The heavy oak door to the back room groaned on its hinges, and Jax lumbered through, filling the frame with his massive presence. In one meaty hand, he balanced a wide wooden platter piled high with half a roasted hog, its skin crackling loud enough to be heard by all in the quiet room. Tucked beside it were two golden-brown roast chickens, steam and the aroma of fire roasted fowl wafted around him.

  "Those shit-faced thugs pulled their little stunt before they had time to get what they ordered," Jax grunted, thudding the massive feast onto the center of the table. "It’d be a shame to let a meal like this go to waste just 'cause they about pissed themselves.” He took a moment to breathe, with a grin, pulled a pouch from his pocket and tossed it up in the air. “Besides, it's already paid for." The sound of metal coins clanging together filled the silence as the pouch landed in his palm.

  Tru’s eyes widened, her primal hunger surfacing. She reached for the chicken with both hands while her mouth watered. But Serenity remained coiled. She looked at the greasy pile of pork and then back at the empty space in front of her.

  "Where's my stew?" Serenity demanded, her voice vinegar-edged with a grating, whetstone texture that promised a sharp edge for anyone slow to answer.

  "Right here, lassie,” a new voice answered. “and mind your tone—the walls have ears, but the cook has a long memory."

  A woman entered behind Jax, her hip supporting a robust, red-cheeked toddler. She set the steaming bowls down with a solid, no-nonsense thud, splashing some of the contents onto the table. The woman leaned back slightly, her hand instinctively resting atop the prominent swell of her belly, the heavy apron pulled taut over her pregnancy. With a slow, deliberate rhythm, she began wiping the mess, her steely look never wavering from the half-elf’s face.

  "The name's Alana," she added, her voice dropping into a companionable hum that sat in sharp contrast to Serenity’s jagged edges.

  “And this little terror is Johan.”

  She settled onto the edge of a sturdy bench next to them, the movement careful and heavy, her presence unflinching as the steam from the roast swirled between them. "And around here, Alana’s the only one who doesn't mind a bit of grit in a girl's soul, so long as it stays off my clean floors.”

  Jax roared with laughter.

  “You don't mind if we join ya?” he asked while Alana was already eagerly helping herself.

  Ryan tore a piece of the dry bread, dipped it in his stew, but he didn’t eat it. He watched Jax masterfully carve a hunk of pork for Alana, his movements sure and his smile pure.

  "How did you end up here, Jax?" Ryan asked, his voice low against the crackle of the fire. "Last I saw you, we were wiping the blood off your cheek.”

  Jax slowed his carving, his blue eyes drifting to a darkened corner of the room. "Mum couldn't take it," he said simply. "Not the mountains, the cold, or the fighting. This mark you gave me was the final straw. She didn’t wanna lose me like she lost him.”

  “Your father?” asked Tru, unsure about the gnawing sensation she was feeling in her chest.

  “It was dark in those tunnels. She wanted to feel the sun again. Wanted to remarry before it was too late."

  He set the knife down with a soft clack. "After that first winter in the mountains we set out on foot and wandered half the year before we found this place. It didn't have a name then, just a crossroads and a thirsty well. She took work in this tavern to keep me fed. As you can see, I was a growing boy,” his eyes glistening he allowed himself to chuckle at his own jest.

  “The man who owned this tavern, Old Miller, as he was known, well, he took a shining to her. He was a good man, in his way. Before the frosts set in they hitched, and for six years, I learned how to brew and how to keep a floor clean. I thought we’d found it, Ryan. Peace."

  "Until the raids," Ryan inferred.

  "Until the raids," echoed Jax, his face fell, clouded by a bleak thought, and a wave of dark emotion flickered across his face.

  "The first one... they didn't come to vanquish. They came to break things; to break us. Old Miller tried to stand up to them. He met at the front door with a long knife in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. They slashed a sword across his throat before he could draw breath. Mum and I... we kept the place going. We had to. But the raids kept coming, like a fever that wouldn't break."

  Alana reached out, her hand covering Jax’s larger one on the table. He squeezed her fingers before continuing.

  "Two years ago, the final raid claimed her. I was alone, standing in the middle of a burning street with a bucket in one hand and a broken stool in the other. I realized then that running didn't work, and dying for nothing worked even less. So, when their leader, a piece of shit named Yirrk, came back to finish the job, I didn't fight. I engineered a deal."

  "You paid them off," Serenity said, her voice neutral but her eyes sharp.

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  "I gave them a reason to keep us liv'in," Jax corrected. "I told Yirrk that a burned village provides no ale and no silver. I offered him a 'peace tax.' I know it’s a yoke, Ryan, but it’s a yoke that lets us breathe. The village... they saw me stand up to him and live. Ever since, they’ve been looking to me for more than just a pint of mead. They look for guidance. For protection."

  Jax looked up, his gaze locking with Ryan’s. "I'm doing exactly what your father would have done. I just don't have the title. And I’m tired of paying this price for a peace that is nothin’ but a slow death.”

  Ryan’s breath hitched. He looked at the boy, his father’s namesake, and felt the weight of twelve years of absence. His eyes misted as he looked at Alana's swollen belly that carried new life inside. Jax shifted on his stool, his somber tone shifting into one of hopefulness. He dipped a finger into his ale and began tracing a map on the scarred tabletop.

  "It isn't just one camp anymore, Ryan," Jax said. "It’s an infection that is festering and spreading. Gorr sits in Twin Peaks, but his outposts are all around. Every single village is being bled dry by the 'peace tax.' They're on the verge of rebellion, but they're scared."

