The Hearthstone Tavern was alive with a symphony of clattering tankards, the hum of murmured secrets, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. The air carried a heady mix of roasted meats, spilled ale, and the smoky tang of the hearthfire. The place was a tapestry of life: travelers sharing tales of distant kingdoms, merchants boasting of their wares, and locals debating everything from crop yields to the mysterious howls that had echoed from the forest last moonrise.
A group of adventurers huddled around a corner table, voices low but tense as one swore he had seen an orc warband on the march near the border. Nearby, an older man in a threadbare cloak clinked dice in a game against a nervous youth, a smile playing on his lips as he edged closer to a win. Amid the chaos, a minstrel plucked a quiet tune on his lute, though few paid him much mind.
At the heart of this lively melee moved a boy no older than fifteen. He weaved between the crowded tables with practiced ease, balancing platters of steaming stew and frothy tankards. His clothing drew more than a few glances: a deep brown tunic and gloves that reached his elbows, heavy boots that clunked softly against the wooden floor, and a hooded scarf wrapped around his neck and head, leaving only his eyes visible.
"Oi, boy!" came a gravelly voice from a burly man nursing his third ale. That man leaned back on hus chair while shaking his glass,"what is with your outfit?! You dress like it is winter when the air are scorching hot, what are you hiding down there?".
The boy paused, setting a plate of roasted chicken in front of another guest with care. His eyes—an unremarkable brown—flicked briefly toward the burly man, but he said nothing. Instead, he gave a slight bow and turned to leave.
"Leave him be, Grag," piped up a smaller, wiry man sitting across from the burly one. His name was Kett, a regular at the Hearthstone who never seemed to leave without a tale to spin. "That's just how he is. Shy as a rabbit in a wolf's den, that one."
"Shy?" Grag snorted, raising an eyebrow. "That ain't shy, that's suspicious."
"Suspicious, my arse," Kett shot back, leaning forward conspiratorially. "That boy's been working here for months, and I've never seen him cause a lick of trouble. Does his job, keeps his head down. Bet you two coppers he's just hiding a bad scar or something. Wouldn't be the first soul around here tryin' to keep a bit of dignity."
Grag grunted but said no more, though his eyes lingered on the boy as he returned to the kitchen, his steps as silent as the shadows pooling in the corners of the room.
Behind the swinging door of the kitchen, the boy exhaled a soft breath, leaning against the wall. The muffled cacophony of the tavern buzzed beyond, but here it was quieter, the air thick with the comforting aroma of baked bread and simmering broth. He adjusted his scarf carefully, tugging it higher.
He reached for another tray, and suddenly a faint and otherworldly glow began to come from his right palm. The light pulsed, growing brighter by the beat. And then with no warning at all, a burning torture tore through his body like wildfire. The burning pain spread, taking him, his breath hitched, overwhelmed his whole body trembling, and he unconsciously opened his mouth to scream, but he quickly shut it close and bit his lip hard.
"Ha ha ha," his lip curled, and he forcefully made himself laugh while trying to remember any funny memory he had. Suppressing the pain that slowly became more powerful, he moved his trembling hand to his pocket and picked up a small white rectangular object and swallowed it in one move. Slowly the heat stopped spreading, and the pain began to weaken until finally it was completely gone after a few seconds, and he breathed a sigh of relief feeling it.
"Kal," came a warm voice from behind. It was Maria, the tavern's owner and surrogate mother to half the waifs in the village. She stood with a ladle in one hand and a soft smile on her face. "You're doing well, lad. Don't mind Grag. He's got more ale than sense tonight."
The boy named Kal nodded silently, his gloved hands tightening briefly into fists before relaxing. He moved to retrieve another tray, balancing it with precision.
Maria watched him for a moment, her eyes kind but clouded with concern. She never pressed him about the layers he wore, nor the way he flinched from a sudden touch, loud noise, or why sometimes he laughing for no reason. Kal was a good worker, and though he kept to himself, his presence had become a quiet comfort in the tavern's chaos.
As Kal stepped back into the common room, the conversations swirled around him once more.
"...three villages on the south burned already. The king won't admit it, but the border seem already on fire," someone muttered.
"It is because The Aionos? I heard its new emperor want to expand their land." Another person replying while wrinkled his forehead.
"Bah, it's probably just some bandits, there is no way a big nation like Aionos interested in a land near the aurora." another dismissed.
"Then what if its because there are incursions on the aurora?"
"Nah that is more imposibble," another person waved his hand, "after what happened on that war, there is absolutly no way the mages going to let even the smallest abomination tresspas the wall."
"Yeah." The others nod their head while thinking about the tragedy happened on the war fifty years ago.
Kal head tilted slightly at that, a flicker of interest in his otherwise stoic demeanor. But a customer called him and he continued serving, his presence barely a ripple in the tide of the tavern's energy. Time passed slowly while customers come and go until finally the sun finish his shift and replaced by the moon.