Chapter 228: Dangerous Inn

Barely an hour had passed before Airam’s eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she did not move.

The room lay in near darkness, the single oil lamp having burned low beside the bed. Rain tapped faintly against the window. Ulrich slept beside her, or perhaps he had merely fallen into a heavy, logical slumber. His breathing was shallow. His face remained pale against the pillow, crimson hair damp across his brow.

Then Airam heard it again.

Whispers.

Several voices, muffled by the door but close enough that she could make out the shifting weight of bodies in the corridor. Floorboards creaked. Someone gave a short, ugly laugh, quickly smothered.

Airam sat upright.

Her gaze fixed on the door.

A soft metallic click came from the lock.

The handle moved once.

Then again.

The keyhole gave a faint scrape as something narrow and hard was forced into it from the other side.

Airam glanced at Ulrich.

He had not woken. His brow had drawn together slightly, but exhaustion held him under. She slid silently from the bed and crossed the room, placing herself between him and the door.

The chair Ulrich had wedged beneath the handle stood before her.

A moment later, a boot struck the door.

The chair skidded away with a violent scrape.

The door burst inward.

The innkeeper stood in the entrance, grinning through the gaps in his yellowed teeth. Four men crowded behind him, their shoulders filling the narrow doorway. Their clothes were worn, their faces roughened by drink and hard living, and every one of them looked past Airam toward the bed.

The innkeeper noticed the chair lying on its side and chuckled.

"A chair beneath the handle," he said. "Suspicious little thing, aren’t you?"

The men behind him snickered.

"So you weren’t lying," one said, letting his eyes travel over Airam with naked greed. "She is a fine one."

"Can we have our turn before we sell her?" Another asked. "Just one taste?"

"Careful," the innkeeper replied, his grin widening. "She’ll fetch more if you don’t ruin the goods."

A third man looked toward Ulrich and barked out a laugh.

"And look at that fool. Sleeps through his girl getting taken."

Airam did not answer.

Her expression did not change.

The man never finished laughing.

A burst of fire crossed the room.

It struck him in the face with the force of a thrown cannonball.

The blast hurled him backward through the doorway. He crashed into the corridor wall hard enough to crack the plaster, then slid to the floor with both hands clutched over his burned face. The smell of scorched skin flooded the room.

Silence followed.

The remaining men stared at Airam.

She lowered her hand slowly.

"Do not wake him," she said.

Her voice was quiet, cold, and emotionless.

The men could not speak for several seconds.

The girl standing before them was not trembling. She was not pleading either.

She had simply burned one of them down without hesitation.

Then Airam raised both hands.

Dark golden runes appeared around her fingers.

They did not arrange themselves into a Formula Ring. They formed without structure, scattered symbols hanging in the air like fragments of heated metal. A second later, crimson light seeped through their edges. Fire caught along the hem of Airam’s damp nightgown and climbed around her body in thin, restless threads.

The men recoiled.

One of them went pale.

"W—Witchcraft!" He sputtered.

The innkeeper’s smile vanished.

"She’s a witch!"

The word seemed to break whatever restraint remained.

"Even better," the innkeeper snarled, snickering. "Catch her! A witch like that will sell for a fortune. No one will complain if we take what we want first—"

The wooden chair rose from the floor.

No one touched it.

It flew across the room.

The chair struck the grinning man behind in the temple with a sharp crack and sent him sprawling into the corridor. His head hit the floorboards. He did not rise.

Airam barely looked at him.

Instead, her eyes flicked upward.

A thin crack had opened in the ceiling above the doorway.

The room was old. The wood was rotten in places, the walls warped with age and rain. Her loose runes did not obey the clean, restrained laws of magecraft. Their force bled into the room around her, reacting to the anger she was keeping trapped behind her still expression.

Another crack spread through the plaster.

Airam’s gaze immediately returned to Ulrich.

He remained asleep.

But his brow furrowed more deeply.

Her lips pressed tight.

The three men still standing surged forward.

A knife flashed through the air toward her throat.

Airam swept her left hand aside.

A rune ignited.

