“I’ll wait another five minutes,” I muttered, the condensation from my glass slick against my palm. My eyes tracked the tavern door, filtering through the evening rush with the practiced focus of someone waiting for a mob to spawn.

  I’d been waiting alone for nearly thirty minutes, well past the time we’d agreed on.

  Just as I prepared to settle the tab, two familiar silhouettes broke through the haze of pipe smoke. The knot of tension in my chest unraveled, leaving behind a dull ache of relief.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Darwyn said, pulling out a chair with a weary sigh. “Registering the fallen takes more paperwork than a royal wedding. The administration wasn't in a hurry.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say.

  “Good thing you’re still here,” Muradin added, collapsing into the bench beside him. His black hair looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward. “We sprinted from the guild hall.”

  “I was starting to think the void finally claimed you.”

  “Bah!” Muradin slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the silverware. “Takes more than a little purple nothingness to kill a dwarf.” He caught a waiter’s eye and made a frantic drinking motion. “More glasses! And keep them coming!”

  “In that case,” I leaned back, “you’re paying for my tab.”

  “For the Head Crusher? Absolutely!” Muradin let out a booming laugh that made the bard in the corner flinch. “Just keep those hands on your drink and away from my skull.”

  Darwyn nudged my shoulder, a faint, knowing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We saw the duel. That sound when your fist met his face? It sounded like an empty barrel meeting a sledgehammer.”

  “A very hollow barrel,” Muradin grunted, already diving into a plate of salted nuts.

  We traded stories over the rising noise of the tavern. Muradin had lucked out, landing right in front of the second-floor portal. After hearing my side, his good mood soured instantly.

  “So the rat took your fragment?” Muradin’s hand tightened around his fresh mug until the wood creaked.

  “Yeah. But I collected a tax.” I reached into my pouch and set the Storm Breaker on the table.

  The dwarf’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He reached for the hammer as if it were a long-lost relative, his fingers twitching as lightning hummed against the metal. “How much? Name a price. Any price.”

  “It’s not for sale, Muradin.”

  “Lad, you’re a druid! You don’t even have Soul Power!” He looked at the weapon with pure, unadulterated longing.

  “It makes a great paperweight,” I replied dryly. Then, seeing his shoulders slump, I added, “But I suppose a certain dwarf could borrow it. As long as we’re adventuring together.”

  Muradin’s head snapped up, a fierce grin splitting his beard. “Then it’s a blood-pact! Next exploration, we go in as a team.” He looked at Darwyn, daring him to disagree.

  “No objections,” Darwyn replied, though his gaze turned practical. “But we’re still two short for an official registration. My younger sister is heading into the Tower next month. She’s green, but I’d rather she be with a team that actually knows how to survive a wipe.”

  “A sister?” Muradin barked. “Is she as gloomy as you?”

  “Yes,” Darwyn continued. “And she won’t take a full share of the loot until she pulls her weight.”

  “Sold.” Muradin drained his mug. “One more slot.”

  “I have a druid in mind,” I said, thinking of the training grounds.

  “Bring ‘em next week,” Muradin commanded. “Same time, same place.”

  Darwyn nodded. “I’ll bring my sister.”

  Muradin stretched. “Enough serious talk! Let’s enjoy the night.”

  Darwyn smirked. “Good. Because we’re just getting started.”

  As the night wore on, mugs emptied and refilled, and before long Muradin and Darwyn were drunk enough to forget which topics were better left alone.

  “Have you heard the incident from the last council meeting?” Muradin slurred.

  Darwyn exhaled slowly. “If this is about House Sylvaris and House Lethren again, I swear—”

  “Oh, it is,” Muradin cut in. “Their ‘heated discussion’ turned into a full-blown brawl. Chairs flying. Skills flaring. A few people died.”

  “That escalated quickly,” I said.

  “The palace calls it an ‘unfortunate event,’” Darwyn replied grimly. “Everyone else calls it politics turning ugly.” He took a slow sip. “The nobility’s been fracturing ever since the Tower opened its higher floors. Too much power, too few agreements on who gets it.”

  “Or who deserves it,” I added quietly.

  Darwyn glanced at me, then nodded. “Exactly.”

  Muradin snorted. “Bah. Snobby nobles squabbling over titles and power. You’d think after living so well, they’d learn how to be satisfied.”

  “Weak Houses get erased,” Darwyn replied. “If they stop growing stronger, they’re as good as dead.”

  The waiter returned with fresh glasses. Muradin drained half of his in one go.

  “Speaking of strength,” he said, wiping his mouth, “did you see the spear the Silverward captain carried back at the guild hall?”

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  “Who?”

  “Silverward. One of the strongest clans around.” Muradin stared at me like I’d confessed to living under a rock. “Runecarved shaft. Storm-vein steel head. Balanced like a dream. I’d bet my beard it was forged by Gardel Ironhand himself.”

  “The Gardel?” Darwyn’s eyes widened. “I thought he vanished years ago.”

  “Vanished, retired… same thing for legends.” Muradin shrugged. “But that weapon? No mistaking his work. That spear alone could buy an entire district in Asterion.”

  My gaze drifted to Storm Breaker resting against the table leg. If that was true, then even this weapon paled in comparison.

  “And that reminds me,” Muradin said, scanning the tavern. “You didn’t hear this from me. Silverward’s planning something on the third floor. A hunt.”

  I stiffened. “A monster hunt?”

  Muradin nodded. “A secret one. Rumor has it some major Houses are backing it.”

  “I know what they’re after,” Darwyn whispered. “Tharagon, the Terror of the Mesa.”

  The name meant nothing to me, but a shiver of excitement ran down my spine.

