Joran sat quietly in the tavern’s corner, his back to the wall, hood drawn low over his face as he nursed a mug of lukewarm ale he had no intention of finishing. The clamor of Korr’s Maw filled the air—laughter, brawling, shouting, and the occasional sound of breaking glass or bones. It was a place where strength was king, and silence was often mistaken for weakness. But for now, Joran welcomed being overlooked.

  He kept his gaze fixed on the battered tabletop, but his ears were sharp, tuned to the voices that drifted around the room. Information was currency in a place like this, and the drunker the patrons got, the looser their tongues became.

  From the booth nearest the hearth came a hushed conversation between three warriors hunched over tankards, their breath reeking of spirits and bloodlust.

  “Have you seen the champion?” one whispered, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. “She’s not just strong—she’s a monster.”

  “I heard she ate the last bastard who begged for mercy,” the second said with a slur, his fingers twitching around his mug. “Didn’t even kill him first. Just bit down mid-scream.”

  The third shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t matter what they throw at her—minotaurs, magi-humans, spellcasters. She rips through ‘em like wet parchment. Three-on-one fight last week? Mage got his head crushed, minotaur was gutted like livestock, and the last poor bastard… well, no one’s seen what’s left.”

  Joran’s stomach turned, but he didn’t show it. A champion like that in the Maw? It wasn’t just cruel—it was theatrical. Spectacle for the sake of control. The kind of strength that kept everyone else afraid.

  He shifted his attention to a rougher group near the tavern’s side entrance—traders, smugglers by the look of them, dressed in a patchwork of leathers and loose cloaks stained with road dust.

  “Another convoy’s due in by sunset,” one said, gnawing on a strip of dried meat. “Easy pickings along the forest road again. Whole family of nymphs last time. One of the kids tried to fight—bit a slaver’s finger clean off.”

  The others laughed.

  “Whoever decided to plant this place right on one of the Lothara-bound main route’s a fucking genius,” another said, kicking his boots up onto the table. “We catch most of the mythics heading for that so-called sanctuary. Either they fight with us, or they serve. Makes no difference. The weak feed the strong.”

  Joran’s grip tightened on his mug, knuckles white. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold down the rising fury. How long had this been happening? How many had fled to Lothara with hope in their hearts, only to be captured and branded in this pit of despair? How many innocents had screamed inside that arena, thinking salvation was just over the hill?

  A shadow passed over his table.

  He looked up.

  A large figure loomed over him—tall, broad, and reeking of ale. The man had the coarse features of a wolf-velcari—wolfish ears flicking irritably above messy black hair, and a long, bushy tail twitching behind him. Scars marred his face and arms, and a chipped iron pauldron clung to one shoulder.

  “Well, well…” the velcari sneered, leaning in with a mocking grin. “Ain’t you a little runt. You look like the sort of thing I scrape off my boot.”

  Joran didn’t reply. His instincts screamed at him to avoid confrontation, but he also knew how Korr’s Maw worked. Strength wasn’t just admired here—it was the only language spoken.

  The velcari clicked his tongue. “I’m talkin’ to you, boy. What’s a soft little thing like you doin’ walkin’ around free? You don’t look like a fighter. Don’t smell like one, either. You smell like fear.”

  Joran lifted his eyes slowly, calm but deliberate. “I'm not interested in talking. So fuck off.”

  The grin on the velcari’s face disappeared. With a sudden snarl, he slammed both fists onto the table with a BOOM, the wood creaking under the force. Tankards rattled and nearby patrons turned to watch.

  “Oh, we’re talkin’ now, boy,” he growled. “Why don’t we take this outside? I’ll teach you how we deal with disrespect around here.”

  Joran sighed, feigning disinterest as he returned his gaze to his untouched mug. “I said I’m not interested.”

  “Too fuckin’ bad!” the velcari barked, voice rising. “Once a challenge is made, then—”

  Joran struck before the sentence finished.

  His left hand snapped up, fingers splayed and palm open. A shockwave of compressed magical force burst forth from his palm like a thunderclap—invisible, but devastating. The spell hit the velcari square in the chest and launched him backward like a missile.

  He flew through two tables, scattering food, drink, and coin in a whirlwind of chaos before finally slamming into a load-bearing support beam with a sickening CRACK. The tavern fell deathly silent as the wolf-velcari slumped unconscious to the floor, twitching.

