Chapter 15: Persuasion (2)

Her smirk widened, eyes glinting like she'd caught a scent. "Not yet, glowstick. But you will." She grabbed her mug, took a slow sip, and set it down with a clink. "Spire's locked tighter than a king's vault since that scream. Back door's a sewer grate. Nasty, but it works. Problem is, it's crawling with Erasures. You got the ink to handle that?"

Arwyn's grip tightened on his sketchbook, poules flaring to 5,900 under the gloves. Adrenaline kicked in. "I've handled worse. You?"

Santina tilted her head, sizing him up. "Maybe. But I don't babysit. You want in, you owe me a sketch. Something sharp, something fast. Deal?"

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, Rings glinting as he crossed his arms. "Smart girl. What's your price tag?"

She didn't blink. "A dagger. Twin to this." She patted her whipsword's hilt. "And you keep that glowstick from lighting me up by mistake."

Arwyn shot him a smirk, then flipped his sketchbook open, pencil already in hand. "Fine. One dagger, coming up. Don't blink." 

His scar buzzed under the glove, poules humming as he scratched out a quick sketch: sleek, serrated, a coiled grip like her whipsword's vibe. Fifty poules, maybe less—small price for a deal. He slammed his gloved hand down, Passion Energy flaring sharp and brief. The dagger materialized on the table with a soft thunk, steel gleaming, edge wicked enough to split hair.

But a feeling went through him like a bullet. His legs buckled, but he held it in with a smile.

Pain.

Santina's smirk faltered, just for a beat, as she picked it up, testing its weight. She ran a thumb along the blade, stopping short of blood, and gave a low whistle. "Not bad, glowstick. You might survive the sewers after all." She tucked it into her belt, but her stance didn't soften. Still coiled, still a stranger. 

"Grate's two streets west, under a busted cart. Erasures are thick there—been hunting 'em for marks all week. That's my game, not yours."

Nathaniel leaned forward, voice low. "Hunting Erasures? You're no Sketcher—where's that Passion Energy coming from?"

She shrugged, sharp and dismissive. "Runar breeds tough. Don't need ink to feel the world trying to eat me." Her amber eyes flicked to Arwyn's gloves, then away. "Heard your kind stirs 'em up, though. That scream? Some bastard Sketcher tore through here days ago, left a mess of 'em bleeding out the Spire's cracks."

Arwyn's stomach twisted, scar pulsing harder. "Is it by chance… A man named Cedric Satsuma?" He traded a look with Nathaniel, who frowned, rings glinting as he flexed his fingers.

"Nah," Santina said, sipping her ale again. "Satsuma rolled through Runar a week back. Heard he's chasing some feather-trinket west of here. This was fresh. Spire's been spitting Erasures since, and I've been cashing in. You're late to the party."

Nathaniel's grin faded, replaced by a rare crease of worry. "Another? Here? That's no coincidence, kid. Spire's awake. And not just for you."

Arwyn's mind raced. Cedric was ahead, Quill in his sights, but someone else was ripping holes in Runar?

"Great, more psychos with superpowers. So the sewer's a death trap?"

Santina snorted, setting her mug down. "Pretty much. Erasures are my bounty, five coins a head. You want the grate, it's yours. I'm not your guide, glowstick. I'm just pointing the way. Don't die and owe me a debt." She pushed off the bar, whipsword swaying as she turned toward the door.

Arwyn stood, sketchbook snapping shut. "Wait. You're bailing? After that?"

She glanced back, smirk sharp as her new dagger. "Got my prize. You've got your path. I hunt alone. I always have." Her boots clicked toward the exit, leaving a faint ripple of wild energy in her wake.

Nathaniel grabbed Arwyn's arm before he could follow. "Let her go, kid. She's not our babysitter, and we've got bigger problems than her ego." His eyes flicked to the Rings, then the tavern's grimy walls. "Spire's calling. You ready for the shitshow?"

Arwyn yanked his arm free, scar burning under the glove. "No. Going anyway? Yeah." He adjusted his katana, diary thumping in his pack like it agreed. Santina's silhouette vanished into the day.

The room stirred, a low buzz swelling in her absence. The drunk's crew sulked at their table, nursing bruised egos and muttering curses under their breath. Whispers snaked through the crowd.

"Delacroix luck," 

"Blue-Haired ghost," 

"They're after the Spire,"

Some eyed Arwyn and Nathaniel like they were loot to tail, and others scowled like they'd brought a plague. The kid, coin clutched tight, darted back behind the bar, his grin sharp and gleaming. Too eager, too sly. 

Arwyn clocked it: that little runt was trouble waiting to spill.

Nathaniel nudged him, voice a murmur. "Air's thick with eyes, kid. We're out before they grow spines… Or snitches."

Arwyn nodded. The Spire's hum pulsed louder, seeping through the walls like a heartbeat, tugging him west. He shot a last glance at the drunk, still wiping blood from his cheek. He then followed Nathaniel toward the door. The crowd parted, wary but passive, tankards clinking back to life as they slipped out. 

No one followed. Not yet.

