As the sun set over Greywater, the town began to stir with its unique brand of nightlife.
The streets, dusty and unassuming during the day, now pulsed with life. Lanterns flickered outside taverns, brothels, and gambling dens, their warm glow beckoning adventurers seeking to unwind after perilous hunts.
For those living on the edge—hunting magical beasts in the wilderness or scaling the cliffs of the Ebonridge Mountains—these establishments offered a fleeting escape from danger.
Roland Darnel led his group down one of the quieter streets, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. The faint scrape of boots on stone, the distant hum of a lute—it was the kind of atmosphere adventurers craved after a long day on the edge. And what a day it had been.
The Gloomclaw Panther they'd hunted hadn't gone down easily, even with its injuries. The beast's shadowy camouflage and razor-sharp claws had tested them to their limits. But they had prevailed, and selling its valuable hide, claws, and other parts had netted them 90 gold coins—an amount worth celebrating.
"First time in Greywater," Roland muttered, glancing at the signs above the clustered taverns. "Not the best town I've seen."
"Could be worse," Lyra Veyl said, spinning one of her daggers idly between her fingers. Her green eyes darted about, ever alert, though a smirk tugged at her lips.
Behind them, Torric Wainwright let out a booming laugh. "Could also be a lot cleaner! Nearly tripped over a beggar two streets back."
"You shouldn't laugh," Elara Thorne, their healer, said softly. Her voice carried its usual calm, though her grip on her staff was firm. "Not everyone's as lucky as we are."
Kael Orin, walking at the rear, remained silent, his quill scratching against his leather-bound journal. Every so often, he paused to scribble something before catching up.
They continued moving until Roland slowed when a polished wooden sign caught his eye. A stylized depiction of a swirling wisp was carved into the wood, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Unlike the other establishments, which burst with noise and crowds, this tavern was quiet, almost serene.
"This one?" Roland asked, jerking his chin toward it.
Lyra tilted her head, eyeing the tavern. "Looks quiet. Too quiet."
"Quiet means no crowd and the drinks aren't watered down," Torric said with a grin. "No crowd means more for us."
"Quiet also means no regulars. That's not a good sign," Elara countered with a frown.
Roland didn't answer immediately. He stared at the sign, something about the place nagging at him. "Why not go inside and see what it's about?"
The group exchanged hesitant glances, but when no one objected, Roland pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Warm light washed over him, and the first thing he noticed was how clean everything was. Polished wooden floors gleamed under golden lamplight, and the tables and chairs were arranged with great care.
The faint scent of citrus and spices lingered in the air, subtle but enticing. Behind the bar, rows of bottles sparkled like gemstones, their contents catching the light in ways that spoke of quality far beyond what Roland had expected.
"This place…" he murmured, trailing off.
Lyra whistled low, her green eyes scanning the room. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
Torric grinned, pulling out a chair and flopping into it. "And the chairs don't creak when I sit! That's a first."
Elara, ever cautious, looked around with narrowed eyes. "It's strange, though. A place like this, and no patrons?"
Kael tilted his head, his gaze fixed on the shelves behind the bar. "The stock's unusual. The way it's arranged—it's deliberate. There's something more to it."
"Here we go," Lyra muttered, rolling her eyes. "Not everything is a puzzle, Kael."
In the meantime, Roland's sharp gaze shifted toward the man standing near the bar. The warrior was immense, nearly seven feet tall, with rugged features and a piercing gaze that seemed to see through them. His massive frame practically radiated boundless strength, and though he stood perfectly still, there was an air of coiled power about him, like a predator ready to strike.
"Don't stare," Roland muttered under his breath as he noticed Lyra studying the man.
Lyra leaned closer. "That guy's no apprentice. You feel that energy? He's an awakened chi-warrior."
Elara leaned toward Roland, her voice low. "What's someone like him doing here?"
"Just don't make him mad," Roland said evenly, nudging her toward the corner. "Let's not end the night with broken bones."
The group moved toward a corner table, their gazes flicking between the warrior and the figure behind the bar.
If the warrior radiated power, the young man behind the counter couldn't have been more different. He looked barely seventeen, with sharp cheekbones and a straight nose that gave his youthful face an air of unexpected sharpness. His clear brown eyes darted toward their group, their cautious flicker suggesting someone who noticed more than he let on. His chestnut hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd just woken up, lending him a boyish appearance that softened his otherwise serious demeanor.
Though the young man's build was lean, Roland's practiced eye noted the wiry strength in his frame—the kind that spoke of agility rather than raw power, like a bowstring drawn taut and ready to snap into action.
"The kid looks like he should be mucking stalls, not running a tavern," Torric muttered.
"Or he's smarter than he looks," Kael said softly, his attention never wavering from the young man.
As they settled in, the boy approached their table with steady steps, his expression neutral. "Welcome to the Mystic Tavern," he said evenly. "What can I get for you?"
Roland exchanged glances with his companions. "We're new in town. Got any recommendations?"
"I'd suggest the Emberbrew Ale," the boy replied evenly. "It's one of our finest offerings, priced at 50 silver coins per mug."
There was a beat of silence as the group processed the words.
"Fifty silver?" Lyra blurted, her voice sharp with disbelief. "For a mug of ale?"
Torric leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up. "No wonder this place is dead."
Elara frowned. "That's… outrageous."
"Let's just go," Lyra said, crossing her arms. "There are other taverns."
Roland weighed their options, but before he could speak, Kael's quiet voice cut through the tension. "We're already here. Let's try it. One round. If it's not worth it, we leave."
Roland sighed, glancing at Lyra. "He's got a point. Just one round."
After a moment, Lyra relented with a shrug. "Fine. One round."
The boy took their payment—a hefty 2 gold coins and 50 silver—before disappearing behind the bar. Moments later, he returned with five mugs of ale. The faint aroma of spice and citrus wafted from the amber liquid, subtle but enticing.
Roland hesitated before taking a sip, lifting the mug slowly to his lips. The first sensation was the texture—smooth and velvety, as if crafted from ingredients not of this world. Then came the spice, sharp yet perfectly harmonized, leaving a subtle tingle that danced across his tongue. As he swallowed, a rich warmth radiated through his chest, spreading to his fingertips. The lingering fatigue from the battle with the Gloomclaw Panther seemed to dissipate, and even the dull ache from an old wrist injury ebbed away, leaving him feeling rejuvenated.
To the left, Torric set his mug down with a loud thud, his eyes wide. "This… this is incredible!"
Lyra, usually quick with a quip, was silent, her green eyes wide as she took another sip. Kael closed his eyes, as if committing the flavor to memory, while Elara murmured softly, "I've never tasted anything like this."
The table then fell silent as they savored their drinks. For a moment, the noise of Greywater faded away, leaving only the warmth of the Emberbrew Ale.
Eventually, Torric was the first to finish his mug of ale. He slammed his mug down, a grin splitting his face. "Another round!"
Roland chuckled, the earlier skepticism forgotten. "Yeah. Another round."
The young man at the bar nodded faintly, moving to prepare their drinks, his expression calm. Perhaps the Mystic Tavern wasn't what it seemed—but for now, Roland wasn't complaining.
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