  Joran exhaled and relaxed his hand, assuming that would be the end of it.

  It wasn’t.

  From around the ruined tables, a half-dozen angry men and women staggered to their feet—mercenaries, drunkards, beastkin—and each one looked furious.

  “You spilled our drinks!” one bellowed, glaring at his soaked tunic.

  “AND our food!” another snarled, brandishing a broken mug like a weapon.

  “You arrogant little shit, do you know how much a roast leg of wyrm costs here!?” screamed a third.

  Joran’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh gods.”

  “GET HIM!” they all shouted.

  Joran sprang to his feet as the crowd lunged. He ducked the first swinging punch, rolled under a flailing arm, and scrambled toward the tavern’s entrance—only to skid to a halt as a massive beastman stepped into the doorway, arms crossed. A lion beastman, by the look of him—seven feet tall, fangs like daggers, and muscles stacked like barrels.

  “No leaving now,” the beastman growled, cracking his knuckles.

  Joran spun, only to see the mob closing in. They weren’t coordinated—yet—but the drunken rage of a dozen tavern-goers was nothing to scoff at. He dodged left, then right, slipping past a flung chair and leaping over a fallen bench. Behind him, chaos erupted as the attackers started swinging at each other in the confusion.

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  A satyr got elbowed in the face by a dwarf. The dwarf got drop-kicked by a dark elf. A table flipped, and three mugs exploded mid-air.

  In the eye of the storm, Joran finally found himself cornered near the bar. The crowd encircled him, teeth bared, fists clenched.

  “Okay…” he muttered, reaching into his cloak, fingers curling into a specific runic gesture. “No more playing nice.”

  The spell ignited in his hand like a living flame—then detonated in a thunderous BLAST.

  The explosive magic hurled everyone back like rag dolls. Tables shattered, drinks flew, and the air filled with smoke, screams, and the crackle of fire as the blast caught the ceiling supports and ignited the dry beams above.

  “FIRE!” someone screamed. “He set the gods-damned place on fire!”

  Joran stumbled through the chaos as patrons stampeded for the exit, smoke choking the air. Half the crowd clawed over each other, trying to escape. The beastman bouncer got trampled. A wyvernkin clung to the ceiling rafters, shrieking.

  Outside, two armored guards were just rounding the corner when the tavern doors exploded outward and people came pouring into the street.

  “What the hell—” the cyclops barked.

  “Someone better explain this RIGHT NOW!” the saurian added, drawing his weapon.

  Joran stepped out last, cloak billowing, soot across his face, trying to act like none of it had been his fault.

  He gave the guards an awkward wave and muttered, “Uh… I can explain.”

  The tavern behind him groaned—and then the roof collapsed with a thunderous crash.

  Joran winced.

  “…Or not.”

  “What in the seven flaming hells happened here?!”

  The voice hit like a thunderclap—deep, angry, and all too familiar. One was a cyclops, tall and broad with a glowing eye already flickering with interest. The other was a saurian, his blue-black scales catching the fading light, tail lashing behind him like a whip in rhythm with his stride.

  The cyclops jabbed a finger at Joran. “You! What happened? Are you the cause of this fire?!”

  “Who, me?” Joran said, voice an octave too high as he awkwardly stepped away from the smoking wreck. “No! Of course not!”

  “YES HE IS!” someone bellowed before Joran could offer any further defense.

  The orc barkeep came storming out of the crowd, soot-streaked, beard scorched at the ends, and murder in his eyes. His massive fists were clenched at his sides like twin boulders. The sleeves of his shirt had been burned away entirely, revealing a wall of muscle and a lattice of old battle scars. The man looked more like a retired war general than a tavern owner—and right now, he looked ready to kill.

  “He’s the bastard who blasted a drunk velcari into my tables, wrecked half the place with a godsdamned shockwave, and then set my tavern on FIRE!”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Joran began.

  The orc rounded on him, his voice rising like a warhorn. “Do you have any idea how long I built that tavern?! With these hands!” he shouted, flexing one enormous, soot-blackened hand in Joran’s direction. “Stone by stone, plank by plank, mead barrel by MEAD BARREL!”