Outside, Runar's daylight hit like a slap… The crimson sun bled through a violet haze, casting long shadows over the crooked street. The tavern's noise faded, replaced by the distant clang of a smithy and the shuffle of ragged locals hauling crates. 

Two streets west, Santina had said. Sewer grate, busted cart, Erasure hell. Arwyn's legs ached, his lungs still raw from the chase, and the diary's weight dragged at his shoulders. They'd been running on fumes since the rift, and Terra Incognita's warped time—80 days here to one on Earth—meant no real rest in what felt like forever.

Nathaniel squinted at the sky, blue hair glinting in the weird light. "Sun's high—midday, maybe. We hit that grate now, we're walking into a meat grinder half-dead. You're at around 6,000 poules, sure, but I can hear your knees creaking from here."

Arwyn scowled, shifting his katana. "I'm fine. Spire's awake, Cedric's a week ahead, and some psycho's spitting Erasures everywhere. We stop, we lose ground."

"Yeah, and you collapse mid-sketch, we lose everything." Nathaniel crossed his arms, Rings catching the sun. "I've got 2,000 years on you, kid. Trust me, rest isn't surrender. We need a hole to crash in, at least just for a few hours. Runar's not exactly a bed-and-breakfast town, but we've got options."

Arwyn rubbed his neck, scar pulsing in time with the Spire's call. "Options? Like what? That innkeeper back there wanted my head on a spike for being a Delacroix?"

"Well, you have a point." Nathaniel scanned the street, eyes narrowing. "The tavern's out. Too many ears, and that kid's got the word 'snitch' written all over him. Streets are a gamble as well. Erasures sniff out Passion Energy like bloodhounds. We need something off-grid, low-key. Alley squat, maybe, or a merchant's backroom if we've got anything to trade."

Arwyn dug through his pack.

Sketchbook, diary, a few pencils... Then there was Marco's old lighter. "Trade? I've got lint and a bad attitude. You?"

"That'll do… I guess. I got a coin, though it's small, but a sketch might sweeten it. Merchants here love weird shit from outsiders." He nodded toward a narrow alley branching west. "Let's move. Grate's that way, and we scout a spot en route. Oh, and sketch me a beanie here. They'll see my hair."

Without another word, Arwyn drew one. Plain black, good enough for the meantime. He slammed it with his gloved hand, and it bounced into reality. But the realm's wind drifted the other way, reacting to his slam.

Pain. Again.

He forgot how painful it was when he slammed a sketch which had value. Considering his home city's trend was around beanies, the value must be extremely high. 

And so, he let out a suffering groan and went on his knees.

"Agh!!"

Nathaniel tittered, as if mocking him. He grabbed the beanie out of his hands and put it on his head, hiding the spiky blue hair. "Get used to it, kid. You'll be drawing your swords next time."

Arwyn laughed with him as he stood up. The scar on his hand brightened, muffled by his glove. "You fucker…"

They cut through the muck, boots sinking into the sludge as the Spire's crimson silhouette loomed taller. Arwyn's scar flared hotter with every step, poules steady but his body screaming for a break. 

The alley twisted past a slumped woman peddling dented pots, then opened to a row of sagging stalls. Fish, rags, some guy hawking "genuine Erasure teeth." Nathaniel slowed near a tarp-covered shack, its owner an old man with a squint and a ledger full of junk.

"Oi, you," Nathaniel called, flipping the coin in his hand. "Got a corner to rent? Few hours, no questions."

The merchant eyed them, lingering on Nathaniel's hair and Arwyn's gloves. He spat into the dirt. "Ten coins for the backroom. No noise, no mess."

"Ten?" Arwyn snorted. "For a nap in this dump?"

Nathaniel elbowed him, tossing the coin and Marco's lighter onto the ledger. "Two coins' worth. Take it or we sleep in your gutter."

The old man squinted at the sketch, unfolding it with grubby fingers. "Earth junk, huh? Fine. Four hours, backroom's yours. Door's round the side." He pocketed the coin and waved them off, muttering about "cursed foreigners."

Arwyn followed Nathaniel around the shack, ducking under a tarp flap into a dim, musty nook. 

It was barely a room. Just a dirt floor, a straw mat, and a crate for a table. A cracked lantern flickered in the corner, casting weak light over walls patched with burlap. It stank of mildew and fish oil, but it was quiet, hidden, and most importantly, off the street.

Nathaniel flopped onto the mat, Rings clinking as he stretched. "Not the Ritz, but it'll do. Four hours. Sleep, recharge those poules. I'll watch first."

Arwyn slumped against the crate, katana across his lap. "Four hours in this hellhole? Spire's practically yelling at me to move."

"It'll yell louder if you're dead on your feet." Nathaniel's grin was back, faint but firm. "Rest, kid. Erasures'll still be there when we wake up."

Arwyn grumbled, but his eyes were already heavy, scar's hum fading to a dull throb. The diary thumped once more in his pack, like it was settling too. Four hours—then the sewer, the Spire, and whatever mess Cedric and this new dumbass had left behind.