NOVPUB
Chapter 40: A Wager of Blood
The streets of Esgard’s shadows reeked of piss, smoke, and broken dreams.
The usual.
Ian moved beneath the cover of a tattered black cloak, his steps muffled on the grime-slick cobblestones. Above him, the sky was a dull brown haze, as though the filth of the city below had risen to infect the heavens themselves.
Somewhere behind him, beyond the choking smog and crooked rooftops, the grand coliseum loomed unseen—a silent titan hiding behind its veil.
Here in the Shader Vicinities, the city bore no resemblance to the towering spires and polished promenades of the noble districts.
Here, stone crumbled, and people broke. 𝑛𝑜𝑣𝑝𝑢𝘣.𝘤𝑜𝘮
Ian passed a collapsed stall and a man with a swollen eye sitting in its wreckage, begging for coin or pity—probably both. A few streets down, he witnessed a man being beaten by three others, their fists thudding against his flesh with rhythmic brutality.
Someone shouted something incoherent, and one of the attackers laughed like a hyena. Blood splattered onto the wall.
No one stopped. No one even looked.
This was normal here.
Whistles hissed from alleyways, most sharp and mocking, others low and wheedling. He ignored them all. Men offered him powders, bottles, charms—some real, most fake, all dangerous.
A boy no older than ten tried to bump into him. Ian shifted, and the boy’s hand grasped only empty cloth. A whispered curse followed, along with the scuffle of retreating footsteps.
Outside every other door was either a brothel or a tavern. Women leaned against doorways, painted smiles beneath hollow eyes. Their offers were cheaper than bread—and as tasteless, Ian imagined.
Still, none of this mattered.
He wasn’t here for bread or flesh or stolen coin.
He was here for what was owed.
Eli had explained the situation in no uncertain terms.
There were two rivers that fed the coffers of the arena. The first flowed from the nobles, rich in lineage and land, whose fighters brought them glory and favor in court. Their victories were transactions measured in influence and political currency, hidden behind masks of honor and tradition.
The second river flowed from the gutter.
The desperate.
The addicted. The gamblers. The poor.
Arena betting was the people’s addiction—and their only real shot at wealth. They couldn’t sponsor champions, couldn’t wear house sigils, couldn’t even enter most noble galleries.
But they could bet.
And when they did, they poured everything into it. All for that fleeting chance that their chosen warrior would survive, would win, would bring them fortune in a single blood-soaked moment.
Of course, to maintain the illusion of integrity, nobles were banned from betting. A rule forged in desperation to keep the arena from becoming just another rigged game.
Velrosa had broken that rule.
Ian’s victory had earned her more than glory. It had secured her a payout so massive it could breathe life back into House Elarin.
The odds had been 43 to 1.
Only a madman would’ve bet on Ian that night.
Which is exactly what made it so perfect.
A single servant—disposable and unremarkable—placed the bet in one of the lesser-known bookie houses deep in the Shader Vicinities, hidden behind the façade of a crumbling tavern.
The anonymity had worked.
Until they tried to collect.
The servant came back with no gold, just a hole in his bloody chest.
And now Ian stood at the door of that very same establishment.
Not Eli.
Not anyone affiliated with House Elarin.
Just a cloaked stranger with death in his eyes.
He pushed open the tavern’s warped wooden door. It creaked like a dying man.
The stench of ale and sweat greeted him, mixed with the acrid tang of smoke. A dozen heads turned from their drinks, most narrowing in suspicion, some curiosity. One man at a table near the hearth slid his hand closer to the dagger at his belt.
Ian stepped inside, his face obscured behind a simple cloth mask, only his silver eyes catching the low candlelight.
"Evening, gentlemen," he said softly.
His voice barely carried above the din, but it silenced the room.
He stepped further inside, boots clicking against stained floorboards.
The room was a cramped mess of overturned chairs, half-empty mugs, and men who’d forgotten what it meant to sleep sober. At the far end of the tavern was a barred counter, behind which a heavyset man with a missing ear polished a bottle with a stained rag.
Ian walked past tables slowly.
Measured. Casual.
The bartender’s hand disappeared below the counter.
Ian didn’t stop.
When he reached the counter, he placed a single silver coin on the wood.
Not as payment. As a signal.
"I’ve come to collect," he said, voice low enough that only the man behind the counter could hear him clearly.
The bartender didn’t blink. "Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about."
Ian tilted his head.
"I think you do. Forty-three to one. Ten thousand gold laid on the death of Varn. He’s dead. I’m here for what’s owed."
A murmur rippled through the tavern. The men behind Ian weren’t drunks anymore. They were jackals in a cage—watching the stranger disturb something dangerous.
The bartender’s expression soured. "You think we just give that kind of coin to some masked bastard who walks in off the street?"
Ian leaned in closer. "You’re free to try not to. But I wouldn’t recommend it."
The man’s hand darted under the counter.
Ian’s arm blurred.
A dagger embedded in the wood, inches from the bartender’s throat. The handle still trembled.
Silence. Thick as fog.
Ian’s other hand pulled back his hood. Not the mask—just enough for his silver eyes to catch the firelight again.
A slow, awful recognition spread through the room.
"The one who killed Varn..." someone whispered. "The demonblade"
"The hell’s he doing here?"
"Thought they’d take him in..."
Ian heard every word, but his eyes never left the bartender.
"You have ten seconds," Ian said quietly.
The bartender’s face twitched. Sweat broke across his brow. But he didn’t move.
Then a door behind the counter opened.
A man stepped through. Tall, lean, with a wolf’s grin and a coin pouch in one hand.
"Now, now," the newcomer said, "Let’s not ruin such a fine evening with blood and broken fingers. I believe we’ve had a misunderstanding."
Ian didn’t move.
The man nodded to the bartender. "Pay him."
The bartender hesitated, then pulled open the locked drawer. One by one, he began stacking coin-filled pouches on the counter. The sound of gold on wood echoed like thunder.
The tall man smiled. "You’ll find it all there. Every copper. We’re honest businessmen after all."
Ian didn’t thank them. Didn’t nod.
He simply took the pouch and vanished them into his inventory, turned, and walked to the door.
Then he stopped.
"I wish I could leave like this, I really do. However I’ve been recognized, so i have to make sure this business done here today isn’t tied to House Elarin,"
Oathbreaker manifested in the hands of Ian, the daggers blade sharp and hungry.
"It’s a shame, but you all will have to die here today."
