Chapter 19: Dilemma

Meanwhile, Santina was nearing the light of the sewer entrance. Her whipsword swayed at her hip, still crusted with Fugax's ink, and that new dagger glinted on her belt. 

Thirty thousand gold coins danced in her head, a fat stack waiting at Runar's bounty office. Enough to drown the stench of this shithole, and maybe even hear her little sister's laugh again. Lita's giggle echoed in her skull, soft and high, like it did three years back before the Erasure tore her to ash.

"Almost there," she muttered, voice bouncing off the dripping walls. 

Her arm throbbed, that cut from Fugax still raw, blood crusted dark. It was two hours of hell for that beast, but worth it. Gold meant quiet, meant peace, and it meant no more ghosts clawing at her sleep as she dreamed of Lita.

But…

Heavy footsteps clacked ahead. She froze, hand snapping to her whipsword. Shadows stretched from the entrance, long and armored, glinting with dream-forged plates. 

Royal Guards. Three of them, spears up, visors down, blocking her light. Then a smaller figure skulked beside the leader.

Tavern kid, that snitch with the gleam in his eye, pointing her way. No wonder she got caught.

"There," the kid piped, voice shrill. "That's her! Bounty hunter with 'em twin blades. I saw her with Blue-Haired Boy too!"

Santina's gut twisted, amber eyes narrowing. "Little shit," she spat, fingers tightening on the hilt. The lead guard stepped up, spear tip glinting red from the Spire's glow spilling through the tunnel. 

His voice boomed, all pomp and gravel. "Santina Carreon, you're wanted for questioning. The Spire's cracking and according to our evidence, you're in the thick of it. Drop the weapons, come quiet."

And well, she laughed short and bitterly. Her whipsword slid free with a hiss. "Quiet? In Runar?" Her stance coiled, legs braced in the sludge. 

Lita's chuckle faded. Three years hunting Erasures, three years of ash and ink, and now… this? The kid smirked, smug, and she itched to lash that grin off his face.

The second guard shifted, spear lowering. "Last chance, Carreon. We know you killed that Fugax, thirty thousand coins. Hand it over, or we take it."

"And what? You're gonna seize me?" She shook her head in such disbelief. "I've been killing 'em so you lot didn't need to!"

The Royal Guard chuckled back, with a purpose of annoyance and a bit of arrogance. "Tell that to Mayor Othello. I'm just doing my job as the loyal Royal Guard!" He patted the kid's ruffled hair. "Kid here told us that you've informed the sketcher and the blue-haired boy the city's been talking about recently about this sewer passage."

Santina's jaw tightened, amber eyes flicking to the kid. That little rat sold her out, sold Arwyn out, sold Nathaniel too. Her whipsword twitched, ink flaking off the blade. "Snitch gets a cut, huh? How many coins are you pocketing, kid?" 

The tavern brat shrank back, but his smirk stayed. She'd deem him as a 'greedy little shit'.

Before she could swing, a hand clapped her back firmly. She spun, whipsword half-raised, but it was Nathaniel. Blue hair messy as he took off his beanie, and his grin was tight but there. "Easy," he muttered, voice low. "Glowstick's dead. Took a fall in the Spire. No need to chase him."

Her eyes narrowed, but she caught the glint in his. He was lying, covering for Arwyn. Smart bastard, so she played along, lowering the blade a hair. "Dead, huh? Good riddance. Kid was a pain."

The lead guard tilted his head, visor glinting. "Dead or not, you're still coming in, Carreon. Fugax's corpse is evidence. You too, Blue-Hair. You're tied to this mess." He turned, barking at the other two. "Go inside, find the bodies. Fugax and that sketcher. Move!"

The pair nodded, spears clanking as they shoved past the two of them, boots splashing into the sewer's dark. Santina's gut twisted again. Arwyn wasn't dead, not yet, but those guards would find him if he didn't move fast. She shot Nathaniel a look—amber meeting blue—and his grin twitched. A silent "he'll manage."

"Fine," she said, voice flat, whipsword still loose in her grip. "Take me in. But the coins? Mine. Killed that bastard fair and square." She stepped forward, sludge sucking at her boots, Lita's giggle fading under the guards' clatter. Three years of blood, and now she'd rot in a cell? Bullshit.

The lead guard smirked, spear steady. "Coins will wait for Othello's say. You're a loose end, Carreon. Now move." He jabbed the spear tip closer, red glow catching her armor's dents.

