The Unspoken

I didn't like the way the people at the other table in the tavern look at me. I frown back at them as they steal glances at me over their shoulders and feel my pulse rising. I get angry far too easily when I’ve had a few drinks. It’s a dangerous trait for a slave, but also one which more often than not convinced people that I’m not one.
I take another draft and glare into my mug, trying to ignore them. I can still feel their eyes upon me, and then I hear their footsteps and know I’ve made a mistake: I’ve given them a sign of weakness. I look up and see the three people from the table swaggering over me. I look them squarely in the eyes, but I’m too drunk to observe them closely. Whoever they are, from their robes I can tell they’re not nobles. I could fight them without getting into too much trouble.
"I've seen you before," one of them says. "You work for the blacksmith on Virton Square."
They’re onto me, I think. I clutch my mug in my fist and sneer at them, swaying a little from the drink.
Another one slams his palms on the table, bending over me.
“That’s a pretty big blacksmith you’re working for. From what I gather, he’s doing such good business that he lets all the crude work be done by…” He pauses, then articulates with a snarl, “slaves.”
I chuckle. I’m not in the mood for games. “Are you trying to belittle me?” I’m only half-acting, as I’ve never thought myself beneath anyone. “You’re not welcome here.” the third says. The other two closed in around him. “Where did you get this?” he says, as he picks up my purse from the table. “Stole it?” I have, of course: as a slave, I can’t own anything.
“Are you stealing it?” I say in a threatening tone. “Do you think you could beat me in a fight?” They seem no match for me, but they merely laugh.
The closest one raises his hand and bends it into a claw before my nose, where the air starts to glow between his fingers.
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