Chapter 28: Food

Arwyn slumped against a barrel, too tired to argue. The basement was a grim refuge. There were dusty shelves, cobwebs, the faint reek of rotgut and rat droppings. But it was safe, for now. It was better than sleeping on the streets with no food or water whatsoever. 

Flavin dragged an old crate over, sitting where he can keep one eye on Arwyn and one on the trapdoor, musket across his lap. He's not friendly, but he's not turning Arwyn in either. Maybe he hates Marcelo more than he distrusts a fugitive.

Flavin shifted, and something in his pocket clacked sharply, kind of metallic, like coins or keys rattling together. He leaned in closer, and his breath was sour with ale and tobacco. His eyes fixed on Arwyn with a hard stare. "Give me your hand, kid."

Arwyn's brow furrowed, suspicion prickling up his spine. "Huh? But why should I—"

"I said, give me your hand."

Flavin's voice was a low growl, each word clipped and heavy, leaving no room for debate. He nodded toward Arwyn's wrist, his expression unreadable but firm as iron. Arwyn's gut twisted. 

This wasn't a request. It was an order, and he was damn sure Flavin wasn't above tossing him out into the streets if he didn't play along. Or worse, calling Marcelo's men back to haul him off. On the flip side, if he obeyed, who knew what the old man had up his sleeve? Could be a trick, could be a trap. But what choice did he have?

Screw it. He stuck out his hand, slow and reluctant, watching Flavin's every move.

Clack!

Cold metal snapped around his wrist, biting into his skin before he could yank it back.

Handcuffs. Rusty, heavy, and locked tight to a thick pipe bolted into the stone wall. Arwyn jerked his arm once, testing the give. 

Nothing.

The pipe didn't budge, and the cuff held firm, scraping his already raw skin. "Really?" he muttered, shooting Flavin a glare that could've curdled milk.

Flavin shrugged, brushing off the complaint like it was dust on his coat. "Can't have you wandering off while I grab a bite. You stay put, and maybe, just maybe, I'll think about letting you loose later." He stood, joints creaking, and stomped up the rickety ladder to the tavern above. The trapdoor slammed shut behind him with a thud that echoed in the dim basement, leaving Arwyn alone with the flickering lantern and his own sour thoughts.

He cursed under his breath, tugging at the cuff again. No dice. The metal clanked against the pipe, mocking him. He was stuck, chained up like a stray dog, with nothing to do but stew in the silence. His stomach growled again, louder this time, a deep, angry rumble that made his ribs ache. 

Days. How many days had it been since he'd had a real meal?

Scraps of stale bread, a bruised apple snatched from a cart, a sip of muddy water from a ditch. That was it. His mouth felt dry as sand, and the hunger gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. Then, drifting down through the floorboards, came the smell… Rich, warm, savory.

Stew, maybe, or roasted meat, the kind of food that stuck to your bones.

Flavin was cooking up there, and the scent hit Arwyn like a punch to the gut. His mouth watered, but he clamped it shut. No use whining about it. Didn't change a damn thing.

The minutes dragged on, slow and heavy. The lantern flickered, casting shadows that danced across the grimy walls. Arwyn leaned his head back against the barrel, trying to ignore the ache in his wrist and the hollow pit in his stomach.

He had eight hours—no, now seven hours until noon, when Othello would drag Nathaniel and Santina to the execution block. But right now, all he could do was sit there, cuffed and useless, while Flavin took his sweet time.

The trap door creaked open, hinges groaning, and Flavin climbed back down, balancing a plate in one hand. The smell hit Arwyn harder now. It indeed was stew, thick and steaming, with chunks of meat and potatoes swimming in gravy. 

A hunk of crusty bread sat beside it, torn fresh, and a slab of cheese, pale and soft, rounded out the meal. Flavin set the plate on the crate with a clunk, grabbed a spoon, and dug in. He chewed slowly, loud, like ASMR, letting every bite linger like he was putting on a damn show. 

The bread went next. He tore off a piece, dunked it in the stew, and popped it into his mouth, gravy dripping down his chin. Arwyn's stomach twisted into knots, the hunger clawing at him fiercer than ever.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, old man?" Arwyn snapped, his voice rough with irritation he couldn't quite hide.

