The Flame Keeper

Chapter 33

The man let go of the Goblin's arm and brought the mic to his mouth. "Bets! Put them in to support your fighter! Remember, you can win big, too."

The tables lit up with a ring of a faint blue glow, rows of candles that flickered animatedly with hushed voices and playful shoves.

It was then that I noticed the small tablets around our table, the blue torch lighting our candle as well.

They were tucked in sagging leather pouches and the pixelated letters on the tiny, hazy screen seemed to blink faster in annoyance. Thin wire joined the bottom of the devices, snaking along the floor before climbing up the wall and across the ceiling. The forest of intertwining wires blended seamlessly with the shadows on the ceiling, and would have gone unnoticed had one not purposely looked for them.

"Are these for the bets or something?" Ken slipped one out of the pouch, illuminating his face with ghastly undertones.

"Probably," Matilda muttered as she inspected the one closest to her. "I suppose this is how the Swan keeps running, pulling in money from tired folks that just want to liven their spirits after a long day."

"Now don't be getting us in debt," She added, her eyes drifting suspiciously on Ken.

He put on a wounded look, raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Relax, I'm just inspecting it, I wouldn't do such a thing. Speaking of which, are Albert's debtors here?"

I scanned over the tables. Nothing, beside the chaotic din that muddled any sense of sight. And that seemed to squeeze Albert into a tighter hunch, as if trying to bury himself in his hopes that the tattooed man would never arrive, that it only was a bluff only to tickle his nerves.

"Last call!" The static of the mic's clipped feedback shushed the voices as people huddled over their tablets, the fingers punching furiously at rusty keypads flitting along the air. "Going once, twice... and that's it!"

A chorus of collective groans murmured across the tables as the slower ones slammed the tablets down in dissent.

"Why'd you cut the bets so short?" A man exclaimed.

"Well, I would rather not have a repeat of yesterday's little incident," The host said, the mic trembling as he shook his head at the memory.

"Aw, c'mon, we made a killing yesterday." The man leaned back, sweeping a hand across the tables. Nods and murmurs went around before being drowned out by the impatient thump of the mic.

"And that almost put us out of business." His eyes narrowed to slits, daring the man to challenge him. "No money, none of this. That wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

The man nodded and slunk back into his chair. "That's fair. Though I would love a couple coins to float my way."

"Doesn't everybody..." Someone muttered and more nods went around, a sullen cloud streaking silent tears down on peoples' cheeks. I glanced over to Albert and it looked like he had joined in, too.

The mic sputtered, lifting the heads of the downcast crowd. "What's with this sour mood? Add a little spice to today's bets leaderboard, alright?"

He waved a hand at a table in the far right, a myriad of wires stemming from a mishmash of tangled metal keys and switches—the rest concealed in darkness. They were little sticks that bobbed back and forth like those dented cans I would glimpse on the tallest shelves when running errands for Dave. Tucked away as nobody would even glance at their disfigured form. Yet their dented souls had waved to me ever so often, the uneven bottom swaying left and right, yearning to be used.

I shook my head, as if trying to shake off the guilt clawing at my chest from the memories of Arborad. The restaurant. Benjamin. Now's not the time to be dwelling on the past, I told myself.