  Jax leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of scared... the word coming down the road today is that Gorr is losing his mind. It seems three prisoners vanished from his high-security cells a few nights ago. Poof. Gone like smoke. The guards found a hole in the wall of the cell, sure, but Gorr is screaming about 'the work of demons,’ or ‘dark magic' just ‘cause two of ‘em were elves."

  Tru and Serenity shared a quick, knowing glance. Ryan felt a small spark of satisfaction, but Jax wasn't smiling.

  "You have to understand," Jax continued, "Gorr has a pathological terror of anything that smells of the arcane. Apparently, years ago, some old hag gave him a prophecy about dying at the hands of 'magical justice,' and he’s been a twitchy bastard ever since. He doesn't just hate magic; he fears it like a man fears a circling pack of wolves. If he finds out he has elves on his heels, he won't just send scouts. He’ll burn the whole valley to find you."

  "Good," Serenity interjected, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying coldness. "Let him be afraid."

  "I'm a trader, Jax," Ryan argued, his voice straining. "I’m not a general. If I lead them into a fight we can't win, I’m just leading them to a faster grave."

  "The massacre is already happening!" Jax roared, slamming the table. "Look around you, Ryan. Soon my son and unborn child will grow up and become slaves if someone doesn't break Gorr’s back. The Creator help us if it's a girl. I've heard what he likes to do with the youngin's. So, if it ain't you, then who?"

  The silence that followed was heavy. Ryan looked at Alana, the unborn child, the boy, Serenity, then at Tru, who was watching the human family with a newfound, somber intensity. Finally, Ryan’s gaze landed on his hip, on his father’s sword.

  “They need a reason to believe the line of the Chiefs isn't dead.”

  Serenity didn't miss a beat, her words from the morning, echoing in her mind. "See?" the half-elf hissed at Ryan. "It’s as I told you. You aren't just a trader. You’re the spark."

  "Fine," Ryan whispered. "But we don't have an army. We have three riders, one without a horse, and a barkeep. We’ll have to build this 'magical justice' he’s so afraid of."

  Jax leaned over the ale-map. "We hit the outposts on the way to the mountains.

  “We wait ‘til the spring thaw, if he ‘festers’ all winter, he might gather his forces before we're ready,” Ryan interjected with an unknown, yet instinctual battle awareness.

  “The first few…” continued Jax. “We leave no survivors. Just ash and silence. Let his scouts find the bodies and wonder what kind of 'demons' did it. Then, at the camp nearest the main road, we leave one survivor. Severely injured. We let him crawl back to Gorr babbling that Johan’s ghost has returned with the power of the old world."

  Ryan felt a chill crawl down his spine. They weren't just planning a return; they were planning a haunting.

  “There's just one problem left,” Ryan started with an unsure hesitation. “We need another horse if we are to make it to the dwarven halls before the deep snows set in.”

  Jax scratched his beard, his blue eyes clouded. "Horses cost more than a barkeep's life savings, Ryan. Even for an old friend."

  Ryan reached out and unbuckled the sword belt. He laid the weapon on the table between the grease and the ale. The steel caught the light, ancient and regal. The room went silent.

  "Take it," Ryan said. "Trade it for a horse and keep the rest to fund your 'whispers.' I’m trading my past for our future."

  Jax’s hand shook as he reached for the hilt. "Ryan... this is your father's. I can't..."

  "You can," Ryan insisted. "Hold it for me. I’m only lending it to you until the snow thaws."

  Jax gripped the leather-wrapped hilt, a look of profound, solemn duty crossing his face. "Then it’s settled. I’ll keep it sharp, Ryan. I’m only holding it until the spring thaw, when we meet at the gates of Fjalls-r?tr. By then, hopefully, I’ll have an army waiting for a Chief."

  Tru watched the exchange, her hand moving to rest on Serenity’s shoulder. She didn't fully understand the human need for metal and blood, but she understood the sacrifice. She leaned in, her voice soft. "I think I understand now, sister. Why you couldn't stay in the woods.”

  Jax stood and took the blade, holding it to his chest like a holy relic. The weight of the steel seemed to ground him, his earlier boisterousness replaced by the solemnity of a man who had just accepted a sacred trust.

  "I’ll have the horse ready on the morrow. And Ryan?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't worry about being your father," Jax said softly, his voice thick with a sudden, fierce conviction. "I think the Ghost is going to be much more effective.”

  He turned to lead Alana toward the back room, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back. Ryan watched them for a moment, the image of the family—the toddler, the unborn child, and the weary barkeep—searing itself into his mind. This was what he was fighting for. This was the "yoke" he was finally strong enough to help carry.

  As Jax reached the door, Ryan spoke up, the words coming out with a hint of the old, mischievous spark they had shared as boys.

  "Hey, Jax."

  Jax paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Ya."

  Ryan leaned back slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he gestured toward his two silent companions. "What would you say if I told you we were the ones who escaped?"

  Jax looked at the elves, then back at Ryan. He didn't look surprised; instead, a slow, predatory grin spread across his face, the silver scar on his cheek crinkling in the light. He let out a single, sharp bark of a laugh that echoed through the empty tavern.

  "I’d say," Jax replied, his eyes gleaming with a newfound fire, "that Gorr has every right to be pissing his pants."

  He stepped through the door, the heavy oak clicking shut behind him, leaving the trio alone in the cooling warmth of the hearth.