Wicked is the Curse.

03 | The Catacombs

Chapter Three | The Catacombs.

Despite their injuries, Aire and Aevran took the long route back to the crew's lair. Their home was hidden deep within an old Wielder neighbourhood that had once housed the students of Irial's Wielding academy – a tower of white stone that speared the dark skies. It's energy had long since fallen silent and the soldiers used it as a barracks and storage. They had burned the Wielders journals, written during a life-time of experimentation or passed down through generations.

Aire hated the sight of it.

"I need to wash before going to see Junhyn." Aire said.

"You'll have time." Aevran told her. "He's not coming down from the house until late afternoon. Besides, he hates it when we bleed out onto the carpets."

"He will be mad that we killed a Wolfhound ." She mentioned casually. "It could be in your best interest to place all the blame on me."

"Betray you?" Aevran shook his head. "I would never."

"So, I shouldn't expect a knife in my back?"

"Not from me."

"How sweet of you, Aevran," She cooed.

"I might reconsider if you keep talking." He cast her down a scowl, knocking her shoulder.

"Well, make sure you do it properly then. I would be disappointed if it was sloppy."

"Your mouth is going to get you killed one day. "

Amused, she grinned. "Name at least one time where my mouth got us into trouble?"

"I would Aire , but I honestly don't think that we have enough hours in this day for that," They stopped in front of a flimsy wooden door. The steps creaked under Aevran's boots as they climbed onto the porch. "Maybe, if I got my hands on some type of writing material and we had a free week, I might be able to draw something to tie together something for you."

"So cruel," She examined her ruined leather arm-guards. The Wolfhound torn through them, but without them, the flesh of her arms would been in ribbons. Aevran knocked on the door and the answer was quick. The flimsy wooden door flew open and on the other side, an ashen skinned child stared back at them.

His clothes was ragged, but his wide eyes were watchful and bright. He was a street-child, a hidden watcher. People ignored the dirty, starving children which made them perfect for moving unseen through the city. 

"How are you, Zaron?" Aire asked, propping her shoulder against the pillar of the porch.

Zaron smiled shyly at her, looking up at her from under fringe of his lashes. His words were a soft whisper. "Good."

Lips widening with amusement, Aevran tilted his head to the hall. "Any disturbances?"

Zaron shrunk back into the shadows, his gaze on their injuries. "Not tonight."

"Good." Aevran slipped him a coin slyly. It always paid to have the door-watchers on their side. "You make sure to get to breakfast early. You know how quickly that vanishes."

"Yes ser."

The young boy closed the door behind them, slipping back into the shadows. Aire headed after Aevran, a hand resting on her bloodied knuckle-guard.

Ahead, Aevran struck a light and lit a torch scone, turning to face a rickety set of steps. The floors in the empty rooms around them were covered with old, musty furs – a front to make the building look like it was inhabited by the desperate. People whispered that the old Wielder houses were choked with ghosts – vengeful spirits that howled for retribution for the wrongs the Empire had committed against them.