LUMM 1: Die a Horrid Death, Arlo Crowhaven

1 | blood & murder

My name is Arlo Crowhaven, and I am going to break your trust.

A bold claim, might I add, but justified within the frame of reasoning currently laid out before me. I tucked the vial of a liquid dream in the breast pocket of my uniform, letting the ornate hardwood door click shut behind me. The golden knocker clacked against the brass panel, outliving its own welcome. A glance at the downtrodden road crawling with ill-dressed folks told me it was a miracle the complex still has a door.

My boots brushed against the meadow-like carpet of weeds poking past the remnants of cobblestones lining the patio. The previous tenants did a good job of letting them run free, which said a lot about them. However, my attention speared to the carriage parked beyond the iron-wrought gates, particularly to the unmistakable taint of red I'd rather not see today.

Blood.

I paused, a hand reaching up to tap the vial on my pocket. A futile gesture. If I was to die today, no amount of creative ideas would save me. My eyes traveled the grand arch of the carriage, following the violent crests and troughs painting the windows, the coach's seat, and the low step towards the door. Some had even spilled to the floor, forming noticeable puddles like spilled wine.

The carriage loomed closer as I continued my approach. Back straight as a rod as I was taught, I reached out and wrapped my hand around the grails. The cold metal, accentuated by the remnant of the chilly winter air, dug against my palm. When I let go, specks of black paint and particles of rust peppered my palm. No blood.

A frown pulled on the around touched of my lips when a splotch of white caught my eye. Amidst the red roasting to dark brown under the morning sun, a swathe of the carriage window was untouched. Lower right, by the hinges of the door. Thick enough to be a finger, as if some of the less-mannered urchins touched something belonging to an elite.

"Holy Lochrame." A breathy voice resounded behind me, followed by the receding clunk of worn soles against the pebbles. I turned to find my butler bracing his knees behind me. Coming from the servant's quarters, it must have been a mad scramble. "I-I apologize, young master. I will have this fixed—"

I raised a hand, sending the man into silence. The last thing I needed after such an unpleasant morning was a bumbling idiot. "Send for another carriage, Walter," I said. "Study hall begins in an hour."

The man sputtered. "Are we not reporting this to the Ocalira? Someone might be intending to hurt you." He cleared his throat, fixing his crooked tie. It was hurried, as if he woke up later than his master. "Your brother—"

"I hate to cut you off twice in a row, but that is unnecessary." I unlocked the gate and let the whine of the rusty hinges drown out Walter's blubbers.

"Do you know who is behind this?"

I didn't. My enemies were numbered like sand—people who believed in me, placed their trust in me, and...well, were let down. Whoever this was has some quarrel to pick with me, with the name I spent years of my life building. If they wanted me dead, I would not be stepping out of the complex as hearty as a stag in hunting grounds.