Nathaniel stepped up beside her, hands loose, Rings dim. "She's just a hunter," he said, voice smooth, dry. "Fugax was a job. Nothing more. I'm just passing through, saw the fight. No trouble here." His grin widened, casual as hell, but his fingers flexed. His threads were ready though hidden.

The guard's visor tilted, eyeing him. "Blue-Haired Boy, huh? Heard of you—old rumors, big talk. Fortissimum, they called you. Is that for a play?"

"I just happened to dye my hair blue, then we got bad company." Nathaniel kept the same tone with the same grin. He nodded at the kid, who flinched.

Santina snorted, whipsword swaying. "Yeah, real charming." The kid's eyes darted, but the guard's grip tightened, spear unwavering.

"Enough chatter," the guard growled. "The mayor wants to talk with you two. Let's go then." He waved the spear, motioning her forward. The sewer entrance loomed, light spilling, but it felt like a cage closing.

Her chest tightened, Lita's laugh entirely gone now, filled with just silence, heavy and cold. Three years clawing through ink and ash, and this was it? Caught like some street rat? Her arm throbbed, cut stinging, and she gripped the whipsword harder. "You want me?" she muttered, voice low, bitter. "Earn it."

Nathaniel's hand brushed her shoulder lightly. "Cool it, woman," he whispered, barely audible. "Kid's fine, trust me. We walk out, not fight out." His Rings glinted, threads itching to snap, but he held back too damn calmly.

The second guard was back, and boots pounded from the sewer as he yelled about no bodies. "We saw Fugax, cracked open, but… No sketcher." The guard's words were cut off by deep sighs.

"Told you," Nathaniel grinned, Rings flaring. "Glowstick's slippery." He glanced at Santina, amber eyes meeting his again.

The lead guard shook his head with a slight laugh. "Leave atleast 5 soldiers to roam the place. Sketcher might be alive for all I know."

They began to walk the roads of Runar, only with guards surrounded, gripping both of their hands tightly by them, acting as cuffs. You could say that they were the center of attention. Fingers pointing, and eyes locked on them as they stroll on to the bigger building, where the Mayor of that part of Runar had lived. Humiliation at its finest.

"Let them laugh," he said, only reaching Santina's ears. "Arwyn's gonna take care of it."

Santina smirked in amusement. "You really believe in him that much?"

"Well, I am his mentor after all." Nathaniel indirectly reassured her. To think that he'd have this much confidence after lending him a hand on those Erasures at the sewers was appalling, even for himself. Could he really handle it?

The guards shoved them through Othello's streets, cobblestone slick with runoff, air thick with fish stink and whispers. The mayor's building loomed ahead. It was tall, gaudy, all polished stone and gold trim, windows glinting like they mocked her. The snitching kid peeled off halfway, scampering back to the tavern with his greasy smirk, probably counting his cut already.

Santina's fingers twitched, itching to lash him, but the guard's grip tightened, bruising her wrist.

They hit the entrance, double doors carved with Terra Incognita runes swinging open slowly. The inside was worse. Fancy as hell, marble floors gleaming, walls draped in red velvet, chandeliers dripping crystals that caught the Spire's red glow. Her boots tracked sewer sludge, smearing the shine, and she grinned, small, bitter. Let it stink.

Up a winding stair, guards prodding, they reached the mayor's room. Door swung wide, and there he was. Othello, perched behind a desk big enough to sleep on, all dark wood and gold inlays. He was plump, soft, with a silk robe and a smile too wide, too nice. His hair was gray, slicked back, and his eyes sparkled—sharp, greedy when they landed on Nathaniel.

"Well, well, well!" Othello said, voice smooth like oil. "The Fortissimum himself. Blue-Haired Boy, in my actual city. What a treat." He stood, hands clasped, nodding at Nathaniel like an old pal. "And you, Santina Carreon, Fugax's slayer. Quite the catch today."

Santina's jaw tightened, whipsword confiscated but her dagger still heavy on her belt. "Yeah, real thrilling," she muttered, voice flat. "Where's my thirty thousand?"

Othello chuckled, soft and fake, waving a hand. "In due time, hunter. First, let's talk." He stepped around the desk, robe swishing, eyes flicked on Nathaniel. "You, sir, are a legend. Trillion-poule beast, they say. Strongest of old Incognita." He leaned against the wall. "Othello needs a man like you. Royal Guard, right here, my personal shield. Name your price."