The place wasn't large by any means, perhaps a little bigger than the Cheers and Beers Tavern but nothing absurd.

Yet it felt nothing like that, the clamor of conversation and movement and bodies squishing against me as I bobbed up and down to keep up reminded me of traversing the Harvest market in Arborad. Only that this time, a sea of skittering feet was out to trip me, shooting back and forth and crisscrossing along the floor as I leaped over one after another.

The pounding music was no help either, shaking the floor every few seconds so that not only did my ears ring, every bone in my body shuddered.

"Wallace, over here!" Ken's voice broke through the mayhem and before I could open my mouth to protest, he dipped below the crowd, leaving only his familiar red hat to guide me.

Seeing that hop-walking was less than ideal with people streaming in like water, I ducked my head and wiggled through the bodies, my hands blazing a trail through the forest of clothes and fancy footwork taking over my legs.

I felt almost like an eel weaving in and out of tangled seaweed, on pace with lightning, even, but at the cost of my face heading straight on against it. A knee stabbed me square in the nose, a flailing hand nearly knocked my head off my neck, all the while my cheeks scraped against the warm, rough clothes of hot bodies pressing together.

My lungs felt as if they were about to burst, choking air congesting my throat, and I shot up, taking in deep gulps of air as I scanned the room for the three. Ken's red hat had merged with the vibrant accessories of others, tinted spotlights on the frame of the ceiling casting a moody atmosphere on the dance floor that clouded any sense of color.

I squinted, spotting a bobbing blur of red that seemed to be Ken, and sprinted—attempted to, at least—to catch up.

"Oh, thank goodness you have that hat on you," I breathed, shifting occasionally to dodge a dancing pair. "Do you know—"

The man turned, the pungent smell of alcohol wrinkling my nose as he eyed me strangely and licked droplets of whisky trickling down his chin. The "hat" I had seen was just a loose mop of dyed hair, streaks of black peeking out underneath, and his back crooked to meet my eyes. The swirling dark irises held only darkness, threatening to swallow me if I looked for too long, and I averted my gaze only for the man to slug me in the shoulder.

"What did you say, little fella?" I nearly recoiled as his breath clouded in front me, my nose wrinkling. When I said nothing, he latched his meaty hands onto my shoulders and I could make out each hair on his face as he leaned dangerously close. "Look at me, will ya?! Dumbass..."

And then, I felt the familiar tingling feeling that almost calmed me, ironically. It was the same strong, boiling sensation that coursed through my veins, and beads of perspiration trickled down my arms as they trembled dangerously. Deep breaths, I told myself as I stared horrified at the bandages on my hands, little tears slowly stretching the fabric to its limit.

"What, you're mute?" The man snorted, spewing saliva coated with whisky that splattered all over my face. "Figures that all you can do is put up this little tough act."

It was like holding in a volcanic eruption with only a thin tarp, all the anger bottled inside of me yearning to be set free, and I almost wanted to let it go. To release it all—

Cool fingers suddenly wrapped themselves around my arm, and whatever fire pulsed in them dissipated, replaced with an itching fear. My throat constricted as if someone were strangling me, blaring warnings flooding my mind, telling me to make a break for it. But the floor seemed to grab at my feet with imaginary claws, binding them together with a thick rope sewn with fear-coated sweat that trickled down my neck.

"There you are!" Long strands of dark hair brushed against my shoulder and a wave of relief washed over me. It was Matilda. "I was starting to wonder where everyone was."

"I don't know about Albert and Ken, but I haven't got a clue where to go," I said.

She smirked. "That makes two of us. But it shouldn't be too hard to find those two, Ken especially."

"Another one, huh?" The man smacked his lips, eyeing Matilda with a crazed look. "My, you do look quite pretty. Better than any prostitute these days..."

He lurched forwards, his hands groping for Matilda, but she was nimble like a scampering rat and leaped the side with ease.

With a firm tug, she dragged me across to a less congested area, a trail of dirty looks following us as we took refuge by a refreshments table littered with paper cups. Matilda's means for getting through were effective, but not exactly subtle, plowing right through a pair mid-dance, for one.

"What did I say about these people?" She wiped a bit of grime off her shirt, her skin curdling at the thought of the man. "Let's mingle while we look for them."

And so we paced around the refreshments table, stretching our ears when someone neared and catching snippets of conversation. Some were normal talk: a stout man complaining about his day to his friend, for one; but others made me want to squirm and regret eavesdropping on their vile words.

"...so my pawnshop's rolling in hundreds of gold's worth of items every week." A frail man said to another, shorter man, his mouth twitching as he fidgeted with something in his pocket.

Pawnshop? For a brief moment, I let my mind succumb to the fantasy that he was the thief that had stolen away Camila, and that his hunched shoulders had been her. But she would never have perched so obediently on his dirty shoulders stained with the saliva of lies.

It was strange, to feel relieved whilst drowning in sadness. That perhaps there was a glimpse of hope that she was fighting, and hadn't been tricked like we had by the fox's tongue. Yet like struggling for a breath under the water, it seemed just out of grasp as the light above had been overcome with the darkness underneath.

I shook my head. Camila belonged to Albert, not me. But the childish part of me still yearned for her presence, to relive the carefree days of before and to just appreciate the little things that would be forgotten as one learned of the harsher realities of the world.

I felt bad for Albert to have given away her, and a part of his soul. But he was just a man trying to survive the harsh realities of the world, no time to be dwelling on the little things.

The man snapped me out of my reverie as he grabbed two cups next to me, handing one to his friend.

The other nodded. "I feel you. My stall's no better, but I betcha Alistair's behind this. He's been robbing all our customers lately with... questionable methods, to put it gently."

