The Forsaken Hero
Chapter 92: The Hero’s Bluff

Chapter 92: The Hero’s Bluff

I froze, unable to comprehend what had happened. The horrified cries of patrons and whores felt distant to my ears, a muted buzz amidst the roaring pulse in my ears. Moving in a daze, I stumbled toward the gaping hole, but Soltair caught me first. He jerked my arm, pulling us outside, where we got a good look at the carnage caused by my unintentional spell.

"Gods," Trithe whispered, staring at the twitching corpse of the once-breathing man.

His body was bent in multiple unnatural angles, twisted and broken almost beyond recognition. Long, jagged lacerations ripped through his clothes and flesh, dying his corpse and the street crimson.

"Xiviyah," Soltair said, his voice stern and low. "What have you done?"

"I-I...I didn’t mean to," I finally stammered. "He tried to...and you didn’t...I didn’t mean to."

Why? Why did he have to assault me? Why couldn’t Soltair stand up for me? Why didn’t I feel anything? Even as my shock faded, the dead man before me evoked nothing but a slight twinge of horror. Even the restless spirits of the dead priests were silent, their usual condemnation absent.

I wondered why no one was fleeing the brothel yet, and turned to look through the open doorway. Oh. A mass of people crowded against the counter, pushing and shoving to get as far away from the incident as possible. Spectators had begun gathering in the street, pointing at the carnage and calling for the guards. Already, the distant gleam of an approaching patrol glinted at the far end of the street, and I knew it was only a matter of time.

"What’s going on...good gods!" Mistress Bilgon cried, coming up short as she burst through the door. "What happened?"

Soltair and Trithe looked at me, eyes flat. I shivered, seeing naked hostility bared on their faces for the first time. Taking a deep breath, I decided it was best to explain myself before more conclusions were reached.

"I’m sorry. He attacked me, and I instinctively reacted. I didn’t mean to kill him."

Her eyes widened as she looked between me and the corpse. "But you’re a slave! How could you kill..." Her eyes flicked to Soltair, whose expression darkened.

"The fault is mine. I removed many of her restrictions when we left the Divine Throne. I hadn’t thought something like this necessary. I can see now that was an oversight."

"But my wall!" she cried, turning to her precious brothel. "I can’t have a business like this!"

Some hope glimmered in my mind, and I raised my hand, casting a third circle spell. "Mend." With a burst of magic, the wall pulled itself together. Wood fragments pulled over from various corners of the street and lobby, restoring themselves until the wall was seamlessly whole once more.

Mistress Bilgon was left gaping at a flawless wall, but, before anything more could be said, the guards arrived. Turning at their shout, I tensed as I recognized the captain from before Lord Byron’s mansion. Were they really the closest guards?

"What the hell happened here?" The captain cried, drawing his sword with a ring. "Another bandit attack?"

The rest of his men followed suit, driving the spectating crowds away. I felt like running too, but Soltair’s hand rested on my shoulder, digging into my flesh.

"I’m afraid this was my slave’s fault, captain," he said, his grip tightening. I lip, trying to keep from crying out at the painful pressure.

"What? I knew I was right to be suspicious. Are you really here to drive off the bandits, or finish their work yourself?"

Soltair’s gaze swept across the guards and onlookers, his eyes gleaming with a keen and analytical intensity. I gasped as I struck the ground with enough force to knock the wind from me, staring dazedly at the sky. Soltair stood above me, holding my cloak in his outstretched hand. Had he pushed me?

"Unfortunately, my slave has forgotten her place," he said coldly. "I had thought her demonic tendencies restrained, but now your righteous citizen has paid for my mistake with their life."

The revelation of my race must have proved a big shock to all, but the gaping humans rested in the background. I looked up into Soltair’s gaze, everything else fading away, and found conflicting condemnation and apology. His eyes seemed to say that everything would be alright, that I just needed to trust him. Upon seeing my features relax, he gave an imperceptible nod and turned back to the captain.

"A demonkin," the man hissed, his grip on his sword tightening. "If you weren’t the Sun Hero, I’d accuse you of consorting with the bandits. Even so, I’m afraid we’ll have to take her in. Murder is a crime punishable by death, after all."

"I’m afraid I can’t allow that," Soltair said, releasing a bit of his aura. "She is mine, and I am not subject to your laws. If you require punishment that justice might be satisfied, then this will have to suffice."

This? My heart dropped as he gave me another apologetic look and touched his chest. A heartbeat later, a crimson glow burst out of my chest, lighting up the intricately charged slave crest. A scream tore from my throat as the first wave of agony pulsed through my soul, pushing through my veins and reaching the ends of my body.

