She yanked her arm free from his grasp. The innkeeper, a man whose polished professionalism was a suit of armour, did not flinch.
Innkeeper: "Unfortunately, that is not part of our protocol. Each patron is treated the same, no better or worse than the other..."
A scoff, sharp and dismissive, escaped Mola's lips.
Mola: "Such drivel...! Do you think me an imbecile? I feel insulted."
Innkeeper: "Once more, I deeply apologize, miss. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"
Her gaze swept over the laden kitchen counter, a landscape of roasting meats, glistening pastries, and steaming tureens.
Mola: "I suppose if you were to grant me and my entourage an all-you-can-eat experience... I can forget this little incident."
A smile, thin and sour, touched the man's lips.
Innkeeper: "We have already let you make use of one of our most prestigious suites, as well as provided you with a fresh set of clothes. As you can imagine, the inn has already been more than generous towards-"
Mola: "Generous? I gave you plenty of coin, what do you mean by generous?! Bah! But let that be of no concern, there's more where it came from..."
She produced the heavy coin pouch, the gesture aggressive, defiant.
Mola: "And it should be more than enough to cover all we'll be eating."
The innkeeper's professional smile did not waver, but a flicker of profound disgust tightened the corners of his eyes.
Innkeeper: "Miss, I realize I am not making myself clear... Let me put things in another perspective. Purdamma is a highly respected, highly beloved figure in the region. It is because we have such esteem for her that we so readily provided you with our grandest amenities, something we would otherwise not do. Your case is an exception, born of respect for your guardian."
The words were a series of polite, devastating blows. Mola's knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists.
Innkeeper: "That act of courtesy remains between you and us. Our other patrons know not of it. Were I to allow you to indulge as you please, while they must adhere to the rules of the inn... this would be a scandal. You understand, yes?"
Mola: "Boor, I understand nothing but excu-"
Innkeeper: "Good! I am glad we are on the same page. Otherwise, I would have no option but to remove you from our establishment."
His gaze was granite. Unbending. Unimpressed. For the first time, Mola felt the true, crushing weight of her new reality. She was no one. A ghost, clinging to a name that was no longer hers to command.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Innkeeper: "I will ask my staff to clean and polish your arms, at no additional cost. I believe that should make up for this... inconvenience. Now, please..."
He bowed, a perfect, final gesture of dismissal.
Innkeeper: "Enjoy your food! I wish you and your company a hearty lunch."
Mola grit her teeth, her face burning with a humiliation so profound it felt like a physical blow. She turned away, unable to meet the man's steady, victorious gaze. A cold spot bloomed in her mind, a familiar, chilling presence.
Purdamma: "Tsk, tsk, tsk... What a little brat you are, my dear."
The phantom voice was laced with a scorn that was all too real. Mola's face twisted in a silent snarl.
Purdamma: "You just love to bite the hand that feeds, don't you? It wasn't enough to slay your Master; you must still use and abuse my name to pathetically claw your way out of the filth."
She reached the service counter. A middle-aged waitress, her face weary but eager, began to speak, but her words were a muffled drone, drowned out by the ghost in her head.
Purdamma: "Start walking on your own two feet, girl... Giants can only carry you so far. You are not meant to ride on their shoulders forever."
Mola: "Shut up, you rotten hag! How can I make my own decisions when you keep yapping?!"
She snapped back to reality. The waitress stared at her, her jaw slack, her eyes wide with shock and hurt.
Waitress: "Ma'am, I was merely listing our options... I didn't mean to--"
Mola held up a hand, cutting her off. She took a long, shuddering breath and forced the words out, ordering for three.
From their corner table, Bazren watched the entire spectacle unfold, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her features.
Bazren: "There, crisis averted -- and I didn't even have to lift a finger. Know what she told me, Xayn? When you were prettying yourself up in the bathroom?"
Xayn's new eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, his consciousness a net cast into the sea of overlapping conversations that filled the hall.
Xayn: "Can't it wait...? I'm starting to piece it together."
Bazren: "It's about the tournament! Mola doesn't think we have what it takes to win..."
Fragments of gossip snagged in his mind: "... never known defeat, wouldn't meet it now... got the strength of a bear, that one... tall as one standing on its hind legs, too..."
Bazren leaned forward, her voice a low, excited hiss.
Bazren: "...She says there'll be a 'champion', supposedly stronger than us."
Xayn remained silent, his eyes still shut. The pieces clicked into place.
Xayn: "Hm."
His eyes slowly opened, the cyan enso light within them sharp and focused.
Xayn: "The undefeated masked man... I see it now. We won't be the only supernatural thing fighting in the Grand Melee."
Bazren's eyes widened, her smirk vanishing.
Bazren: "W-what?! What did you hear?"
He uncrossed his arms, leaning over the table, his voice a low thrum beneath the noise of the inn.
Xayn: "A man killed another right outside, not long before we arrived. Taller than most. Stronger, too. He dons the mask of a lion, and since his first appearance a few years ago, he has emerged victorious from every tournament he's entered."
Bazren's brow furrowed.
Bazren: "What makes you so sure he's not human?"
Xayn: "Mainly, what you just shared. Mola herself said he's stronger than us."
Bazren: "You think it's the same person...?"
Xayn: "It seems an awful lot of coincidences, don't you think? But you don't have to take my word for it."
He nodded towards Mola, who was now weaving her way through the tables, a waiter trailing behind her with a cart laden with their dishes. She approached them, her face a pale, impassive mask.
Xayn: "It seems we already have our topic for lunch."