!?!?!?
**SMASH**
The Englishman's axe found itself plunged into a thick wooden drinking table after an apparent attempt to cut Zayn down. It's initial contents spilled to the floor as the man tugged at his weapon in attempts to free it from the table's wooden constraints.
"UGH!"
The blonde man growled in frustration with the realization of his vulnerable position. Zayn, however, found himself cheekily grinning to himself as he practically skipped over to take advantage of the situation.
**KICK! BAM!!**
The Englishman fell to the floor with a heavy thud as Zayn landed his hefty boot into his hip. With an undeniable glint of murderous intent casting over his gaze, he loomed over his blonde adversary— seemingly readying himself to deliver the final blow.
"Bloody hell Chauncy! Why do you have to pick a fight with every single new-comer you see!?!?"
A feminine, yet authoritative voice boomed through the murmuring crowd. A young woman, seeming to be in her early twenties pushed passed the onlookers watching the brawl take place. She was tall for a lass, standing around 5'8-5'9 which prepended on to her imposing demeanor. The woman had long golden flowing locks that extended down to her shoulders, similar to Chauncey. It would've been unmistakably clear that she was a relative of the blonde Englishman. If one were to take a good guess, his sister.
The situation had de-escalated quite quickly with the intervention of Chauncey's sister, Zayn's initial killer instinct being brought down to that of a confused individual.
"I'm so so sorry about my brother! Please don't kill him—! Allow me to make you dinner as a form of compensation!!"
"Eh..?"
…..
The awkwardness present in the air was palpable. Infront of the two strangers, Zayn had absolutely no idea what to do or say. His eyes remained fixated on his food as he maintained a shallow look.
"Not a fan of grits and eggs, eh?"
Chauncey commented at Zayn's refusal to eat with his usual gruff voice, to which his sister responded with a sharp stomp to his bare toes underneath the dining table.
"Our guest will eat on his own time! In the mean while, this is my little brother Chauncey. He's erm…not really known for making friends, so I deeply apologize."
"That's fine. The name's Zayn."
Zayn finally spoke, destroying the notion that he was either rude, or simply mute to Chauncey's sister. He was simply a man of a few words.
"Your brother had a good reason for attacking me, anyway. The reward for my head is quite substantial."
His words left both Chauncey and his sister baffled. Of course, the Blonde Englishman knew all about Zayn's bounty…but what of his sister? Whether it had been intentional or deliberate, Zayn had practically blown his cover to the eldest of the house— the one who held the full responsibility of reporting any criminals or illegal activity to the soldiers of plugand. Even so, Chauncey's sister was surprisingly indifferent about this— simply tapping her finger on the wooden dining table as she eyeballed Zayn.
"So you have a bounty on your head, aye? I figured as much. Then again, I never pegged you as the thief type."
"He's not a thief."
Chauncey suddenly spoke up, sharply ameliorating his sister's claim.
"In my time serving the pope as a soldier, I've heard rumors about a katana wielding man who's killed over 100 soldiers and bounty hunters alike since he was a wee little boy. They say that he's unironically possessed by the devil himself."
"The devil himself"? Zayn, are you that bad of a man?"
His sister inquired, her eyes gleaming with disbelief apparent. She wasn't able to wrap her head around such a claim about him, especially from a first glance.
"Not necessarily. Charolette, do you remember the story dad used to read us when we were little?"
Chauncey turned to his sister— his eyes filled with the determination to speak the truth.
"The one about the man who brought devastation to the lands of our country with his bare hands alone? What's that got to do with anything?"
His sister responded with a look of confusion plastered across her face.
"He wasn't just any man. They say his abilities transcended any other user with magical abilities in those times. Even still, he was sealed away by a warrior similar to him. They say the seal was was to last 500 years. Charolette, 500 years have passed already since that story."
"But what's that have to do with this man?"
Chauncey's sister inquired once more, her mind seemingly unable to fathom the truth of the matter.
"I'm saying ke—….the one who shan't be named had to be sealed away in something else— preferably a human child." Pointing to Zayn, Chauncey spoke once more. "That's him. Thats the Dark Arts user's successor."
"Okay, Chauncey, stop jumping to so much conclusions. There's no way that could be true."
Zayn interjected with a sigh, confirming to Charolette that what her brother was saying was true. The grip on his fork tightened, the metal creaking softly under his fingers as if sharing the tension building in his chest. His jaw set, his stare fixed to the table's wooden grain—waiting for the ridicule he knew was coming. Yet, none came.
Instead, laughter.
Charolette leaned back in her chair, a radiant grin spreading across her lips.
"That's bloody cool,"
She said, almost in awe. Zayn's eyes flickered up, faintly startled by her reaction.
Chauncey grunted beside her, folding his arms across his chest.
"Cool? You call being possessed by a five-thousand-year-old mass murderer cool? You've lost it, woman."
"Oh, hush, you big oaf,"
she shot back, elbowing her brother in the ribs.
"It's not every day I share supper with the vessel of a myth."
Zayn didn't return the humor. His silence pressed against the warmth of the fire-lit room. When Charolette's playful tone softened, she leaned forward, eyes curious yet cautious.
"Do you ever… wonder what would happen if he took control?"
She asked. The question sliced through the room like a blade. Zayn's shoulders stiffened. He didn't answer at first. Didn't want to.
He'd wondered that himself—many times, in fact—but never aloud. There were nights when the whispers in his head weren't just voices; they were commands. And there were moments when his own reflection moved before he did.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, frayed around the edges.
"I don't know."
Chauncey, still reclined in his seat, gave a dismissive hum.
"Then that's exactly why they're hunting you. You don't know. The church doesn't know. Nobody does. And the lot of them hate not knowing."
Zayn's head turned slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto the blonde man's.
"You make it sound like I'm some sort of ticking bomb."
Chauncey smirked.
"Aren't you?"
The tension hung for a heartbeat—then Charolette broke it with a sigh.
"Either way, the church won't care to find out. They'll come here eventually. Which means…"
Her eyes darted between the two men.
"We should leave."
Zayn's brow furrowed. "We?"
She nodded, determination hardening her features.
"If the Inquisition catches you, they'll raze this whole place trying to get to you. That includes us. So either we stay and burn… or we go."
Zayn looked between them—two strangers he'd met mere hours ago—speaking as though they were bound to him by fate itself. The idea was absurd. Reckless. And yet… somehow, not unwelcome.
Chauncey's voice cut through his thoughts, steady and sure.
"Besides, we were leavin' Plugand anyway. Been meanin' to cross the border—to find our father, and for me…"
He paused, a small, nostalgic smile flickering across his face.
"To figure out what it means to have a true warrior's heart."
The fire crackled.
Zayn exhaled, the ghost of a smirk ghosting his lips.
"You're both mad."
"Maybe,"
Charolette replied, standing with a proud tilt of her chin.
"But at least we won't be boring."