(64) Magnetism

Lyron strode confidently into the adventurer guild. True, he was not an adventurer, but he had always found them more companionable than the military. Many of the men serving beneath him were close, like brothers, but he was their captain. A respectful distance was required to lead.

Adventurers seemed to have no such compunctions. They gallivanted and cavorted with each other as though part of a large family. Internal squabbles did happen, obviously, but no more so than an actual extended family. Lyron found he enjoyed the atmosphere of camaraderie and shared purpose.

Technically, he probably should have followed the chain of command the instant he landed on Ashreach soil. He should report first to the marquis, and then immediately to the count. The count himself was apparently running an operation to push into the Gloam, so he would have to contact him eventually, like it or not.

However, Lyron liked to get a lay of the land wherever he was working, and that meant getting multiple perspectives to truly understand the situation. Nobles and their information networks were useful, but they had certain biases that could skew perceptions.

Adventurers, by contrast, often possessed a keen eye and a blunt mouth. They also had their own biases, but their information was a perfect counterweight to the nobles’.

Yes, that was it. He was here to get information, not because he was tired of interacting with nobility and wanted a break. He would, of course, never shirk his responsibilities, particularly when deployed.

Lyron stepped away from the doors, out of the way, and scanned the room. He noted many eyes lingering on him, but he was used to such attention, particularly from the guild. Adventurers sizing him up was an experience he had grown so accustomed to that it was almost a familiar comfort.

A man of average build and size approached tentatively, looking this way and that, just generally behaving suspiciously.

“Fuckin’ gods, you’re the Sardvend guy? I thought we was gonna be subtle and stealth-like. I didn’t know they was sendin’ a fuckin’ giant,” the man croaked, stopping just before Lyron.

“My mission parameters are under wraps, but my presence is not. However, I would argue that your suspicious behavior is drawing far more attention than my size,” Lyron responded, his professionalism belying his amusement.

“Haa, what-the-fuck-ever,” the man sighed, turning and heading to the tavern area. “The tight-pants paid me for information, but if you want me to be personable, you’re gonna have to buy the drinks it’ll take to relax me.”

Lyron started to follow, chuckling softly. He had never had such a unique interaction immediately after entering the guild, yet adventurers were adventurers. Heading to the bar before midday was trademark adventurer business, as was finding some reason for him to pay for their drinks.

It occurred to Lyron that many might find the behavior abrasive or rude, but he thought that anyone having those thoughts would have been fortunate, for they would likely have not ever dealt with nobles.

Halfway through the main hall, the man who had introduced himself as Thomas was complaining about this-or-that, with Lyron hardly listening. Lyron’s mind was suddenly gripped by an unfamiliar feeling, and he stopped dead, his feet frozen to the ground.

His head turned rigidly toward a door behind the reception area, as if pulled by an invisible force. Exiting the door was a large man, but Lyron could barely focus on him. His attention was fixed on the woman.

She was, in most ways, completely average, from her dark hair to her slim stature. The only somewhat remarkable thing about her was her pale eyes, which contrasted with her otherwise dark features. Yet, Lyron felt something inside him stirring as he gazed at her.

What was this feeling? It was not an attraction, no. Growing up in a brothel had taught him plenty about what that felt like. No, this was…something familiar. Something within him, deep inside his bones, was calling out to her.

To kin.

“Fuck are you going, you fuckin’ bull?!” Thomas called, running to catch up with Lyron, whose feet had begun pursuing the woman before he even realized what he was doing.

“That girl who was talkin’ to the guild master—that’s who you’re after? You’re in for a tough time, brother,” he said, but his words were going in one of Lyron’s ears and out the other.

His pace quickened, and he burst through the front door at a near jog. He quickly sifted through the crowd in the plaza before him, detecting and locking onto the woman as if by magnetism.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, Madam!” he shouted, his basso nearly shaking the ground.

The crowd parted, revealing the woman, who turned slowly to meet him. A shiver ran down his spine as their eyes met. She wore such a blank expression as to give the best nobles and diplomats a challenge, yet something about her had the hairs on the back of his neck standing.

“May I help you, young man?” she asked.

The words set him on edge even further. She appeared quite young herself, and she was most assuredly a human. A young-looking human calling someone else “young man” almost certainly meant she was powerful, aged beyond what her appearance suggested.

Lyron stopped just feet from her, and his words failed him. Why had he pursued her? What did he want? What was he going to ask? Did he want to know if she also felt that instinctive familiarity?

She probably did not, judging by how affected he was, yet she did not seem even remotely interested in him, stopping only because manners dictated so after he called out to her so loudly and publicly.

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A silence passed between them, stretching into uncomfortable territory, especially considering the crowd, which slowed to watch the interaction after Lyron’s obvious display.

“…well, if there is nothing else,” she remarked, turning to begin walking once again.

Without thinking, Lyron stretched his hand out, aiming to grab her arm and prevent her from retreating. With movements that were difficult for even him to track, she spun, bringing her left arm toward her head and parrying his grab with it, her right hand held next to her, settling into an unmistakable guard, though from a style he was not familiar with.

“Sorry, I did not mean—” he started, retracting his arm back, but before he could return to a neutral stance, she pushed into his guard, grabbing his outstretched arm and spinning, throwing it over her shoulder as if it were a burlap sack.

With strength he could never have guessed from such a slim frame, she pulled his arm over her shoulder, and his body came with it, his back slamming into the ground so hard it cracked the paving stones.

She took a couple of steps back, assuming the same guard, both hands held in high fists around her chin.