  “I’m really sorry, I just—”

  “I DON’T WANT YOUR SORRY!” the orc thundered. “I want you to rebuild the whole godsdamned thing! Or bleed trying!”

  Joran held up both hands, exasperated. “Can you just… shut up for two seconds?! I’m trying to explain!”

  The orc’s tusked snarl deepened, his knuckles cracking. “Say shut up again, string bean. Go on. I dare you.”

  Joran glanced at the orc, then at the two guards, then back at the orc, and gave a very soft: “Please… shut up?”

  The orc inhaled through his nose like a raging bull, fists trembling. But the cyclops raised his hand before things got bloodier.

  “Enough,” the cyclops rumbled, turning his attention back to Joran. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  Joran blinked, still trying to breathe through the adrenaline. “Yes. Very. Just arrived. Didn’t even know this place existed before today.”

  The saurian groaned, rubbing the side of his snout. “Every time,” he muttered. “Listen up, outsider. There’s one rule in Korr’s Maw when it comes to fights: you take it outside. Once a challenge is made, it has to be honored. Outside. Not inside a tavern, not inside the bathhouses, and definitely not inside the only halfway-decent drinking hole in the outer ring.”

  Joran rubbed the back of his neck. “That… would’ve been good to know before the part where he slammed his fists on my table and threatened to gut me.”

  The orc let out a fresh roar, pointing an accusatory finger. “You think I care who started it?! My tavern’s gone! Burned to cinders by a little twig with a temper tantrum and sparkly fingers!”

  The saurian scowled. “You’ll be paying for the damage. That’s final.”

  Joran’s face went pale. “I don’t… really have the kind of money to cover an entire building—”

  “I don’t give a minotaur’s ass what you have,” the orc barkeep snarled, stepping in close. “Either you rebuild it, brick by brick, or I tear your arms off and use them for support beams!”

  Joran gulped. He’d heard stories about orcs. He knew how powerful they could be—how much pain they could deliver with a single punch. The barkeep didn’t look like someone bluffing. He looked like someone who wanted an excuse.

  Before he could stammer out another apology, the saurian sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring.

  “…What species are you?” he asked suddenly.

  Joran blinked. “What?”

  “You don’t smell human,” the saurian said, narrowing his eyes. “There’s something else. Something… older.”

  “Oh!” Joran said too quickly. “That’s just the ale. I spilled a whole mug earlier. Smells weird, right? Totally human. A hundred percent. Born and raised.”

  The cyclops tilted his head and took a slow step forward, the glow in his eye sharpening like a blade unsheathed.

  “Dorn,” the saurian said, rubbing his temples. “Use the eye.”

  “No, no, that’s not necessary,” Joran laughed nervously, stepping back. “We all have secrets, right? Let’s not go digging too deep—”

  The cyclops’s eye pulsed, silver light swirling in the center like a slow-moving storm. Joran froze as he remembered—cyclops weren’t rare, but that eye ability? It was. Only a few had it, and even fewer could use it at full strength. The ability to pierce through illusion, to sense bloodline, to read the unseen.

  Dorn stared into Joran’s soul.

  And then recoiled, stumbling back two full steps as his eye flared wide.

  “Not… not possible…” Dorn murmured, breathless.

  The saurian snapped around. “What did you see?”

  Dorn didn’t answer at first. He looked at Joran again, visibly shaken, as if he’d glimpsed something terrifying.

  “…He’s not human,” he said at last, his voice dry.

  The saurian’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”

  “We’ll do it on the way,” Dorn said quickly, turning to the gathering crowd that had begun to murmur. “We’re taking him to the Warlord. Now.”

  Joran raised a hand. “Wait, don’t I get a say in—”

  “If he runs,” Dorn bellowed, raising his voice for everyone to hear, “A HUNDRED GOLD to anyone who brings him in ALIVE!”

  That got their attention.

  The entire street turned to look at Joran. A couple of beastkin cracked their knuckles. A minotaur started stretching. Someone drew a short sword just a bit too casually.

  Joran sighed.

  “…Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

  As Dorn and the saurian flanked him and led him through the gathering crowd, Joran glanced back one last time at the orc, who was still glaring daggers through the smoke.

  Joran sighed louder. “This place just loves visitors, doesn’t it?”

  The saurian didn’t even look at him. “You’ve no idea.”