Flavin smirked, not even looking up from his plate. "Y'know, I gotta eat. Tavern keeping's hard work." He scooped up another spoonful of stew, blowing on it before shoving it in his mouth. "You look hungry, though. When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

"Too long," Arwyn muttered, forcing the edge out of his tone. No point in antagonizing the guy. Not when he was stuck here, literally. "I've been running on fumes and bad luck."

Flavin grunted, tearing off another chunk of bread. "Bad luck, huh? Seems like you've got a whole heap of that. What'd you do to get the Royal Guard chasin' you like a pack of rabid dogs?"

Arwyn leaned back, the cuff digging into his wrist as he shifted. This was it! The opening he needed. He had to play this carefully, though. Flavin wasn't some soft-hearted fool; he was sharp, suspicious, and not about to buy a sob story without poking holes in it. 

Arwyn couldn't spill the whole truth. Nathaniel and Santina's names, Othello's arrest, the execution at noon. Too risky. But he could drop just enough to hook Flavin's interest, maybe even his grudging respect. He took a slow breath, picking his words like steps across thin ice.

"Let's just say I pissed off the wrong people," he started, keeping his voice low, steady. "Got mixed up in something bigger than me."

Flavin's eyes narrowed, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. "Bigger how?"

Arwyn shrugged, casual but calculated. "You ever hear of Othello?"

Flavin's whole demeanor shifted just a flicker, but it was there. His jaw tightened, and he set the spoon down, leaning forward slightly. "The king's lapdog? Yeah, I know him. Slimy bastard, always sniffing around for trouble. What's he got to do with you?"

"He's got my friends," Arwyn said, letting a hint of grit slip into his tone. "Locked 'em up tight. Gonna make an example out of 'em if I don't figure something out."

Flavin's brow arched, skeptical but intrigued. "Your friends, huh? What'd they do?"

Arwyn hesitated, just for a beat. Couldn't go too deep y'know. "They crossed the wrong lines, same as me. Othello's got a grudge, and he's using them to get to me."

Flavin snorted, picking up his bowl again. "Sounds like a mess. And what? You're planning to storm in and save 'em? Just you, a half-dead runaway with no gear, no plan, and a wrist that's gonna bruise up nice?"

Arwyn's jaw clenched, but he kept his cool. "Something like that."

Flavin laughed, a rough, gravelly sound that bounced off the basement walls. "You're dumber than you look, kid. Othello's got half the guard on his payroll. You'd be dead before you got within spitting distance."

"Eh. Maybe," Arwyn said, meeting Flavin's gaze head-on. "But I don't have a choice. They're all I've got left."

The laughter faded, and Flavin's eyes flicked to the cuff on Arwyn's wrist. He chewed slower now, his expression shifting, still hard, but thoughtful. "You really think you can pull it off?"

Arwyn didn't blink. "I have to try. You miss 100% of the shots you don't take, right?"

For a long moment, the basement was quiet. Just the drip of water somewhere in the corner and the faint creak of the tavern settling overhead. Flavin sighed, pushing his plate aside with a scrape. 

"You're a fool. But I've seen worse." He reached into his pocket, fished out a small key, and tossed it onto the crate. It landed with a soft clink, right next to the half-eaten bread. "Eat something. You'll need it if you're gonna die today."

Arwyn blinked, caught off guard. "You're letting me go?"

Flavin stood, grabbing his musket and slinging it over his shoulder. "I'm letting you eat. Then we'll see." He turned and climbed the ladder, slower this time, leaving the trapdoor open behind him. "Don't make me regret this, kid."

Arwyn didn't waste a second. He snatched the key, fumbling it into the lock with stiff fingers. The cuff clicked open, and he rubbed his wrist, wincing at the red mark it left behind. Then he grabbed the plate. Bread, cheese, stew, all of it, and he tore into it like a starved animal.

The bread was crusty and warm, the cheese sharp and creamy, and the stew—my Lord, the stew—was hot and rich, the best damn thing he'd tasted in forever. He ate fast, barely chewing, letting the warmth fill the hollow ache in his gut.

For now, that was enough. Arwyn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring up at the open trapdoor. One step at a time.