Friend in the Dark
"Now, remember, honey, don't tell anyone our real names, okay? Those bad people are looking for us, and we can't let them find us," her mother whispered, crouching beside a farmer's cart outside the inn. "We'll need to come up with new names—think of it like a game."
"But I like my name... Daddy picked it for m—" the little girl began.
"Well, he's gone now," her mother snapped, then immediately softened as tears welled up in her daughter's eyes. Taking a deep breath, she gently cupped the girl's cheek, wiping away a tear with her thumb. "I'm sorry, my little honeybee. I miss him too, and I shouldn't have reacted that way. How about we choose names from one of your favorite stories, okay? Which one should we pick?"
After a sniffle and a nod, the little girl thought carefully before looking back up.
"Could I be named... Sarqen?" she asked, watching her mother shake her head with a suppressed smile. "Oh... um... what about Yirki?"
Her mother pulled her into a warm embrace, and the girl felt tears dropping onto her back. After a few moments, her mother stood tall, took the girl's hand, and walked through the inn's doors, clutching a "Help Wanted" parchment in her other hand.
The loud bang of the wooden door hitting the inn's wall echoed through the pounding headache of the freelancer, who felt wetness on her cheek. She tried to force her eyelids open, but only one responded; the other was swollen and painfully shut. As her senses returned, she realized she was lying on a cold, dirt floor, no longer wearing her armor.
The wetness on her cheek was her own drool. As she pushed herself up, her face peeled away from the dirt that had begun to cling to her skin. The ragged clothes thrown over her did little to warm her in whatever dirt hole she was now in.
She saw bars set into the walls nearby, with the flicker of a small candle dancing down the hallway.
"Hey!" she called out, her voice catching as she realized how sore and dry her throat was. "Where am I?"
No answer.
"Hey!" she shouted louder. A groan responded, not from down the hallway but from another cell to her left.
"Keep it down, will ya?" a deep male voice replied. "They won't be coming for us for a couple more hours."
The freelancer leaned against the bars, trying to see the other prisoner, but only glimpsed two large arms resting on the bars across the corridor.
"Who are 'they'?" she asked, sighing as she leaned against the bars herself, giving her body time to recover. "And how do you know their schedule?"
The other prisoner began cracking his fingers one by one, each knuckle echoing through the corridor.
"I can't speak their flowy language, but the last person in your spot said their name translates to 'The Emerald Blades,'" he said, pulling his hands back into his cell. She heard him lean against the wall and slide down to a sitting position. "And from what I can tell, they don't let their caged birds live too long. But they like their show to be before dinner."
The freelancer rested her head against the bars, letting out an exasperated sigh.
The Emerald Blades were a group of Wood Elf vigilantes—definitely not the kind you wanted to cross paths with. Especially if you were, say, a freelancer who often smuggled resources considered sacred by the Wood Elves.
"Shit," she muttered. "This isn't good."
"No, it isn't. Not for you, 'nyway," the prisoner said, a layer of sadness beneath his exhaustion. "No hard feelings—just know I can't control much of what I do in that pit."
"What do you mean?"
"After they talk to ya and get whatever info they want, they'll offer you a choice: a quick end or a chance to keep living—for a shot at freedom someday, maybe," he explained. "That chance involves a fight to the death with the other prisoner. And their leader has this horn... when he plays it my eyes go dark and eventually I come to with blood on my hands."
The freelancer kept her good eye fixed on the small, flickering candlelight down the hallway.
"And how long have you been down here?" she asked, her hands gripping the bars as she dug her toes into the cold mud beneath her feet.
"You'd be my tenth."
"Got it," she said, taking a few deep, calming breaths. "And what's the name of my executioner?"
She heard a short laugh from the other cell as he pushed himself back up to his feet and walked back to the bars, reaching his arm as close as he could toward her.
"The name's Doran. Doran Reinhardt of clan Reinha—" he stopped abruptly, and she noticed his hand retreat slightly before he finished, "Well, of the dead Reinhardt Clan."
She stared at his outstretched hand for a few seconds, moving closer to her side of the bars. As she was about to say her name, an image of her mother flashed in her mind—standing outside that inn with both hands on her shoulders.
"My honeybee," her mother's voice echoed in her memory. "They'll be looking for us..."
"Pleasure, Doran," she said, touching his fingertips in the closest handshake they could manage. "I'm Bea. Beatrice Birch."