MENTIONS: Everyone
People always told her that Wyndon was the city of dreams. Years ago, when Hestia was still a teenager, she was prone to believe them. Now that she was older, she was able to see through the aura of mystique. Not only was Wyndon a city of dreams, but it was also a city of broken ones.
Hestia recalled the first time she set foot in the grand city, completely in awe of its tall buildings which seemed to rend the clouds in half. She remembered the thrill of battle– the rush of her dragons’ wings as they soared into combat, the heat of their rampant breaths, the fury of their blows, the chill of defeat, and the salt on her lips as she wept after the end of her portion of the Champion’s Cup. The night on which she lost to Ryker weighed like boulders in the very pit of her stomach. She was so close to beating him. So close to becoming Champion of Galar. Little had she known, Ryker had her dancing to the beat of his own drum. Yeah, he had her wrapped right around his little finger. It was even worse that, with every consecutive time she faced him, he emerged the victor again and again.
Her taxi landed with a slight thump against the ground, wrenching her from the past. The flash of a Corviknight’s metallic feathers flickered outside her window, shimmering against the empty night sky. The city’s lights drowned out whatever stars that might have been brave enough to shine in the darkness. Or maybe they had come down to settle on her maroon cocktail dress that she was practically forced to wear for this occasion.
She already missed Hammerlocke.
”We’re here, Lady Hestia,” her cabby said as he opened the door for her.
She gave the man a nod and stepped outside before she paid the man accordingly, giving him a hefty tip. The two of them kept their exchange brief; he murmured a thank you, stay safe, and have a good night as his eyes swept up and down her figure, while she muttered a goodbye in response. The early summer’s spring breeze poured through the streets as she walked down the block, which teased the loose curls that hung upon her bare shoulders. Her dress teased the back of her knees as she strode along in her black heels.
Hestia almost decided not to come to this little meet-up. However, Chairman Peyton Hyacinth was quick to pressure her into saying yes. ”You haven’t seen your friends in a month or two. It’s best that you all catch up before the opening ceremony tomorrow.” He had told her in his typical deep, rumbling voice. ”Make sure to wear something appropriate, yes?”
She was met with the dull ringing of their call’s end tone before she could even say anything else.
Hyacinth never took “no” for an answer; she should have known better than to try to go against what he wanted. He was a good man, really, but he was an expert on what should be done and when. If he said that the gym leaders should meet up before the opening ceremony, then they had to. Whether it was secretly for publicity or simply only to catch up as he had told her, it was wise to listen. Not doing so earned Hyacinth’s mire in one way or another. So, Hestia decided to dress up pretty and decorate herself in makeup and jewelry inlaid with rubies, even if she much preferred to stay at home and watch television from the comfort of her couch.
The venue that Hyacinth had chosen was an intimate, yet popular bar in Wyndon– The Last Dahlia. It rested on a street corner not far from where her taxi had landed. Before she knew it, she was pushing open its doors. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, the aroma of sweet wines and ales washed over her. She stepped inside, her gaze glossing across the empty tables that lined the walls before they settled on the bar itself. At least she could thank Hyacinth for one thing; The Last Dahlia was empty save for three people: an older gentleman behind the bar whom she assumed was the bartender, herself, and him. Clad in a jet-black suit, Ryker sat in one of the middle seats, his silvery hair slicked back as he nursed a short glass filled halfway with a dark-hued spirit. Hestia sucked in a shallow breath before she approached, her heels clacking against the aged hardwood floors.
The younger male offered her a small smile as she sat down next to him. ”Hestia,” he mused. ”Good to see you again.”
”It’s good to see you again, too. What’ve you been up to?” Hestia glanced over his face. Even though he was only nineteen, his face seemed leaner, more mature. ”Haven’t been pushing yourself too hard yet, I hope.”
Ryker’s eyes wrinkled behind the rim of his glass as he gave her a sidelong glance. ”Need to keep myself on my toes these coming months.”
”Of course. Heard anything about this season’s lineup?”
”Not yet,” Ryker sighed out after a long draft from his cup. ”You know how tight-lipped the Chairman can be.”
”Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?”
Ryker didn’t answer her. Raising a hand, he ushered the mustachioed bartender over. ”Mason, a lemon-drop martini for the lady, please.”
Hestia bit the inside of her cheek. She knew that there were things that Ryker couldn’t talk about to the rest of the gym leaders, but c’mon. The anticipation was killing her. Every season brought along its fair share of challenges, and it was best to be prepared before they were upon your doorstep. She stared hard at the side of the Champion’s face, hoping for a reaction. Yet, he seemed much more interested in his drink than her. Nothing else was said, not until Mason rested her drink upon the dark oak bar that rested in front of them.
”You should try the Crown Royal before you leave. It’s divine,” Ryker told her, referring to his whiskey.
Hestia raised her glass to her lips, the sweet melody of the limoncello and citrus teasing her taste buds. ”I’m perfectly fine with sticking to the sweet stuff.”
Ryker barked a laugh. Hestia couldn’t help but reciprocate it.
Time passed, and with it came familiar faces that filtered through The Last Dahlia’s front door and joined them upon the brown leather bar stools.
