The blue tunic Trevin wore kindled the twinkle of his Mythril-silver eyes. “I replaced the strings,” the younger bard said, offering Edward his harp, his words a fervor of one who had scarcely seen twenty-three summers. “I’m no miracle worker, so the woods got some dings.”

“You needn’t worry.” Reaching for the instrument, Edward continued his lilted reply, “Betwixt the years, it has seen strife and concord. The dings only give her character. I thank you for your efforts.”

Trevin smiled. It did not reach his eyes. That smile that always made Edward’s skin crawl, like walking through a spiderweb. While his suspicions rarely lead him astray, he felt inclined to think else wise. The new minstrel had been through rough patches in his life. Twisting scars littered his arms, spilling onto the hands and chest. A byproduct of living in Sonora. If the rumors were true. Given the harsh environment, it’d make sense such a man would grow to be far more reserved than the populace of Torensten. Perhaps it was also his nerves.

Edward settled on the latter, for it seemed the most plausible. It was not every day one woke up in a body much younger than their years, in a foreign world no less. Still, he had done well enough for himself. Music and art were a popular demand in Torensten, and it had taken little time for him to be scouted by a noble’s son whilst plucking strings on the street. He had made a decent name for himself as a musician.

Now, at behest of Barion’s request, he was to be a duo act with Trevin. Despite the unease, Edward found him pleasant enough.

“Gilbert. Trevin. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Drawn from his thoughts, Edward turned to face their newest arrival. Barion was twenty, finally filling into adulthood. He had his mother’s baby blues and windswept auburn hair. He had dressed casually, as to not dirty his clothing in the wilderness. It made him blend in. Edward smiled. The councilman's son knew how to act, how to hide in plain sight.

“Please,” Trevin answered, his grin baring too many teeth for comfort. Again, Edward was glad he insisted on chaperoning their playdate. “It’s rough getting to the outskirts. Moreso for a noble lad, I bet.” Something seemed off. Gooseflesh rippled as Trevin casually swung his arm around Barion’s neck, chattering about checking out the nearby wooded area for a potential concert venue.

Then the dagger glinted in a rogue sunbeam. Edward found his voice. “Run!”

Barion needn’t be told twice. With a harsh shove, lurching Trevin over an uproot, he freed himself before barrelling back towards the city line. Wasting no time, Edward followed. “Get to the station!” he called to Barion as the grass gave way to the city’s stonework.

Rounding the corner, Edward all but dodged crates containing chickens, lurching the wooden structure in a flurry of feathers and alarm calls. Their owner, a man who favored day spirits, came stumbling from his abode, face flushed. “My chickens!” bellowed the mage, shaking his fist at the ever retreating bard. “I’ll get you for this, ungrateful punk!”

Edward swallowed back his urge to apologize. Now was not the time. Legs pumping, the bard continued tailing Barion, making haste toward the station. So close. Edward sent a silent prayer to whatever God would listen to get the boy to safety.

Clamouring up the metal stairs, Edward ushered the noble to the train. Barion squeezed between the sliding doors, stranding Edward on the platform. The cadence of footfalls approached behind. Heart pounding, he went to turn, to face the assassin, his fingers on the strings of his harp. “You shall not—”

Splintering notes hit the air, rattling and striking one’s sense as hurtled bricks. With his knees threatening to buckle beneath the jolting song, Edward found the strength to counter Trevin’s spell. He sang of protection, of unbreakable walls, of warriors boldly pursuing the foe, all while his fingers caressed the harp strings. Trevin’s melody faltered, as one strained beneath some unseen force, as Edward pressed the offense.

The harp string snapped. Edward’s harmony became a clangor. Eyes widening, Edward recalled Trevin’s tinkering of his instrument; he had been set up to fail. His opponent wasted no time in taking advantage of his confusion, rushing in. Edward went for his knife. Unfortunately for him, Trevin was quicker, snaring Edward’s left wrist and with a violent wrench, pinned it against his back. Taken aback, his harp fell to the cobblestones with a heavy thud.

The chill of metal touched his neck.

“You—” the King of Damcyan began, before falling silent as the blade threatened to pierce the tender skin of his neck.

Trevin spoke, voice as cold as the dagger in his hand, “Not who I seem. I could say the same of you, Gilbert. Now, where is he headed?”

Sweat beaded on Edward’s brow. He held his silence.

“If you wish to take a vow of silence,” Trevin gave a click of his tongue, dug the knife in, drawing a thin line. “I could cut out your tongue, to honor your will. It’d be a shame. A bard unable to sing. Poetic tragedy, some would say.” His smirk became fishhook sharp at Edward’s barely audible gasp. “Your fingers, too. But it won’t come to that, if you’d tell me. So, I ask again. What district did you send Barion to, Gilbert?”

Defiant, the king kept his resolve.

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Caius Dragelion and open for anyone who wishes to join! Of course, we know Barion's going to get the blades. ;D