Emil

The interloper entered the room. Emil listened closely. The old wooden floor creaked under the weight of their footsteps.

They’re alone.

He heard something being placed on the table nearby. Emil took a chance and peeked his eyes open. A hooded figure stood across from the room. Their backs were turned, occupied with unloading the items in their arms. The oversized cloak covering their body made it ambiguous who exactly he was dealing with.

Emil glanced at the table. He found an assortment of bottles and various miscellaneous items. Scissors and a set of clean bandages amongst the pile. There was a faint astringent stench of alcohol mixed with the fresh scent of wet herbs.

He moved his hand away from the knife concealed against his leg.

“So, which one of my organs are you planning to harvest first?” he suddenly asked. The stranger let out a panicked yip, startled—fumbling as they dropped all the items onto the table at once.

Definitely a woman. Or…an extremely effeminate man.

“H-Harvest organs?! Wha—gosh no, that sounds horrific. Is that what they do here? I would never!” the stranger exclaimed.

Emil raised an eye. No one who's a native of Lower Dannan speaks like this. The person spun around, visibly flustered as they brushed away strands of black hair covering their eyes. A girl. Aroound his age. She had features that resembled a doll, pale skin nearly porcelain white, decorated by a pair of emerald eyes glistening under the dim candlelight.

Looks like someone’s expensive daughter ran away from home.

It was a surprisingly common story—the estranged daughter of a noble family in Upper Dannan decides that their life at home was too suffocating and makes a rash decision to run away. Someway or another they end up in the slums. Most manage to return home with just a few traumatic experiences under their belt. Some are never seen again.

The stranger’s naturally pale skin and her mannerisms were dead giveaways.

“If you’re not here to harvest my organs, then what am I doing here?” Emil asked, barely hiding his smirk.

The young lady blinked, eyeing him with a blank stare, “Oh, do you not remember? You collapsed on the ground near my residence. You were a wet mess. I eventually managed to drag you inside myself.”

Oh. The vague recollection slowly trickled in. He must have been desperate to find shelter from the rain. In a normal situation, he would have never allowed himself to pass out in the open. It could have gone bad. The slum residents were cut throat. There was a real chance he could have gotten robbed and killed in his sleep.

“Sorry,” Emil apologized, grimacing at his carelessness, “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the young lady smiled before asking a question, “But what happened to you anyways?” She glanced down the length of his body. Emil realized that his torso was covered in rags. He had ripped off his chain mail after killing the Aois Nua Exalted. The rest of his clothes were badly singed by his own flames. The remnants were stained with ash and char. Glimpses of his skin peeked out from the gaps, unveiling the glaring blisters and blots of red.

“…Occupational hazard," he replied.

“Huh? You look like you got burned…do you work in the mines or workshops then?”

"Yes, I'm an apprentice blacksmith." Emil responded with a vague smile.

“But then why you did end up like this?” the young lady frowned, “Were you doing something suspicious? You've had to be, I don't recall the work of blacksmiths being this dangerous.”

Definitely not a native of the slums. She doesn’t know when to stop prying.

“Everyone has a few secrets that can’t be shared,” Emil said, his eyes dancing with a mischievous glint, “I’m sure you can sympathize.”

“Excuse me?” she blinked, clearly confused. Emil sighed. Is she seriously oblivious? How did she even survive down here being this naïve? He decided to clear up her ignorance. It was the least he could do for someone who saved his life.

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“First of all, there’s an unspoken rule in the slums to not pry if someone refuses to answer properly the first time. Second, fix your mannerisms and word choice. No one speaks like the way you do down here.”

The young lady’s pale face burned red.

“I—” she tried to protest.

“Third,” Emil stressed, cutting her off, “Only prostitutes have pale skins like yours in the slums. Even then, their faces are caked in powder. If you want to blend in, you should at least smear parts of your face in dirt and charcoal. Slouch a bit as well. Your posture is too straight. And then there’s your eyes…” Emil frowned. Those pair of emeralds would attract attention no matter the place. “I recommend not making eye contact if possible. And keep your hood on at all times.”

The young lady immediately pulled her hood over her eyes. “I’ll keep your advice in mind,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth quivering. She suddenly turned around and fetched a few bottles she left on the table earlier. “In exchange for your wisdom, please allow me to treat your burns.” She enthusiastically uncorked some of the bottles loose.

