Chapter 6; A Lady Like Yourself

ARWYN

Despite Leigh's stern warnings, I couldn't resist the allure of the Wreath. As much as I despised the place and everything it stood for.

Pete had a talent for turning violence into profit, drawing crowds eager to witness the spectacle of men grappling and trading blows, each fighting to assert their dominance.

But the Wreath was more than just a venue for testosterone-fueled brawls. It was a vibrant hub of desires and aspirations, where both men and women sought entertainment, excitement, and sometimes, something deeper.

Women adorned the stands alongside men. Some came for the sheer thrill of the spectacle, while others were dragged along by eager partners. And then there were those who lingered in the shadows, their intentions less noble, seeking pleasure and profit in equal measure.

It was a world of excess and indulgence, where the wealthy flaunted their riches and the desperate sought their fortunes in the sweat and blood of the fighters. And amidst it all, Pete reigned supreme, his pockets lined with the spoils of his enterprise.

The sun sank low on the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the dusty street leading to the Wreath. I relinquished my horse to Willy, the stable boy, slipping him a silver coin as a token of appreciation before striding purposefully into the bustling establishment.

Inside, the atmosphere crackled with a lot of things, the scent of sweat and leather mingling in the air. The din of clashing metal and boisterous cheers filled the space, enveloping me in a cacophony of sound. The arena sprawled before me with packed earth and wooden stands.

Spotting Pete amidst the throng of fighters and spectators, I navigated through the crowd with determined strides, ignoring the lascivious laughter of women draped in garish attire that left little to the imagination. They were on the prowl, seeking their next conquest amidst the chaos of the arena.

I couldn't help but marvel at their audacity, contrasting it with my own practical attire-leather pants, a loose tunic, and a sturdy corset-eschewing the frivolity of their wardrobe choices. My satchel hung from my shoulder, loosely.

Approaching Pete, one of his lackeys intercepted me, murmuring something in his ear. Pete's gaze swept over me before he strode purposefully toward his office, leaving no room for questions. I trailed behind him, anticipation gnawing at my insides as I braced for whatever awaited me.

Pete's office exuded an eerie stillness, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the arena outside. Stepping into the room, the heavy oak door shut behind me with a resounding thud, cutting off the outside world.

Seated at the head of a large mahogany table, Pete's intense gaze tracked my every move, his eyes ablaze with a mixture of curiosity and restrained fury. Two loyal lackeys flanked him, their presence exuding authority.

I steeled myself for the inevitable reprimand, but to my surprise, Pete's voice pierced the tense silence like a blade, calm and composed.

"How old were you when I took you in, Arwyn?" His voice sliced through the air, thick with gravity, and I arched a dubious brow in response.

"Eleven, sir," I hesitated, the weight of his inquiry pressing against me.

"Speak up, little lamb," he interjected, impatience lacing his words.

"Eleven, Sire," I replied, fingers instinctively curling around the strap of my satchel. What game was he playing with this question?

"Eleven. Excellent," Pete acknowledged with a solemn nod, a flicker of reminiscence dancing in his eyes. "I recall you then—a waif-like thief with sparks in your gaze. You hadn't realized your full potential, but I glimpsed it. I sensed your capacity for greatness, so I took you under my wing. I nourished you, bestowed upon you wealth, bestowed upon you purpose."

His words hung in the air, laden with significance, and a tumult of conflicting emotions surged within me. Pete had been akin to a paternal figure in those formative years, a beacon of provision in a world of scarcity. Yet, his intentions had always lurked beneath the surface, veiled in enigma, his generosity a mask for clandestine motives unknown to me.

As the memories of my tumultuous upbringing flood back, I steel myself for whatever revelation Pete is about to unveil. Whatever his intentions, one thing is certain-I won't be caught off guard again.

" If this is about the Tailoress..."

Pete's hand crashes down on the weathered wooden table, the sharp sound reverberating through the room and causing me to flinch involuntarily. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Do not interrupt when I'm speaking, girl, or you'll find yourself off to the kitters," he warns, his voice a low growl that brooks no disobedience.

The kitters—a fate worse than death for someone like me. A desolate voyage aboard one of Pete's forsaken vessels, condemned to brave the perilous seas in pursuit of trade with distant shores. It's a realm of suffering and despair, where survival hangs by a thread and cruelty holds sway. And should the ship meet its end in the depths, I would meet mine, for I lack the skill to swim.

I swallow hard, my pulse quickening as the weight of my error settles in. "I'm sorry," I whisper, bowing my head in contrition.

Pete heaves a weary sigh, a hint of leniency softening his features at my apology. "Don't cast me as the villain, little lamb. I'm not your foe—I'm your benefactor. I plucked you from destitution and bestowed upon you purpose, and I'll continue to stand by you so long as you prove your mettle."

I lift my head, meeting his gaze with a mixture of remorse and determination. "I'm so sorry. I won't mess up again."

Pete shook his head. "You've been performing admirably until recently. It's been two years, Arwyn. All your assignments were successes, and oh, were you my favorite? Yes, indeed. But then you lost your way."

My lower lip trembles as memories of the mission that shattered me flood back, simultaneously forging and breaking me. For a time, I was hailed as a hero among Pete's crew, but the weight of guilt became too much to bear.

"Pete, please, just one more chance—"

"You've already had two chances, girl. After I benched you for failing to secure a deal with Doukas," Pete reminds me, disappointment coloring his tone. "The Tailoress was your second opportunity, and you let it slip through your fingers. You couldn't even secure her signature on the documents before she showed you the door."

