Chapter 481: The Power of Myth
Some weeks ago, he defeated the Red Sorcerer in a battle of words and earned a favour.
Tonight, he was collecting it.
He found the sorcerer outside an old smithy right across Xander’s mansion. Apparently, the smith was phenomenal at combining metal trinkets with Xander’s pottery. The Scottish male sat on a stack of broken crates. The torchlight flickered against his wild red hair, giving him an almost demonic glow. Dressed in a worn kilt and tunic, Alastair looked every bit the warrior-poet, though his lips curled into something between a grin and a sneer when he saw Myth approach.
"Ah, Myth," Alastair drawled, stretching his arms as though preparing for a brawl. "Here I was, hopin’ ye came to challenge me again. Or perhaps drink with me? Or...you’ve come lookin’ for yer favor."
"I do," Myth replied smoothly. His voice was a gentle melody, neither urgent nor pleading. "You haven’t forgotten, I hope?"
"’Course not," the sorcerer huffed. "A favor is a favor. Name it."
Dasha tilted his head slightly, considering how best to word it. "I need you to repair the Sukhothai. The stalls, the shops—too many are falling apart. You’re the greatest Transmuter in the Underground. Fix them."
Alastair blinked. He was not expecting that.
He folded his arms, studying Myth with those glowing crimson eyes. "Repairin’ stalls, aye? I thought ye’d ask me to enchant yer mask, give ye riches, or maybe teach ye a spell or two. But this? Ye want me to use up my favor to help a bunch of merchants who don’t even know yer name?"
Myth only nodded. "It’s what I want."
For a long moment, Alastair just stared at him. Then, with a bark of laughter, he shook his head. "Ye are a strange one, Myth. Aye, fine. Let’s fix the bloody Bazaar."