The Dagger's Wrath (BOOK 1)

Chapter Eighteen

A/N: I'm starting to think that Fravado likes the attention of having being a kingdom-bearer, now. I mean, he's not there yet, it's just a hopeless dream... but it's frightening to think that he could do it. He's getting closer to the Waygard Sea, the division between the Lightlands and the Darklands... so it's just a matter of time before he comes and causes chaos upon the world. So, I guess, here we go.

Fravado Farighan, the Bloodpaths, the Lightlands

The Messenger of the Lightlands took a sip of his guak, a drink made of fresh herbs and spices mixed with berries, and cringed. The first sips of new drinks were always the worst, but then as he got to gulping it down, he just bit his lip and wished for the best as he put his mug on the wooden circle table.

He was inside an inn at the side of one of the Bloodpaths, which had been created by the Second King of the Lightlands. The Messenger had always thought that it was named the name it was, for it had several stains of blood on each and every marble, but it was actually because of the First Uprising that the Second King had been apart of. The Second King, also known as King Jaehon, made his army of slaves and soldiers and warriors construct a path that would let them cross between the border of the Red River and the Moon River, before the two would clash into battle.

Fravado didn't know what he thought of the idea, but complaining about whether roads were good ideas for abandoning severed heads wasn't what he wanted to do right now, so he took another sip of his guak.

He gulped, and forced a grim smile to himself.

The inn was a large place with the middle of it held by two large oak wood pillars elaborately designed in all of the Houses' banners. He recognised some of the familiar colours of paint, and some of the symbols and designs that were scribbled over in chalk by the work of children from across the open lands. Behind the pillars was a wide stall where the innkeeper stood behind it. She was flipping bottles and glass mugs, as well as regular mugs of wood—and was doing an exceptionally good job at it.

In front of her was a long and narrow table that held around sixteen chairs, probably for a lowly ranked wedding area or something of the like. Nobody was seated on it, though, as it had to be reserved via raven, crow or Messenger. There was also another long table, as well as a few dozen scattered tables that held one or two people. Although it had nice company, the smell was of dried blood and forgotten rat corpses, as well as something tangy like a peculiar spice.

But Fravado liked it. The inn was simple, nice, crowded and kept him undercover so that nobody would have to point out that he was supposed to be writing messages and letters to low and high lords of forgotten family names. He didn't want to have to deal with that anymore.

He studied the waitress as she brought his meal to him, dodging compliments and flirtatious smiles from old, grim men with disgusting looks about them. She placed the plate down onto his table once she arrived there, and gave him a few extra coins—probably change; maybe he gave her too much.

She wore—like all of the waitresses—a small raggedy brown, sleeveless garment with loose, baggy pants and warm boots for the end of the winter. Her red hair was tucked into a bun, which was braided into complicated designs. She had only a few freckles, and looked quite tall.

Fravado smirked as she sat down, but lost his smile and happy face as she took the extra coins from the table, tucking it into her pocket.

"You thought you were going to keep it, hey?" She chuckled, being a bit optimistic or what seemed like it. She brought one of the silver coins out, examined it, and then flipped it, landing it on her right palm. "Mmm, the Golden Queen. You know what I think of her?"