Chapter 14: Persuasion

Nathaniel strode ahead, blue hair catching flickers of torchlight, the four Dreamer Rings glinting on his fingers like they were itching to be used. The diary jolted in Arwyn's pack again, but he ignored it—no time for cryptic ink when they had a lead to chase.

Nathaniel slowed, tossing Arwyn a pair of worn leather gloves with a calm, cocksure grin. "Cover your hands, would you? That scar's flashing like a gun in New York City. Might as well paint a target on your back."

Arwyn caught them mid-stride, smirking despite the urgency. "What, no matching hat?" He slid the gloves on, the leather cool against his skin, muffling the scar's yellow glow. Before he could quip again, Nathaniel bolted, boots slapping stone as he rounded a corner. His voice echoed back, sharp and fading: "Get the girl!"

"Shit. Santina," Arwyn realized and muttered, breaking into a run. The why wasn't fully clear, but Nathaniel had barked something about her knowing the Spire's back doors, her whipsword hinting at skills they'd need, though it didn't matter. She'd clocked him as a Dream Sketcher, felt the Quill's pull, and vanished like smoke. If she had answers about Cedric or the Spire, they couldn't let her slip.

Arwyn caught up with Nathaniel after half a minute of sprinting, lungs burning. Runar's streets twisted tighter the deeper they went, cobblestone giving way to muck-slick alleys where the crimson glow of the Spire barely reached. "You see her?"

"No. Don't feel her energy either," Nathaniel replied, eyes darting in every direction. Compared to the main road, this stretch was a ghost town—just the plight of the poor and needy shuffling through the shadows, heads down.

They pressed on, boots slipping on some unnameable sludge coating the ground. Arwyn steadied himself, catching his breath as the alley spat them onto a crooked street. A tavern crouched there in the gloom, its timber walls sagging under a slanted roof, lantern light bleeding through cracked shutters. Rough laughter and clinking mugs spilled out, raw and alive.

Arwyn slowed, spotting her. There was Santina's high ponytail and glinting armor disappearing through the door. He adjusted the gloves, katana bumping his thigh, and muttered, "That's her. She went to the bar."

Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, taking the lead. "It's a tavern, kid. Not a bar." His tone dripped with that smug correction Arwyn had learned to tune out, since he had trauma from crane-sketching hell that still stung too much to care.

Inside, the air slammed into them like a fist. Stale ale, sweat, and smoke thick enough to choke on. Bulky men in patched tunics and hose sprawled across tables, fists pounding wood mid-story, tankards sloshing. None clocked Arwyn or Nathaniel, who slipped in behind, blending into the dim like he'd dodged a thousand bar fights.

A fire crackled in the corner, casting jagged shadows over faces carved by Runar's grind. Santina stood at the bar, leaning in to mutter something to a grizzled bartender with a missing ear, and her whipsword coiled at her hip like a sleeping snake.

They claimed a table in the corner, tucked against a wall sticky with who-knows-what. No waiter bothered with menus or drinks, so service clearly wasn't the vibe here. Arwyn, ever the eavesdropper, caught a slurred tale from a bald, bearded brute at the next table, his breath reeking of cheap booze.

"Ya 'eard about 'em two guys wanderin' 'round the lot?" the man mumbled, words tripping over each other.

His buddy, less plastered, sipped red wine with a smirk. "Oh? The scribbler and the blue-haired dude? Seen 'em in books and all. Dude's got what? Ten thousand winters' worth o' lifespan?"

Arwyn's gloved hand twitched on his sketchbook, but he kept his head down. Nathaniel's smirk flickered, barely there, as he scanned the room. The rumors were already spinning—great. Then a kid darted out. The kid was small, wiry, maybe eight, with a mop of brown hair and a grin too big for his face. The bartender's son, no doubt, judging by how he bobbed around the counter like he owned it. He made a beeline for Nathaniel, tugging at his puffer jacket.

"Oi, mister! You're him, ain't ya? The Blue-Haired Boy!" the kid chirped, eyes wide. "Can I get yer autograph?"

The tavern went dead quiet. 

Tankards froze mid-sip, heads swiveled, and every pair of eyes locked onto them. The bulky men straightened, murmurs buzzing like flies.

"Blue-Haired Boy?" 

"Ain't he a ghost story?"

"Two thousand years, they reckon!"

Their gazes widened, a mix of awe and something sharper, meaner. Nathaniel's grin stiffened, just for a beat, before he crouched to the kid's level, ruffling his hair.

"Legends don't sign napkins, kid. How's a coin sound?" He flicked a bronze piece from his pocket, spinning it into the boy's grubby hands. But the room didn't relax. Those stares bore in harder, heavy as stone.

Santina turned from the bar, amber eyes narrowing as she clocked them. Her hand hovered near her whipsword, casual but ready. Arwyn's scar itched under the gloves. The chase was over, but the tavern felt like a keg about to blow.