Emil was instantly assaulted by the powerful stench of alcohol. “Put that away,” he said, scrunching his face in disgust.

“Why?”

“No offense, but you have no experience treating a burn, do you?”

The young lady stammered, trying to come with a retort.

Emil drove the point home, “Reading stuff from a book doesn’t count.”

The statement silenced her.

“...It’s fine. I appreciate the gesture, but please do what I say instead,” he then asked, “Do you have any ointment?”

The young lady approached him with another assortment of bottles. Emil narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized the containers, fighting the urge to sigh. Of course, none of them are labelled. He isolated the ones that were colorless and took a whiff. Two of them produced no odors. He then dabbed his tongue on the edges of both.

“This is aloe vera.” He motioned towards the ointment with a bitter taste. He tried to sit up, and then promptly gave up. Pain rippled down the length of his body, protesting with vengeance. His limbs refused to move—fighting back with an agonizing shock each time he tried to force it.

“Please, let me help,” the young lady insisted as she made Emil lay back down, “What do I need to do?”

“…Smear it across the red areas. Avoid any blisters.”

She nodded and got to work. After rolling up her sleeves, she reached her pristine hands into the bottle. Then as gently as she could muster, she lifted the rags off his chest and began to spread the ointment.

Silence settled in. Light rain continued to patter against the roof. Emil stared at the walls, trying not to distract the young lady’s work. She wore a scowl; her lips pulsed, eyes furrowed, deep in concentration. Frankly, this was a bizarre situation, even for him. Getting his burns treated by a runaway noble was definitely an uncommon experience.

“…Doesn’t it hurt?” she suddenly asked.

“Not at all,” he replied curtly. That earned him a glare. The young lady narrowed her eyes, obviously unconvinced. Emil sighed, “I’m used to it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. The pain is manageable so far. Or perhaps enough of my nerves have been burned away? Either way, you haven’t caused me any discomfort.”

With that, the young lady resumed her treatment. A thought settled in Emil’s head. This is a rare opportunity. It wasn’t everyday that he got to speak so intimately with someone of noble heritage. A connection with a noble never hurt anyone. Especially if he ever decided to escape Steiger’s grasp.

“I’m Miles, by the way. How about yourself?”

The young lady remained silent. Then, after a minute, she finally replied, “…I'm Lisha.”

You might have as well just told me it was a fake name. Emil rolled his eyes. Well, not like I’m any better.

“Well then, Lisha, thank you for everything you’re doing. There’s not much I can offer you, but is there anything I can do to repay this?” he asked. He wasn’t naïve. He had experienced enough to know that “kindness” did not come without strings attached.

Lisha paused to stare at him.

“Hm? Do I need a reason to help someone out?” she said, tilting her head. The remark made Emil hold his breath. Lisha must have noticed his strange reaction. “But if you insist…”

Her opulent green eyes glimmered under the dim light. For the first time since their encounter, Lisha wore a faint smile.

“…If we ever encounter each other again, please treat me to a meal.”

***

Shortly after the treatment was done, Emil fell asleep to the pattering rain. When he finally woke up the next day at noon, Lisha was gone. A note was left for him on the table along with a platter of food.

Did she just assume that I’m literate? He grinned at her naivety as he read the note. The message was short and concise, wishing him well and a swift recovery. Emil folded the note neatly and stashed it in his pockets. Feeling peckish, he turned towards the meal laid out for him.

He took a bite. The lightly salted flavors danced in his mouth. Tears suddenly clouded his eyes.

“Do I need a reason to help someone out?” Lisha’s words echoed in his head. Caught off guard, Emil scrunched his face, desperate to not let the waterworks pour.

He couldn’t remember the last time that a stranger showed him kindness without an agenda. Before his parents’ deaths, he was the son of a merchant family who lived in a world dominated by transactions. After that, he became an orphan in a nation where orphans were despised. And even now, he was an unwilling dog of Steiger.

For the first time in his wretched life, he received a small helping hand.

The plate was suddenly empty. Emil sat there, indulging in this rare moment of warmth. Once the novelty wore off, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded himself why he was here in the first place.

He was in the slums, undercover as Nostra bodyguard, trying to find a stolen cache of Azurite. The kingdom's stability was at risk. A treasure trove of medicine for Raz on the line, contingent on his success.

Alright, enough of that.

When he opened his eyes again, his hopeful glint disappeared. Once more, he donned the mask of a Steiger Cleaner.