Sustaining The King's Life 80 Before There Was Battle

People knew Owen Lopez was a person with a shady background. He was involved in numerous meetings with rangers, travelers with questionable queries, and some dangerous mobs. People were certain. Owen Lopez had connections. He was someone you come to when you need information—but he doesn't give erudition for free.

Owen was a man born from an affair of a man nicknamed Mister Fallen, who had a relationship with the wife of his dear brother who ran a tavern. They had a daughter who was about his age, a girl born almost the same time as him—and Owen was smitten to her at a young age. His beautiful Rose; a cousin, or more likely, a sister.

Mister Fallen (his biological father's nickname) and Rose's mother ran off; their inept spree left Mister Fallen his son astray. Taken in by his uncle was neither good nor bad; the tavern owner wasn't happy with his wife's and brother's son. A b.a.s.t.a.r.d and also his flesh in blood in one. Mr. Lopez, Rose's father, wasn't much of the forgiving sort. His anger was displaced on the poor boy.

Owen was deprived of basic rights: education, love, and care. Even when his magic manifested, he wasn't taken to Magierstadt. In the streets, they called him 'Owen, the Cinderella,' or 'Owendrella.' Not even the alphabet was taught to him—but oh, his Rose, the only one to show kindness, did everything she could. He learned to write and read with her teachings. He can count now and write. He knew about the magic school because of her too. She was a spirit with a beautiful soul. His Rose.

Even in the streets of Feuer Capital, away from the Farthings or in the Farthings, they knew the beautiful daughter of the tavern owner. Rose Lopez. Every man liked the blazing fire, untamed but kind; a blooming wildflower but also the caged daughter of a slob. She was a waitress but a princess in one. Owen disliked the idea of Rose being a waitress—but ever since her mother returned—who was, basically Owen's mother as well—sick and coughing, without a man but the husband she left to return to, Rose had to take over the family business at all. Being the informant.

Owen saw it all. The loveless eyes of his uncle, and his alcoholic tendencies. His l.u.s.t for other women and his desire for money. His neglect of Rose. Owen proposed to the beautiful red wildflower, several times already, only to get a simple reply of no. Rose was his cousin or his sister. But he knew he had to take her away. He had to take her as his own to let the flower continue to bloom. The fire inside Rose should not be extinguished by that excuse of a father. She had to go with him.

But she kept saying no. He was getting desperate.

And desperate.

Until that fateful night.

A man came into the tavern covered in such a dark shawl. Owen knew everything. He was a part of the tavern's business; of course, he meant to take over as the wingman—not Rose. He was the spy, the outside-man. The one to do all the dangerous things, and their backup when things go awry. It's what his uncle trained him for. That fat slob also included his one and only daughter to the business—she was the one to lure customers in.

Owen wasn't pleased, he wanted Rose safe. But she was a wildflower—an untamed fire. She was delighted to lure men, women, and cretins to her father's den—the office which supplied information, items, and illegal wishes—for the glory of Feuer, Owen needn't know where to start.

But apparently, there is a new shady fellow Rose led to the den. His air was different from the rest. He was tall, st.u.r.dy-built but lean. Even in such cloak, Owen can discern from the far distance of the mezzanine. He was at the office with his crossbow. When this suspicious man tries something funny to the two, especially Rose, he has to strike. He propelled an arm and aimed his crossbow to the nape of the cloaked man.

"Rose, who's this gentleman you've led to me?" Asks Lopez, eyeing the cloaked man with an intrigued interest filled with curiosity.

"I know you, Lopez. Or should I say, Oscar Wild?" Says the man. The slick of his tongue sounded refined. Owen observed; this man is definitely one of the gentries.

"I presumed you asked plainly in sight—for information? Offering Rosey here the money?" Oscar snickered. "And information so, so precious at that!"

"You Lopez are the best informants in town, I heard." He says. "But you talk too much."

"Hah!" Oscar laughed. "I like you. Very well. Lad, there is a pa.s.sword to say when SUCH important information such as the one you are asking. unfortunately, the man who knew the pa.s.sword other than me is dead. Off with you."
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"So weit es geht. Mir ist. Es ist bei dir." Says the man with a refined accent, as if it was his own mother-tongue. "As far as it goes. It is with me. It is with you."

"You—" Oscar fell silent. "My brother. He…"

"Falcon told me everything." The man says and then drew his cloak back, revealing his almost impossible platinum-blond hair.

Hair colors were one of the characteristics that distinguished people from one another. In Feuersturm, peasants had brown and red hair of many variations ranging from how light or dark they were. But Owen's home was Feuersturm's capital, the newly-appointed heart of Zuerst. They were now accustomed to various people of different hair colors—even the color of green and blue—those of Eissturm, or the color of dirty ash—Verteidigerin. They had encountered countless people of different races.

But this was different.

A striking, all too different hair color and air. Platinum blond.

Royalty.

"You're… the Duke…" Oscar mumbled in fear; if Owen caught his emotion right.

"Duke Alphonsus Fenrir Feuerlon…"

The duke did not declaim for a moment.

"Get down," he says after a brief silence. "I have no intention of being in the mercy of a person who is thinking of letting a child shoot me down."

"Child?" Owen went down. There was a throe of disapproval from his uncle. Owen felt the urge to punch this man who, in a sense, he never saw even the face. His eyes drifted at Rose, who was staring so much at the man with awe and fascination, his Rose—she's never the one to stare. People stared at Rosey with fascination but never did her eyes fixated into another. The thought of it drove Owen mad.

"I'm not a child. Consider yourself at our mercy. I can strike you down at any minute now," Owen prevented a snarl. "Know the rules. If you want information, follow protocol like everybody. Ye ask for it." Owen wanted to curse. He let his accent out—his tongue had slipped again with a boyish slick.

"Oh?" The man slowly turned around.

Owen shuddered. The duke was taller—and with his piercing emerald eyes, he appeared to tower over him. His emerald eyes were downcast and were sharp and authoritative. Owen thinned his mouth and lowered his crossbow.

"Is that so."

"D-don't listen to the kid, Duke," says Oscar. "Children, leave,"

"B-but…" Rose mumbles.

"C'mon, Rosey," Owen mutters, taking Rose's soft palm, locking it to his ragged ones.

"No, let him be here." The duke says coldly. "After all. Who will protect you?"

"I will!" Rose says, fierce with determination as she eyed the duke firmly, letting go of Owen's grasp. "I will protect my father." He seemed to stare at her momentarily until he shifted his attention to Oscar.

"Where is the sword of Feuersturm?" He says. "Prove me Falcon isn't lying. Or you know what will come of you."

Oscar sighed.

"The sword," he mumbles. "Is not on the safe keep."

Both Owen and Rose gasped. The legendary sword of Feuersturm, wielded by Alexander Octavius himself—the first king. They say the sword was the manifestation of Feuersturm's ancestors, their power concentrated into one—and the legends pa.s.sed amongst the books and fairytales. Owen and Rose were of course, aware of this. Everyone is. The safe keep is said to be in the deepest part of Feuersturm, guarded by a dragon.

"Where is the sword?" The Duke asks firmly.

"The map… there's a scroll, er, I believe my brother hid. It's the location of where the sword is."

Owen frowned. They had something that valuable?

"G-give me some time. I'll give it to you. For a f-fair price, of course!" Oscar laughed nervously.

A purse of gold coins was then thrown to the desk.

"Suit yourself." The Duke says. "I shall give you a week. When I come back, the map comes with me."

"Yes, yes," Oscar says, nodding as the duke leaves.

"We had something like that, father?"

"No more questions. Out with you." Oscar says darkly. "Aside from you, Owen. We need to talk."