The tavern's silence snapped like a brittle twig. A chair scraped back, loud as a gunshot, and a hulking guy in a patched doublet lurched to his feet, tankard sloshing foam across the table. His beard was a greasy tangle, eyes bloodshot and mean. "Blue-Haired Boy, huh?" he slurred, voice thick with ale and spite. "Thought you was a bedtime story my ma told to scare me straight."

Nathaniel straightened, slow and deliberate, that cocksure grin still plastered on. "Guess I'm flattered. You gonna ask for a bedtime kiss too, or just stare?"

Arwyn snorted, gloved hands flexing on the sketchbook tucked under his arm. His scar buzzed under the leather, 5,800 poules humming steady but twitchy, like a live wire begging to spark. The room smelled of sour sweat and burnt wood, and every eye was a dagger aimed their way. Santina leaned against the bar, amber gaze flicking between them and the drunk, her whipsword still coiled but her fingers itching.

The big guy staggered closer, knuckles white around his mug. "Ain't no ghost. Just some punk with dyed hair and a big mouth." He jabbed a meaty finger at Nathaniel, then swung it toward Arwyn. "And you. Glowin' like a cursed lantern. Delacroix, they're whisperin'. Here to burn us out again?"

Arwyn's jaw tightened, scar flaring hot under the glove. "Burn you out? Buddy, I just got here. Maybe your ale's doing the torching. Smells flammable enough."

A ripple of laughs cut through the tension, but it was short-lived. The drunk's face twisted, red as the Spire's glow, and he hurled his tankard. It sailed past Arwyn's ear, smashing against the wall in a spray of foam and splinters. The room erupted. Chairs toppling, voices barking, half the crowd surging to their feet. The other half shrank back, clutching drinks like lifelines.

Nathaniel sidestepped, hands still in his pockets, Rings glinting faintly. "Nice aim. Try that with a sword, and we might have a problem."

Santina pushed off the bar, boots clicking on the warped floorboards. "Enough," she snapped, voice slicing through the din like her whipsword could've. The weapon stayed at her hip, but her aura flared. There was wild, untamed Passion Energy rolling off her in waves. Not ink, not a Sketcher's mark, but something fierce and alive. The drunk froze mid-lunge, like he'd hit an invisible wall.

"Sit," she said, flat and final. 

He didn't. 

His buddies were two wiry guys in stained tunics. They flanked him instead, one pulling a dagger with a notched blade, the other cracking knuckles like he meant business.

Arwyn's smirk faded. "Shit." He dropped back a step, sketchbook slipping into his hands. The gloves muffled the scar's glow, but he felt it. His poules were itching to burn. "Nathaniel, we fighting or running?"

Nathaniel's grin sharpened, eyes locked on Santina. "Neither yet. She's got this—or we're pretty much dead." He nodded toward her, casual as if they weren't one spark from a brawl.

The bartender, which looked grizzled, one-eared, and 'done with it all', slammed a fist on the counter. "Oi! Take it outside or I'm callin' the guard! No blood on my floor!" His kid, the mop-haired brat, peeked from behind the bar, grinning like this was the best night of his life.

Santina didn't flinch. She stepped between Arwyn and the drunk, whipsword uncoiling with a flick of her wrist. The segmented blade hissed as it stretched, glinting in the firelight. "Last chance," she said, low and cold. "Sit, or I carve you a new smile."

The drunk sneered, swaying. "Fancy bitch with a toy. What's a girl gonna—"

He didn't finish. Santina's arm snapped forward, and the whipsword lashed out. Fast, precise, a blur of steel. It grazed his cheek, drawing a thin red line, then coiled back to her side. He yelped, stumbling into his buddies, hand clapping to his face as blood trickled through his fingers.

"Next one's your throat," she said, voice steady as stone. The wiry pair hesitated, daggers and fists dropping an inch. The crowd held its breath, tankards forgotten.

Arwyn exhaled, sketchbook still clutched tight. "Well, damn. She's not messing around."

Nathaniel chuckled, low and dry. "Told you we need her. Girl's a walking blade-storm."

The drunk slumped into his chair, muttering curses, his crew backing off with glares but no guts to push it. Santina turned, whipsword snapping back to her hip, and fixed Arwyn with that amber stare. "You two draw trouble like flies to shit. Dream Sketcher, huh? Quill's got you marked. I felt it back there."

Arwyn met her gaze, scar pulsing under the glove. "Yeah, and you're what? Runar's resident badass? Why'd you step in?"

She smirked, faint but sharp. "Didn't. Just don't like loudmouths ruining my drink." She jerked her head toward the bar, where a dented mug of ale sat untouched. "But you're here for the Spire, aren't you? That scar's screaming it."

Nathaniel leaned in, voice dropping. "She's not wrong, kid. And she knows the back ways. I felt it in her stance. We're not cracking that tower without her."

Arwyn's eyes flicked between them, diary heavy in his pack. The Spire's pulse hummed through the walls, syncing with his scar, tugging like a leash. "Fine," he muttered. "Santina, right? You're in or you're not. I'm not begging."