Four Suits (Book 1)

Day 39-7: Frost

DAY 39-7: FROST

   "Orian!" Leda yells, fear gripping her by the shoulders.

   He isn't moving.

   He looks so lifeless.

   "This isn't good."

   Leda's heart stops at Hadey's words. She spins to see the very girl trying to swallow back unbelievable fear.

   "He appears to have lost too much blood. Supposing he's still alive, he doesn't have long left. He needs to be treated right away."

   Leda stops her gaping by gnawing on her bottom lip. As someone who was at Avel's behest, discreetly picking up on his quack studies growing up, there's no doubt she's honest.

   "Supposing he's still alive."

   She grounds her teeth, clenching the fabric of her chest. There is no supposing to it.

   He is alive. She won't allow otherwise.

   "Hn, what is this?" The man with the tallest chef toque on his head speaks first, breaking from the crowd. He's short, the length of his hat compensating for his lack of height, but his wide, turquoise eyes are intimidating. "Visitors? One maid. And one outsider."

   "Chef Jupus," one of the workers speaks up.

   "Continue with the preparations," 'Jupus' states, his nasally voice grating in Leda's ears. "Because that Mond princess split, Her Majesty is out for blood. And what perfect condolence exists other than a blood cake, her favourite dessert, featuring that very species? Hn, she'll love it!"

   The band of cooks adhere with a nod, stirring up the large pot of boiling ingredients, wafting a sickly sweet smell.

   Leda grounds her teeth. "You—"

   "My esteemed guests," Jupus speaks, a malevolent twinkle in his eye. "It sounds utterly marvellous, doesn't it? A blood cake consisting of such a foul hybrid. But foul means nothing in the presence of the great Jupus—Non, there is no ingredient I cannot use to prepare the most exquisite dishes for the royal family's palates! Such is because—"

   "—you're the greatest chef in all of Straeh!" his workers chorus.

   "Precisely." He smirks. "And I won't dare let anyone—even the Queen herself—get in the way of my cooking—"

   "Who gives a crap about cooking or some sadistic cake!" Leda's explosive shout—as well as a kick between his legs shuts him right up. She delivers equally shattering boots to his coworkers' privates before they can blink. "Get my friend down from there, dammit!"

   Amidst their bulged-eyed shock, Leda slips through the crowd and searches for a way to turn off the boiling cauldron. There's no plug, though. Or off button. It's truly as if it's running—burning—solely off magic. Grounding her teeth, Leda reaches for the rope constricting Orian's limbs.

   "Ma...ster..."

   The faint-as-a-feather whisper stalls Leda's heartbeat. Her attention darts to her companion only to have something patter onto her cheek. It takes her a hot second to realize it's tears. Orian's half-lidded eyes are a testament to his frail state, alongside the dried blood staining every inch of his skin and quivering mouth. He can hardly summon the strength to move—breathe—as if he's doing all he can to stay conscious.

   "Orian!" Leda's heart clenches at his woeful state. "I'll get you down from here. Damn bastards—why're these knots impossible to untie—"