At first, I resisted it, but as every nerve caught fire, it became apparent this punishment was unlike anything I’d experienced before. Magical jolts of curse magic wove around my being, bursting with enough power to deliver physical harm. Black burns traced behind the flowing arcs, scorching me inside and out and causing every nerve to blaze with fire. Even as my voice broke, the coppery taste of blood rising from my torn throat, the pain continued. The constant convulsions and thrashing left me exhausted, by my muscles refused to relax until the tension overwhelmed what little strength I clung to.

Faced with such excruciating torture, all thoughts of resistance broke. Any tolerance I had built up toward the punishment was swept away in a torrent of magic, tearing anew my scars and breaking down my mind. It wasn’t long before the tears stopped flowing, and I collapsed in on myself, each new wave of pain causing only the slightest twitches within. There was no such peace as acclimating to the pain, only that I was left completely unable to react.

Even as the physical agony began to fade, the sheer weight of the experience carved deep scars upon my soul, and phantom fires replaced the curse. Gradually, my senses began to return, beginning with the hard ground beneath me and the dull ache of my head, where my horns had protected me as I fell. The heavy pressure on my chest faded, and I gasped weakly, drawing full breaths for the first time in forever. Even as my mind remained fuzzy, I became aware of voices, but almost blacked out as I forced myself to concentrate on them. Everything leading up to the punishment was a blur, so I hoped to get some indication as to why I was being punished.

The speaker had a hard, grizzled voice that grated on my ears. "A seventh-level slave crest, eh? Perhaps you should have given her over to me. Death might be a mercy for her, at this point."

Another voice pierced the fog, this one noble and gentle, almost familiar. Yet, something about it sent shivers through my body, an instinctive need to curl up and hide. "Are you satisfied?" the voice asked.

"Hardly, but I’d rather accept this than make an enemy of a Hero. If any trouble comes my way, I’ll be sure to point it to you."

The second one barked a short, humorless laugh. "No, I don’t have time for that. Deal with it yourself."

"Fine, but you’d better take care of those bandits" the first snapped, then raised his voice and called, "Get that cleaned up boys. There’s nothing else we can do here."

As a few scuffles pierced the murk, my vision started returning. The red light of the setting sun shone through my eyelids, painfully bright yet comforting at the same time. At the same time, the holes in my mind began filling in, accompanied by the faces of the speaker.

"Soltair," I groaned, coughing painfully as the word disturbed my swollen throat. A hot trickle of something wormed its way between my lips, dripping from the corner of my mouth and joining my tears on their path down my cheek.

The sun blotted out as someone stooped over me, and a heavy garment landed on my chest. I gasped at the impact, the thick fabric suppressing my fragile lungs, but couldn’t so much as raise my hand to move it.

"That’s good enough, Xiviyah, you can get up now. Sorry, I took your cloak." the man, who I recognized as Soltair, said. His voice was completely different than before, containing only amusement and pride. "I didn’t think you were such a good actor, but thanks for playing along. I’m not sure what we’d do if they actually tried to take you in for killing that guy."

I lost track of his voice after the first few words, and another round of tears traced down my cheeks. The memory of the slave crest’s punishment didn’t fade easily, nor did the hurt and betrayal deep in my heart. As gentle as Soltair’s voice was, the fear I knew before I remembered him hadn’t faded.

"Xiviyah?" Soltair’s confusion floated through my fleeting consciousness. "What are you doing? You can stop crying, they already left."

Unable to so much as raise my head, I was left helpless until Trithe’s soft voice breached the silence. "Soltair, what did you do to her?"

"Hmm? Oh, I just used the lightest punishment for the slave crest, just enough that it lit up and gave a good show. It would be much harder to resolve this if they thought the crime went unpunished, so we just had to bluff our way out."

"The lightest setting?"

"Yeah. I’ve never actually used it before, but the Pope explained how to issue a manual punishment. I just had to focus on one of the runes on the crest and the corresponding shock would be delivered."

Trithe’s voice, tinged with skepticism, cut his ease like a blade. Her unwavering gaze remained fixed on him as she questioned with a hint of incredulity, "Fifteen minutes for the lightest punishment? Please tell me you’re not serious. Do you think that blood is fake? What about her burns? Have you ever seen a slave crest so strong it literally burned the slave?"

"What are you trying to say? I just..." his voice trailed off and the heavy impact of his knees striking the ground shook what little awareness I clung to. The last thing I felt was the cold touch of an armored glove shaking my shoulders desperately, the hero lost in a silent cry.