Chapter 27: Basement Hiding

It's damn dusty here," Arwyn muttered, coughing as his boots hit the damp basement floor. The smell punched him hard. Smelled of dust, thick and choking, laced with traces of fine wine and faint whiskey. 

He could compare the smell of the room like his grandma's old cabinet, sealed up and forgotten.

The dark pressed in, heavy and close. His eyes caught a flicker. There was a weak lantern swaying above, barely alive. Then, in the corner, he saw something. An unlit torch, just resting against a barrel. 

Perfect. Except… 

"No lighter," he grumbled, patting his pockets. He gave his father's lighter to the old man.

He squinted through the gloom. Shelves loomed, draped in cobwebs, bottles glinting faintly. Something moved, but it was a rat, probably. Then he spotted another: a flint and steel, tucked behind a cracked jug. 

He snatched it, struck once. Full of sparks, but no flame. "Come on…"

Footsteps echoed overhead. Marcelo's men. The trapdoor creaked, mocking him. Time was slipping. He grabbed a rag off the floor, found a half-full bottle of rotgut, and doused it. He wrapped it tight around the torch, struck the flint again, and flame flared, bright and wild. The room snapped into focus. There were barrels, crates, and shadows stretching long.

He smirked. Then footsteps. Someone was coming.

Instinct kicked in. Arwyn darted to the farthest corner, crouching low as the torchlight flickered in his hand. His katana bumped an old wine glass that lay on stacked crates. Above, voices clashed:

"I'm takin' a rest here! Have you ever seen anyone walking these streets at 4 in the bloody morning?!"

"This man is to be investigated. He's a dangerous threat in the whole Runar, so you must understand—"

"Well, he definitely ain't in here! Get your dirty feet out of here!"

…

…

Bang!

Arwyn's eyes landed on the crates stacked against the wall. Dusty, half-rotten, and begging to be used. But the wine glass was inches close before it would fall. His eyes widened from the sight and panickingly crept over, boots silent on the damp floor. But before he could reach in to grab the glass…

It tipped over, and even more, and—

Crash! The pieces spread across the rock surface of the basement, creating a shattering sound that could even be heard from above.

"What was that?" a guard snapped, hearing the faint shatter. The voice definitely wasn't the same as the one he'd just heard earlier.

"It's probably just rats," the tavern keeper grumbled. "Place is crawling with 'em. One time, some rat slipped inside one of 'em wine bottles and all of my customers drinkin' rat piss mixed with some red wine."

"Guards, check it," came Marcelo's voice, cold and commanding.

"Oh no you don't! I—"

One of the guards pushed him aside, and continued walking. Marcelo grabbed that tavern keeper in his collar. "Never defy the Royal Guard, tavern keeper."

Arwyn's stomach dropped. The distraction bought him a moment, but now they were coming. He gripped his katana, the torch still burning low in his other hand. If they got too close, he'd have to fight, or maybe find another way out.

But the man wasn't stopping.

At 4 a.m., with his tavern invaded by Royal Guard thugs, he's had enough. "This is my tavern, and I ain't letting you stomp around like you own the place!"

One of the guards shoved him aside, reaching for the trapdoor, but the keeper was faster. He lurched behind the bar, grabbed his musket, which was a battered old thing stashed for nights like this, but its mechanism strong enough to penetrate weak Sommetal, which was uncommon for muskets in Runar. The man cocked it with a loud click that echoed through the room. He swung it up, leveling it at the nearest guard's chest. "Get out, or I'll blow a hole through you."

The guards froze. Torches flickered in their hands, casting jittery shadows across the tavern's warped wooden walls. Marcelo, all cold authority in his pristine uniform, stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "You dare threaten the Royal Guard, old man?"

He didn't flinch. "I dare a lot when you're trampling my livelihood at this godforsaken hour. You heard me." The man flicked his aim to the door. "Out, or we'll see how your fancy armor holds up against lead."

For a moment, the air crackled with tension. The guards glanced at Marcelo, with their spears half-raised, waiting for orders. 

Marcelo's jaw tightened. He wasn't used to defiance, but he wasn't stupid. A shootout in a tavern at dawn is a mess he didn't need, not with half the town still asleep. He raised a hand, slow and deliberate. 

"Stand down," he snapped at his men. Then, to the tavern keeper, his voice dropped low and threatening. "If I find out you're hiding him, this tavern'll be ashes by sundown."

The man spat on the floor, musket steady. "Take your threats and shove 'em. Now get out."

Marcelo lingered just long enough to save face, then jerked his head toward the door. The guards grumbled, boots scuffing as they retreated, and their torchlight fading into the pre-dawn gloom outside. The tavern door slammed shut, and he bolted it with a growl, still clutching the musket.

"Now what the hell is that noise..?" The man approached the trapdoor, and seeing that the trapdoor was partly open, someone was surely hiding.

Down in the basement, Arwyn exhaled, his torch long since doused in a puddle to kill the light. He's wedged behind barrels, katana sheathed but close, the damp chill seeping into his bones. 

Eight hours. He needed eight hours to recharge his Passion Energy, and this dusty hole was his best shot to plan. The guards were gone, but the silence didn't last.

The trapdoor creaked open again. Heavy footsteps slowly thudded down the ladder. A faint glow spilled into the basement. It wasn't a torch, but the weak lantern from upstairs swaying in that old man's grip. The musket's barrel glinted as he stepped onto the stone floor, with his eyes sharp despite the dimness. He definitely wasn't a fool. He knew that the wine glass didn't break itself.

"Whoever's down here, show yourself," Flavin barked with a voice like a gravel slide. "I ain't in the mood for games, not after dealing with those Royal Guard pricks."

Arwyn's mind raced. He was exhausted, wounded, and cornered, but fighting that man wasn't an option, not with that musket and his own energy drained. He needed this basement, and needed Flavin to let him stay. 

So, it was his time to roll the dice.

He stepped out from behind the barrels, hands raised, katana still sheathed at his side. "Easy, old-timer," he says, keeping his tone steady despite the ache in his ribs. "Not here to rob you. I just needed a place to duck..."

The man squinted, musket dipping slightly but still trained on Arwyn. "Huh. So you're the one they're after? What'd you do to get Marcelo's britches in a twist, eh?"

Arwyn managed a tired smirk. "I'm…"

"What? You don't wanna answer, then I'm kickin' you out."

His voice barely raised up a notch. "Wait!.. I'm Arwyn… Delacroix…"

He grunted, eyeing him up and down. "Well, you look like shit. And you owe me for not ratting you out, not to mention that damn glass you broke. Shattered my best vintage, you clumsy bastard."

Wasn't the expected response Arwyn would get, but he'd take it. "Add it to my tab," Arwyn quipped, lowering his hands slowly. "Look old man, I just need to lay low till noon. Eight hours, then I'm gone. You'll never see me again."

The tavern-keeper was silent for a beat, musket still half-raised. Then he snorted, lowering it just enough to signal he's not pulling the trigger… yet. "Call me Mr. Flavin, kid. And… eight hours, huh?"

…

…

"Fine. But you're staying right where I can see you. Move a muscle I don't like, and I'll finish what Marcelo started."