"Alistair? That blasted brat belongs behind bars." He spat at the ground in disgust, but his lips curled into a sneer as he looked up.

"Y'know how he's always boasting about his cons?"

The man rolled his eyes, a flicker of bitterness staining the corners of them.

"Well, earlier today, he was yapping 'bout how he scammed a group of four of something that would easily sell for hundreds of gold," He scoffed. "But when I asked him what it was, you know what he said?"

A group of four? Surely there were plenty of shopkeepers and traveling groups around Wynnville...

"Enlighten me."

He paused, letting silence hold his words in suspense. "He lost it. Or in his words, 'it waddled off before I could catch it.'"

"Hah! Serves his lying ass right!" The short man's stubby nose scrunched as he laughed, a booming sound that shook his belly. "C'mon, let's head to the fight club."

And with that, they merged with the shifting crowd, heading towards a bar table.

"Huh, it's good to know his own kin think of him of that way," Matilda said after they were out of earshot, her eyes drifting over to where they were headed.

"Ah, there he is!" She exclaimed and I followed her gaze to the bar table, a tireless bartender sliding one drink after another down the line of drunken men and women, a glass in one of their hands and the other grabbing onto the wood for support.

A blue glow radiating from a flickering neon bar illuminated the thin metal beams that stood on lustrous steel dishes, the velvet cushions seating them and Albert, who sat by the end of the table, one arm hooked on the edge. He scanned the crowd, his eyes drifting over us briefly before Matilda's frantic waving caught his attention.

He waved back, beckoning us to come over.

"Where's Ken?" He asked after we squeezed past a handsy couple that luckily cleared ample room for us to breathe, the dirty looks shifting past us to them. At least they do draw a line somewhere, I thought.

Matilda scrunched her shoulders, craning her neck as she scoured through the crowd to find a red needle amongst a mountain of its own, popping colors accompanied with swiveling spotlights only blurred what could be seen in the dim space.

"He's probably wandered off to the bathroom or something," I suggested as I tried my luck. Wait. I peeled my eyes, the distinct red popping out like a sore thumb, a deep raspberry swelling to form a rounded hat with a crisp brim that cut just above Ken's brow.

His eyes peeked out beneath his hat and lit up at the sight of us as he began heading our way—a little too quickly.

"Watch out!" Matilda called as Ken caught his foot on the now crawling couple, their bodies strewn on the grimy floor.

He stumbled forward, one foot after the other grabbing at the floor and his arms flailed wildly until he caught his balance.

"You alright?" I asked, extending a hand as he shoved his foot back into his shoe, the one that had sent him on a frantic jumble of intricate footwork that would have seemed like a fitting dance to the beat if not for the panicked expression on his face.

"Yeah," He said and he ran a hand down the creases in his shirt, letting out a content grunt once it was smoothed out. "But I was really itching to try this punch."

His other hand held what remained of a red liquid, traces of sugar tickling my nose as I leaned forward. A trail of sticky juice stained the wooden floor and a bit of his shirt, red splotches that I almost mistook for blood.

"You seriously went to get juice, of all things," Matilda shook her head disappointedly, but a hint of smile escaped from her lips.

"Well, I can't help if I have a little craving for sugar—"

Albert interrupted him, snatching the cup from his hand and taking a quick sniff. "That's no juice, it's the Swan's famous—or rather, infamous—firewater. Just one sip paralyzes the mind for hours and sets the tongue on fire. Anything more, there's lasting damage to the bloodstream and worse."

He tossed the cup aside, the paper bouncing softly against the wood before it found a new home against the wall.

A few moments passed before Ken spoke up, his eyes fixed on the seemingly innocent paper cup that was really a façade for something more sinister. "Well, I'm glad I didn't drink that... juice."

Matilda looked as if she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but just decided to pinch the bridge of her nose in utter astonishment, shutting her eyes as well. "You better be glad. You could have freaking dropped dead like a sack of cold bricks."

"But I didn't, did I?" Ken said. "We're all in one piece, breathing and all."

"That is true. But, our business here was not just to bust our chops running around," Albert said. "Or almost drink a cup of firewater."

He walked up to the bar table and rapped against the wood three times, the bartender promptly setting down a glass mid-pour and almost gliding to the end of the table.

Albert pressed his mouth against the man's ear, whispering snippets of words I caught. "...here...club. ...word is...okay?"

He gave a curt nod, shouting a string of unruly words at a drunken man who slammed his glass against the wood angrily before gesturing for us to follow him behind the bar table.

"Is this the way to the fight club?" I whispered but Albert gave me a mysterious smile in response, his lips not knowing whether to curl up or down.

"You'll see," He said as we passed by shelves lined to the nook with thick glass and lanky bottles that swished with odd liquids (could it be poison?), my reflection eyeing me strangely as I trailed a triangular stack of glasses that seemed to follow me with six pairs of grotesque eyeballs.

The trailing eyes leaped onto another glass before vanishing as we slipped into a small opening between the shelves, arriving at a slightly more spacious area. Shelves squeezed with piles upon piles of empty glasses and polished bottles made for the walls, each layer underlined with a thin neon glow that doused the glass in a colorful gradient.

But perhaps what was more striking was the gaping square in the floor—like someone hadn't put in the last puzzle piece—and the intense clamor down the set of stairs that rivaled the scene outside. Flashes of light briefly drowned the room in a kaleidoscope of colors and the faint sound of ragged breathing remained suspended in the tense atmosphere, movement and conversation filling the rest.

"There you are, sirs," The bartender gestured towards the steps and headed to deal with the impatient customers. "And ma'am."

"What is this?" Ken asked, but one look at the chicken-scratch lettering against the edge of the hole and blood-stained steps answered his question.

The Swan's Nest. Open to all, but all will fight.