew he had to play it smart. "You don't want to make an enemy of me."

With a sudden movement, Omen yanked Barwin's broken hand, causing him to wince in agony. "You're coming with us, Commander. You can either walk out of here on your own two feet, or we can continue dragging you out. Your choice."

Barwin's heart raced as he weighed his options.He could feel the onlookers' attention on him; those bastards were too terrified to draw near,

"Alright, fine! Wait a minute, Now listen." Barwin relented, raising his good hand in surrender. "I'll go with you. Just grant me an ounce of dignity befitting my status, you can at least do that much right?."

Omen gazed into his eyes with a sinister smile and uttered one word

"No", with that, Omen knocked the commander unconscious with one swift blow.