THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The weight of the world pressed down on David's shoulders as he retraced his steps towards the Rusty Dragon. His mind, a chaotic marketplace of thoughts, was overrun by questions. The meticulously crafted world of the trash novel, "Trials of Valor," offered no solace. Its pages, once a comforting escape, now felt like a cruel deception.

Why would a shadowy organization like the Fingers target a lowly noble? The David in the book was a notorious scoundrel, a thorn in the side of society, but he was merely a tavern brawler. The puzzle lacked pieces, a vexing enigma demanding resolution. A sudden interruption jolted him from his reverie. A butcher's stall, a riot of crimson and steel, caught his eye.

The man behind the counter, a wiry figure with hands stained crimson, was a study in concentration. With practised ease, he wielded a cleaver, transforming flesh into edible art. "You want something, kid?" The butcher's voice was rough, like sandpaper on stone. David ignored the man's gruff demeanour. "Do you know the way to the Rusty Dragon?" he asked, his voice cutting through the air.

The butcher's brow furrowed in irritation. "Lost, are ya? Take a right, then two lefts. Now, scram," he grumbled, his attention returning to his bloody canvas. David nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll be back for some of that meat," he promised, a conciliatory gesture.

The butcher grunted in acknowledgement as David turned and continued his journey, the weight of his thoughts momentarily lifted by the mundane interaction. A cold logic settled over David as he navigated the labyrinthine streets." Is the elder really behind my assassination?" he mused, making a right turn.

He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, The elder, with his air of authority and control, was a convenient scapegoat. But intuition, a sharp blade honed by countless hours of reading, whispered a different truth. The elder was a pawn, not the puppet master. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a relentless beast clawing at his sanity. Sleep was a distant memory, a luxury he couldn't afford.

His mind, a battleground of thoughts, demanded action. Luna and Seraphina were the first bricks in the foundation of his burgeoning organization. He would leverage the novel to identify the blooming characters within this world, have them join him and prevent the dreaded Cataclysm Cascade. The fall of the Earl, a titan among men, had been the first domino to fall.

But behind the scenes, a far greater tragedy had unfolded - the death of the Archon of Warfare. Her demise, a silent catalyst, had triggered a chain reaction leading to the world's destruction. To avert this catastrophe, he must protect her, a guardian angel shielding her from the unseen threats. The Earl, a legend in his own right, had slain an elder dragon in a duel for the ages.

But the Archon, a cerebral tactician, would have vanquished an entire swarm she willed. Her intellect was a weapon as formidable as any sword. The question was not her ability, but his proximity to her. How could he breach the fortress of her world and become a guardian of her destiny? The familiar sign of the Rusty Dragon loomed ahead, a beacon in the bustling city.

David halted, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and plans. A wave of relief washed over him as he realized he could decipher the strange script etched into the sign. Language, a fundamental tool of human interaction, was not a barrier in this world. The tavern was a maelstrom of activity, a cacophony of laughter, clinking mugs, and the sizzle of grilled meat.

Adventurers, their armour gleaming with tales of battles fought and treasures won, filled the space. David navigated the throng, his destination the front counter. The waitress, a vision of warmth and efficiency, greeted him with a familiar smile. "Welcome back," she said, her voice a melody in the cacophony. This time, he took the opportunity to appreciate her beauty.

Gone was the simple outfit she had, replaced by a more refined attire that accentuated her curves and her full bosoms. Her auburn hair, a cascade of molten copper, framed a face that exuded a captivating blend of strength and vulnerability. Her eyes, the colour of the forest after rain, held a mischievous glint that invited conversation.

Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing sturdy, gloved hands that had seen their share of hard work. She was a living embodiment of the tavern's spirit, a beacon of comfort in a world filled with uncertainty. A tug-of-war raged within David. On one side, the siren song of the waitress's charm beckoned, while on the other, the weight of his mission pulled him forward. Seraphina, his ally, awaited.

"I'm looking for my companion," he managed, his voice a low rumble that cut through the tavern's clamour. The waitress, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and admiration, nodded. "She's here," she replied, her voice a soft counterpoint to the tavern's din. Her composure, usually as steady as a rock, was now a fragile facade. His presence, a magnetic force, was unsettling her equilibrium.

"She's in room six, second floor," she said, her voice regaining its composure as she reached behind the counter. A small, ornate key materialized in her hand. "I'd escort you, but it's rather busy down here." David took the key, his fingers brushing against hers. A spark ignited between them, a silent promise of a future encounter.

"We'll continue this conversation later," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. Her blush was a crimson flag, a testament to the impact of his words. With a final, lingering glance, he turned and ascended the stairs, leaving her to navigate the chaos of the tavern, her heart pounding in her ears. The ascent was a choreographed ballet of creaking wood and echoing footsteps.

A mental checklist formed, a stark contrast to the physical exertion. He wondered if anyone at the Earl's estate had noticed his absence. Had Shay noticed his absence? And Katrina and Vivian? Were they worried, perhaps even fearful? The weight of responsibility pressed down on him.

The first floor was a blur of tables and chairs. Relief washed over him as he reached the second. Seraphina's absence would have been a catastrophe. He paused before the worn wooden door, his hand hovering over the key. A deep breath steadied his nerves. The anticipation was a tangible weight, a pressure building in his chest.

She must have been upset, waiting all morning for him, but he promised himself he'd make it up to her. The key turned with a satisfying click, and the door creaked open, revealing a world apart. The room was a sanctuary of opulence, a testament to the tervan's VIP rooms. Intricate wood carvings, like frozen whispers of ancient stories, adorned the furniture.

Sunlight, filtered through stained glass, painted the room in hues of gold and crimson, casting dancing shadows on the polished floor. A colossal bed, draped in velvet as deep as twilight, stood at the room's heart, a promise of comfort and rest. Seraphina lay sprawled across the bed, her breath a rhythmic melody in the quietude.

Her face, serene in slumber, was a stark contrast to the storm raging within David. A wave of tenderness washed over him as he gazed at her peaceful form. She had waited, endured his absence, and now, here she was, vulnerable and trusting. A pang of guilt pierced his heart. A glance around the room revealed a life of privilege.

The room, a testament to wealth and taste, spoke of a life far removed from the harsh realities of the world outside. "She certainly has expensive taste," David mused, closing the door softly behind him. A silent summons escaped David's lips. "Luna," he whispered. A shimmer of darkness rippled in the corner of the room, and from it emerged Luna, her form as ethereal as moonlight.

With a fluid grace, she settled upon his chest, her silver hair catching the dim light. "Watch over us," he requested, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her soft fur. A silent affirmation came in the form of a contented purr as she nestled into his embrace. Without hesitation, she melted back into the shadows. Exhaustion claimed him, and he surrendered to the allure of the bed.

As he lowered himself onto the mattress, Seraphina stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and a look of startled confusion crossed her face. "It's me," he reassured her softly, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet room. She relaxed, her body sinking into the mattress. "You're back," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. His arms found her, drawing her closer.

The scent of her hair, a delicate blend of floral and spice, filled his senses. A wave of peace washed over him as he held her, the world outside fading into insignificance. "Sleep," he whispered, his voice a gentle caress. With a contented sigh, she drifted back to slumber, her rhythmic breathing a lullaby in the quiet afternoon.