The knife changed direction in midair as though struck by an invisible hammer. It spun past her shoulder and buried itself in the wall above the bed.

Above Ulrich.

Airam froze.

Her gaze snapped toward the knife.

It had sunk deep into the wood, close enough that a few splinters had fallen over the pillow beside his head.

That moment of distraction was enough.

"Catch her!"

One of the men reached her first.

His sword came down behind her, turned flat rather than edged. They wanted her alive.

Airam summoned a cluster of runes around her body. Crimson symbols flared between her and the descending blade. The force knocked the sword away with a shriek of metal, then deflected a second strike and a third.

She did not retaliate, or at least not fully.

The sleeping Ulrich behind her was too close. The room was too small. Every rune she released with real force might strike him, bring down the ceiling, or set the cheap inn ablaze around them.

The walls shook.

Dust sifted down from the rafters.

One of the men stumbled backward, staring upward in terror.

"W—what is happening?"

"It’s her," the innkeeper said.

For the first time, true fear entered his voice.

The runes around Airam had grown brighter. They spun more quickly, responding to the anger she refused to let loose. Even holding back, she was bending the room around them.

"Knock her out!" The tallest of the men shouted.

He charged from behind with his sword raised.

Airam stepped aside.

Her fingers closed.

Three fiery red runes shot into the man’s chest.

They burst against him.

He flew through the doorway and crashed into the two men already lying in the corridor. The impact drove the breath from his lungs. Smoke rose from the blackened ruin of his shirt, and he curled around the burn with a strangled cry.

Then the innkeeper reached her.

His hand closed around her shoulder.

His other hand caught her arm.

"Just let yourself—"

Airam looked down at his fingers.

Her face went cold.

She lifted her hand.

The runes around her tightened.

For an instant, the innkeeper felt the pressure gather around his throat, his chest, his bones. He understood, too late, that the girl did not need to burn him.

She could simply crush him.

"Hey, little witch!"

Airam stopped.

The last standing man had slipped past her.

He stood beside the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress. His knife was held beneath Ulrich’s jaw, its edge resting against the pale skin of his throat.

Airam froze seeing that.

"You move," the man said, his hand shaking despite the attempt at menace in his voice, "and I cut him open. You understand?"

The innkeeper recovered enough to grin.

"Heh. Good work."

He looked at Airam again, greed creeping back into his expression.

"You are skilled with your little witch tricks. You’ll sell for plenty. But first, you’ll repay us for what you did—"

"Gah—!"

The innkeeper’s words became a wet gasp.

Something slammed into his companion beside the bed.

The man holding the knife was thrown sideways so violently that he crashed through a narrow wooden shelf. Bottles and broken cups scattered over him. His knife clattered across the floor.

The innkeeper turned his head.

He only saw a crimson blur cross the room.

Then a fist struck his stomach.

The force folded his body around the blow. His swollen belly caved inward as all the air left his lungs at once. He flew backward and struck the wall hard enough to shake the room.

Before he could collapse, a hand seized his throat.

Ulrich pinned him against the wall.

The innkeeper clawed at the single hand around his neck, but there was no escaping it. Ulrich’s right arm trembled from exhaustion. His face was bloodless. His hair hung wet over his eyes. He should not have been standing.

Yet the cold in his crimson gaze made the innkeeper forget how to breathe.

Blood gathered at the corner of Ulrich’s mouth as he spoke coldly.

"Don’t touch her."

The innkeeper let out a strangled whimper.

His legs gave way beneath him.

Warm liquid spread down the front of his trousers.

Ulrich’s expression did not change.

He lifted the man higher, forcing his feet from the floor, and loosened his grip only enough for him to draw one desperate, ragged breath.

"I need horses," Ulrich said.

The innkeeper’s eyes bulged.

"In the—" He coughed, choking on panic. "In the backyard. There are horses in the backyard!!"

Ulrich watched him for one silent moment.

Then he twisted his wrist.

A sharp crack broke through the room.

The innkeeper went limp.

Ulrich released him.

The body collapsed at his feet.