Brant found a place in the tavern of the mercenary camp and sat down, his nostrils filled with the sour smell of alcohol and sweat. Originally a dining area for the mercenaries, it became a tavern for the soldiers at night, celebrating the gift of living one more day.

The mercenaries set up a stage out of wooden chests, and a singer was standing on the stage playing an unknown ballad, and the mercenaries below were contentedly drinking from the cellar's collections, and talking happily with each other, the noisy chatter and laughter drowned out the singer's voice.

The young singer was particularly handsome in the light of butter candles, he had shoulder-length flax hair, he wore gray trousers, gray waistcoat, gray leather boots, and surprisingly he only held a pair of tuning forks in his hands, nothing else, but at least four musical chords to match his perfectly sweet voice.

"Hah, magic." Brant raised his glass to the magic in the void in disbelief and paid homage to his own magic with fermented cider.

"Yo! Good singing! A strong, thick-haired mercenary shouted, "Don't forget to stay in my tent!" The others laughed, and there was a strange and malicious mockery in those laughs.

The singer finished singing, jumped off the stage, ignored the laughter of the mercenaries, walked directly to the bar and asked for a low-quality beer, and sat down next to Brant to drink it. The prince read from the laughter of the others that the singer was a prostitute, and looked at him again, and found that the young man was a teenager at best, with flaxen-colored fur just curled up at the corners of his mouth, and his white and red complexion made him even more immature and weak, but with a deep despair in his eyes, the whole person looked like a gray shadow, lifeless.

"Is that your magic? I mean instruments that don't have zài. Brandt asked. Because he suddenly had an idea, maybe he could save the lives of many mercenaries. Oh, I am as merciful as God. The prince couldn't help but roll his eyes at himself.

"Yes." The gloomy figure said, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation.

Brandt snatched the singer's leather cup and shouted at the chef, "Change the cup for him, this man needs to release his love." Such words drew a few sneers stuck in his throat, and then he was frightened back by Brandt's rather threatening figure and eyes.

The singer staggered her head up, "You're the prisoner." He recognized the prince and took a large gulp of strong rice wine into his mouth with the hand holding the new cup.

"Very important prisoners." The prince declared, "So you must be honest with me. ”

"Honest?" The singer was amused by the word, and laughed drunken and hazy, "I used to be honest with anyone, but what happened, I have nothing now, and even the prisoners have to ask me to drink alcohol!" ”

"I'm sorry for you," Brandt didn't know what to say, "and sympathize with your current situation, uh, for your current situation." ”

"Why?" The singer looked at the prince in amazement, "I'm in a good situation, I don't have to fight, I don't have to contribute, I can still earn money every night, sometimes even during the day......"

"I'm not asking about this," Brandt hastily interrupted him, lest he say all the dirty things that would pollute his ears, "I'm talking about your magic. ”

"Hmph, my magic won't help," the boy took a big sip of the liquor, his eyes welling with tears, "you know, sometimes they make me pretend to be girls and sing ...... falsetto"

"Stop," Brandt shook his head at himself, if only Creon were here, he must have a common language with the boy, "do you want to make money?" He adjusted his tone and asked mysteriously, seeing that the other party's sloppy eyes were reunited by the word "earning", he slapped a gold coin on the table in front of the boy, "The last row of tents on the left, the third gentian sunflower from the bottom, as long as you can satisfy me, the honorarium will also satisfy you." ”

(l~1`x*>+``+