Much later, I'd realize what it means to be burned by those too-blue flames. But for now, I don't move from my seat. I don't even flinch.
The tavern holds its breath, the tension stretched thin. And then it snaps.
The doors explode open, slamming against the walls like gunshots. They arrive in a swarm: Imperial Guards, their bronze cloaks rippling like locust wings, devouring everything in sight. Their boots pound against the wooden floors, a merciless rhythm that drowns out the soft chatter of the doomed and the drunk.
Zevrin's already wound tight next to me, a predator ready to pounce. His hand inches toward the hilt of his blade, his sharp gaze darting from exit to exit, marking them all. Zevrin doesn't just prepare for a fight—he calculates every possible version of it.
I just sit there, the calm center of a storm I know too well. "Hold," I murmur, barely louder than a whisper. No need to get messy. Not yet.