Regarding Doukas, Pete wanted me to sell myself to the man, but that's not who I am. I can't flutter my eyelashes and charm my way through to anyone. And as for the Tailoress...

"She was already onto us. Someone must've tipped her off," I explain, my words stumbling in a frantic attempt to justify my failure.

"Enough! No more field assignments for you," Pete's voice slices through the tension, his gaze piercing into mine with unyielding resolve. "You're benched again."

"But Pete, I need the money to provide for my sisters—" I begin, desperation seeping into my voice, but he raises a hand to silence me.

"They'll be fine," he interrupts, his tone firm. "Leigh works at the Glory Rivet, and you'll be working here in the Wreath."

My heart sinks at the thought of returning to this wretched place, where men revel in violence and women are mere objects of desire. I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.

"But I'll never pass as a man-pleaser," I protest weakly, forcing a chuckle to mask my discomfort. "Look at me. I don't even own any flattering clothes."

"You're not working as a wench, Arwyn," Pete clarifies, his tone surprisingly gentle. "You'll be working in the infirmary."

"The infirmary?" I repeat, taken aback by his unexpected offer.

"Yes. You'll tend to the bruised men after they've finished a fight, and you'll do it well because I'll be checking on you from time to time."

Pete knows about my healing abilities, and it's typical of him to try and exploit them for his own gain, especially after I've disappointed him time and time again.

A sly smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Heal them nice and good, because we'd love for them to come back with more money and in good health the next day."

I nod, resigned to my fate, even as anger simmers beneath the surface. It may not be what I had hoped for, but at least I won't have to stoop to the level of pleasing these brutes.

As I step out of Pete's office, a sense of bitterness lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of sweat and despair that permeates the Wreath. 

Curse the soldier who tore my mother from me, leaving me to rely on a man like Pete for survival. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but rebellion courses through my veins, fueling my reckless pursuit of danger in the hopes of overcoming the bitterness that festers within.

I stand before the bar, my gaze fixed on the fighting arena, where the roar of the crowd mingles with the clashing of metal and the grunts of combatants. The air is thick with tension and excitement, the atmosphere charged with raw energy that crackles in the air.

As men throw money into the net, urging on their chosen fighters with raucous cheers and jeers, I can't help but wonder what could be accomplished if all this wealth were poured back into the economy, rather than squandered on senseless brutality.

Two women saunter by, their laughter ringing out like tinkling bells as they gossip and point towards a figure standing shirtless in front of the arena. His dark hair ruffles in the breeze and he has a broad back obvious from years of rigorous training. He paces the corners of the arena with the grace of a predator, his movements fluid and confident.

He must be one of the fighters, I realize, my curiosity piqued by the sight of him. I'm not a regular patron of this place, and I usually avoid lingering to watch the fights, but there's something about this man that draws me in. He exudes a quiet strength and a rugged charm that sets him apart from the rest.

Young and handsome, with a physique sculpted to perfection, he possesses an aura of mystery and allure that is impossible to ignore. Surely, he must possess a certain level of skill to have earned a place in the arena.

As he strides purposefully, messy brown hair, his voice booming towards the arena, the glint of a jewel catches my eye. It's a deep, fiery red, reminiscent of a ruby, and it's set into the hilt of a dagger secured at his waist. That stone alone could fetch a small fortune, perhaps even thirty gold coins or more.

Suddenly, my spirits lift at the sight of such potential wealth. With renewed determination, I adjust my course to intercept the young man, hoping to relieve him of his valuable possession. 

He's completely engrossed in the spectacle of the fight, oblivious to my approach, which suits my intentions perfectly.

With practiced precision, I feign clumsiness, pretending to stumble into him with an exaggerated squeak of surprise. His reflexes are quick as he reaches out to steady me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist in a protective embrace.

I'm caught off guard by the shade of honey-eye, framed by thick, sweeping lashes that accentuate the coy smile playing on his handsome face. 

With a swift, practiced motion, my fingers deftly slid to his belt, skillfully loosening the dagger from its sheath. His attention elsewhere, he remained oblivious to my secret maneuver as I deftly tucked the prized weapon into the back of my pants.

"Easy now" he says as I regain my balance, I shoot him a mischievous grin, taking note of the playful glint in his eyes. "Sturdy shoes are essential in these parts, especially with the kind of ruckus happening around here," he remarks, his voice laced with amusement.

I chuckle softly, adjusting the straps of my satchel. "Noted," I reply, my tone carrying a hint of amusement.

Once more, I meet his gaze, drowning in pools of honey gold, luminous and achingly daunting. Tonight, my past cascades over me like a relentless tide, crashing into my present with the force of a boulder.

"What brings a lady like yourself to the Wreath? Searching for someone or perhaps contemplating a daring escape from the ordinary?" The man asked.

Oh, I'm no lady, yet he's none the wiser. After all, I emitted a delicate, almost fragile sound upon our collision, granting him the liberty to assume I originate from esteemed lineage.

I raise an eyebrow, a smirk curling on my lips. "Perhaps a bit of both," I respond, my tone defiant.

His chuckle rings through the air, and I feel a surge of excitement at his reaction to my boldness. "Well, you certainly have my attention," he admits, a grin playing on his lips.

I meet his gaze, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Glad to hear it," I quip, starting to saunter away, hands still clasped behind my back and holding the dagger in place.

His voice stops me in my tracks. "Wait," he calls after me, curiosity evident in his tone. "I never got your name. 

With a coy grin, I meet his gaze once more. "Arwyn Barcour," I offer, my voice laced with a touch of intrigue but confusion as to why I just easily gave my real name out to him. I swiftly blend into the bustling throng, eager to evade any potential pursuit.