  A monster beyond my knowledge. My gamer’s curiosity surged.

  “An elite group of elves encountered it for the first time a few months ago. Only a handful returned alive,” Darwyn continued. “It should have been a secret. That means there must be a spy.”

  Silence settled over the table for a moment.

  I broke it first. “If that’s true, the political fallout alone—”

  “—will be catastrophic,” Muradin finished.

  The tavern door slammed open with enough force to rattle mugs and snap conversations in half.

  Steel boots thundered across the wooden floor as a line of royal guards flooded inside, crimson cloaks flaring behind polished armor. The chatter died instantly. Even the bard missed a note. The lead guard stepped forward, helmet tucked beneath his arm, eyes sharp and merciless.

  “By order of the Crown,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room, “this establishment is sealed until further notice.”

  A collective groan rippled through the room, abruptly silenced as another guard struck the floor with the butt of his spear.

  Muradin lowered his mug slowly. “Well,” he muttered, “this just killed the mood.”

  Darwyn stiffened. His eyes flicked to the guards’ insignia, then to their tense expressions. “That’s not a routine patrol,” he said quietly. “Something’s very wrong.”

  “No one is to leave their seat.”

  My gaze flicked instinctively to the windows, then the door, my instincts already mapping the fastest way out if things turned ugly. A woman at the next table started to rise, panic written plainly on her face.

  The lead guard stepped forward and activated something rune-etched in his hand.

  Metal surged outward from the magical device like a living thing.

  In the blink of an eye, steel sealed the walls, floor, and ceiling, encasing the tavern in an airtight cage. No doors. No windows. No escape.

  A guard quickly caught the woman and dragged her back roughly.

  “We are searching for a dangerous fugitive,” the lead guard continued coldly. “Male. Human. Suspected of multiple counts of treason.”

  Several patrons shifted uncomfortably.

  Without further explanation, the guards began inspecting everyone, checking identification and asking sharp questions.

  The tavern sank into suffocating silence, broken only by the scrape of chairs and the occasional nervous cough. Minutes stretched. The guards moved methodically, eyes cold, hands always close to their weapons.

  My fingers tightened around my mug.

  Every instinct I had screamed that something was wrong.

  When the guards reached a table in the far corner, I finally noticed him.

  A hooded man sat alone, thin and hunched, his drink untouched. I couldn’t remember seeing him earlier. He kept his head lowered as a guard stopped in front of him.

  “You,” the guard said. “Stand.”

  The man rose slowly.

  “Down!” I shouted the instant I felt it.

  I grabbed Darwyn and Muradin and yanked them sideways as Mana screamed through the air.

  A concussive blast ripped through the tavern, shattering tables and hurling bodies aside. Heat punched the breath from my lungs. I hit the floor hard as my chair disintegrated beneath me, wood and steel screaming as they were flung apart. Shards whistled past my head. Someone screamed. Someone else didn’t get the chance.

  Smoke swallowed everything.

  Through the chaos, I saw the hooded man sprint toward a jagged opening he’d blasted into the steel wall.

  “THERE!” a guard shouted.

  Muradin didn’t hesitate.

  He tore Storm Breaker free from where it had fallen and hurled it with a roar. The hammer spun end over end, lightning screaming around its head before it slammed into the fugitive’s back in an explosion of blue light.

  “MOVE!” the lead guard roared as he charged, the others close behind.

  I activated Windstride.

  Mana surged through my legs. The world snapped into razor-sharp focus, narrowing to a single point ahead. My boots barely touched the floor as I tore through debris, vaulted shattered tables, and leapt over bodies still scrambling to rise.

  I sprinted past the fugitive, already pinned to the floor by the guards, and kept running straight through the hole in the wall.

  Cold air slammed into me as I burst into the street.

  A faint trail of frost, barely visible, crystallized along the cobblestones before evaporating into mist. Windstride carried me closer with every step.

  I reached out, and my hand met resistance.

  “The real one is here!” I shouted, tightening my grip.

  Frost rushed inward, outlining a human shape struggling against my hold. The air shimmered, and the man’s form snapped into view. Blood could be seen seeping through his clothes, the side effects of the Arcane Combustion he had unleashed. Beneath the hood, pale eyes glowed faintly, amused rather than afraid.

  “How did you know?” he asked, his voice distorted.

  “Your clone didn’t react to the stun. And you left a trail.”

  Ghost Walk always did, if you knew what to look for.

  “And why interfere?” he asked calmly.

  “Because you hurt my friend.” I met his gaze without flinching.

  Footsteps thundered behind me. The guards were close.

  He chuckled softly. “I wish I had a friend like you.”

  “There’s no use,” I said, gripping his hand tighter as he struggled. “You won’t outstrength me.”

  “Oh, I’m not planning to.” His smile sharpened. “This will sting.”

  He slammed his free palm into my chest.

  Agony detonated through my body.

  It felt like needles driven into every nerve at once, pain so sharp it stole thought itself. I was hurled backward, weightless, but my feet didn't move. For a terrifying, silent heartbeat, I saw my own back, my own shoulders, standing motionless in the alley like a discarded shell.

  Then, the world tilted. My soul snapped back with a violent jolt, locking into my body like a misaligned mechanism.

  I crashed onto the stone, gasping.

  By the time my vision cleared, the alley was empty.

  The guards skidded to a halt moments later, weapons raised, eyes darting.

  Too late.

  A faint voice drifted back on the night wind, almost playful.

  “Maquina,” it said. “Remember the name.”

  And then there was nothing.

  Only the echo of his laughter, and the pounding of my own heart.

  never complain about a boring night at the pub again.

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