The Mystic Tavern's doors swung open, and Lennox took his usual spot behind the bar, leaning against the polished counter as he waited for his first customer of the day.
It didn't take long.
As expected, the first familiar face appeared not ten minutes later.
A burly, one-eyed man stepped through the doorway, his worn leather coat swaying slightly as he walked with the easy confidence of a seasoned adventurer. His scarred face and grizzled demeanor would have been intimidating if not for the lopsided grin he always wore.
One-Eyed George.
One of the tavern's most loyal regulars—and a damn fine marksman.
As usual, he carried a heavy sack slung over one shoulder, its contents unknown but undoubtedly valuable, judging by the way it clinked faintly with each step. On his back, he bore his large recurve bow, the finely crafted wood polished from years of use, and a quiver bristling with arrows, their fletching ruffling slightly as he moved.
With a practiced motion, he set the sack down with a dull thud, then carefully propped his bow and quiver against the counter before settling onto one of the tall stools.
"Lennox, my boy!" George called out, rolling his shoulders. "Fine day for a drink, eh?"
Lennox smirked. "Isn't it always?"
George chuckled, then cast a glance toward Garrick, who was still seated on his mat, eyes closed, seemingly lost in his own world.
The old adventurer raised a brow. "He always do that?"
Lennox followed his gaze. "Every single day."
George let out a thoughtful hum before placing two gold coins on the counter.
"Four mugs of Emberbrew Ale," he ordered with a grin. "Hells, make it five. I've got time."
Lennox chuckled, shaking his head as he retrieved the drinks. He poured the faint crimson ale into the mugs, sliding them toward George one by one.
The grizzled adventurer lifted his first mug, took a slow, satisfied sip, and let out a deep sigh.
"Damn, I'll never get tired of this."
Lennox smirked, leaning casually against the counter. "Glad to hear it."
As the minutes passed, the tavern remained relatively quiet, but a few more regulars—four in total—eventually trickled in, taking up some of the seats.
First was Brom Hargrove, a burly blacksmith with arms like tree trunks and a permanent soot stain on his tunic. He grunted a greeting before slumping onto a stool, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease out the tension from a long day of hammering steel.
Not long after came Elias "Red" Calloway, a lean, sharp-eyed gambler with a shock of unruly red hair and a habit of flipping a coin between his fingers. He took his usual seat near the counter, flashing a lopsided grin at Lennox before setting two gold coins down for a round of Emberbrew Ale.
Then entered Greta Halloway, a no-nonsense herbalist with dark braided hair and a keen gaze that always seemed to weigh a person the moment she looked at them. She settled at a table by the wall, her fingers drumming against the wooden surface as if lost in thought.
Last to arrive was Derrin Locke, an older man with graying hair and the quiet air of someone who had spent his life wandering the roads of Valoria. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his words were always measured—like a storyteller who only revealed what was necessary.
Though the tavern was steadily growing, it had only been open for a month, and Lennox knew that the number of people who could actually afford its drinks was limited. For now, he was relying on a small but steady base of regulars, most of whom had either disposable income from adventuring or well-established trades.
Still, as he turned back to One-Eyed George, Lennox focused on the conversation at hand.
"So," he said casually, polishing a glass, "anything interesting happening in Greywater?"
George snorted. "When isn't something happening in this town?" He took another sip before leaning forward slightly. "But if you're asking about the biggest news lately… well, let's just say the Elite Town Guard has been busy."
Lennox raised a brow. "Oh?"
George nodded, lowering his voice just a fraction. "They finally cornered the Grim Fang Marauders up near the base slopes of the Ebonridge Mountains. Slaughtered most of the bastards."
Lennox whistled. "About time. From what I heard, those guys have been a problem for years."
The Grim Fang Marauders were a notorious bandit gang that had plagued Greywater and the surrounding areas for far too long. Ruthless, efficient, and damn near impossible to track down. The fact that the Town Guard had managed to deal with them was surprising.
But George's expression darkened slightly.
"That's the thing," he said. "They got most of the gang. But when they tried to corner their leaders, the bastards vanished into thin air."
Lennox frowned. "Vanished?"
George nodded grimly. "You know the Elite Town Guard isn't made up of pushovers, right? Thirty seasoned combatants—Peak Apprentice warriors, mages, archers, priests, and rogues. A well-balanced force."
Lennox knew that much. The Elite Town Guard was one of the strongest fighting forces in Greywater, directly under the mayor's command. They weren't weak.
And yet…
George let out a slow breath. "Even with all that strength, they couldn't corner two people."
Lennox's eyes narrowed. "Two?"
George nodded. "Their leaders. No one knows their real names, but rumors are flying that they're official Rank One powerhouses. Mages, warriors—who knows? All that's certain is that they were strong enough to disappear right in front of thirty elite fighters."
Lennox leaned forward slightly. A Rank One powerhouse…
That was an entirely different level of strength.
George took another sip of his ale before adding, "Rumor has it the mayor ain't taking chances. He's already sent word to Baron Aldric Ferrand, the Parish Chief of Blackthorne, asking for reinforcements."
Lennox exhaled slowly. Things were getting interesting.
A Rank One powerhouse.
That was a different level of strength entirely.
But despite the growing tension in Greywater, he wasn't particularly worried. The Mystic Tavern's Safe Haven feature ensured that no one—not a bandit, not a rogue mage, not even a Rank One warrior—could lift a finger against him or cause damage within the establishment.
And even if someone was foolish enough to try something against him outside the tavern premises, they'd have to deal with Garrick Kairos, a Peak Rank One warrior—a rarity even within Ravenmere County, where Blackthorne Parish and Greywater were located.
If trouble came knocking, it would be their problem, not his.
With that thought, Lennox relaxed, leaning casually against the counter as he continued his conversation with One-Eyed George. A few more customers trickled in, while others drifted out, the usual rhythm of the tavern unfolding as the evening deepened.
And then—just as dawn was approaching—the door swung open once more.
Lennox looked up, his brows furrowing slightly.
One-Eyed George also turned, his usual easygoing demeanor darkening.
A thin, elderly man shuffled into the tavern. His hunched back gave him a frail appearance, but the glint behind the round spectacles perched on his nose was anything but weak. There was calculation there—sharp and assessing, like a merchant always measuring the worth of his surroundings. His wispy gray hair stuck out in odd directions, as if caught in a perpetual gust of wind, and his bony fingers gripped a polished wooden cane—though he certainly didn't seem to need it for support.