The dim lantern light flickered against the cracked wooden walls of The Hollow Flask, the small tavern nestled within the outskirts of Astria's royal capital. The air was heavy with the scent of stale ale and burning tobacco, and the hum of drunken conversations filled the room. At a secluded corner, three figures sat, their cloaks bearing the insignias of Astria's elite squads.
Bran leaned back in his chair, his expression unusually subdued, a half-empty tankard dangling from his fingers. Across from him sat The Premiere, his scarred face softened with the faintest grin as he traced the rim of his own drink. Beside them, Commander Halden, ever composed, sat upright, his piercing blue eyes quietly observing the room.
"You know," Bran began, his voice low but tinged with amusement, "you'd think after all these years, Halden would've learned how to relax."
Halden raised an eyebrow, his tone calm but edged with dry humor. "And you'd think after all these years, Bran, you'd have learned how to stay sober."
The Premiere laughed, his deep voice cutting through the din of the tavern. "Now, now, Halden. Let the man enjoy himself. We don't get many nights like this."
Bran smirked but said nothing, taking a long swig from his tankard. For a while, the three men exchanged stories, their banter light-hearted, but beneath the surface, a lingering tension coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
As the night wore on, the laughter faded, replaced by a heavy silence. Bran stared into his drink, his fingers tightening around the tankard. The Premiere leaned forward, his voice soft but curious. "You're quieter than usual tonight, Bran. Something on your mind?"
Bran didn't answer immediately. His jaw clenched, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing something far beyond the confines of the tavern. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy, like the weight of a thousand battles pressing down on him. "Do you ever think about the people we couldn't save?"
The Premiere's grin faltered, and Halden's eyes darkened.
"You mean... Elara," the Premiere said quietly.
Bran exhaled sharply, his grip on the tankard tightening until his knuckles turned white. "She didn't just die," he muttered, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "She was taken from me. And I couldn't stop it."
The once-thriving town of Bridgemore burned in the dying light of the sun, its streets choked with ash and smoke. Bodies littered the ground, their lifeless forms twisted in agony, while the screams of the living echoed through the chaos.
Bran sprinted through the wreckage, his twin blades slick with blood. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his mind consumed with one thought: Elara.
"Bran!" her voice rang out, piercing through the cacophony.
He turned, his heart lurching at the sight of her. Elara, her crimson hair tangled and streaked with soot, stood near the crumbling remains of their home. Her orange eyes, usually so full of life, now burned with desperation.
But she wasn't alone.
Towering over her was a figure cloaked in golden light—a demigod, one of the Pantheon's chosen. His build was monstrous, his body rippling with unearthly power. His presence radiated a suffocating heat, and his expression was one of pure, ruthless disdain.
"You call this a warrior?" the demigod sneered, his deep voice dripping with cruelty. He turned his gaze to Bran, who was charging toward them, his spear ready. "This is what your kind has to offer? Pathetic."
Before Bran could close the distance, the demigod moved. His hand shot forward with blinding speed, grabbing Elara by the throat and lifting her off the ground. She gasped, her hands clawing at his grip, but it was futile.
"No!" Bran roared, his voice cracking as he pushed himself harder, faster.
The demigod didn't even flinch. His golden eyes bore into Bran as he tightened his grip on Elara's neck. "Watch closely, mortal," he said coldly. "This is the price of weakness."
And then, with a sickening crack, he broke her neck.
Bran's scream tore through the battlefield, raw and filled with anguish as Elara's lifeless body crumpled to the ground. He fell to his knees beside her, his shaking hands cradling her broken form.
"Elara," he whispered, his voice trembling.
Her eyes fluttered open, the light within them fading fast. She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "Bran," she murmured, her voice weak but laced with love. "I'm... sorry. I wanted... to see the gardens again. The ones... you promised."
Tears streamed down Bran's face as he held her closer, his entire body trembling. "You will," he choked out. "I swear, you will."
She smiled faintly, her hand falling limp. "I... love you."
Her final breath escaped her lips, and with it, Bran's entire world shattered.
The demigod watched from above, his expression void of pity. "Pathetic," he said again, before vanishing into the chaos, leaving Bran alone amidst the carnage.
Bran stared into his drink, the memory playing on an endless loop in his mind. His shoulders shook, and for the first time in years, a tear slid down his cheek.
Halden, ever stoic, placed a hand on Bran's shoulder. His voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that wasn't usually there. "She wouldn't want you to carry this alone."
Bran let out a bitter laugh, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "It's all I have left of her."
The Premiere, uncharacteristically quiet, raised his tankard. "To Elara," he said softly. "And to everyone we've lost."
Halden nodded, lifting his drink. "To them."
Bran hesitated, his gaze fixed on the liquid swirling in his tankard. Then, with a shaky breath, he raised it as well. "To them."
Their glasses clinked together, the sound hollow in the heavy silence.
As the night deepened, the three men sat together, their laughter gone, replaced by the quiet weight of memories. And though the world outside continued to burn, for this brief moment, they allowed themselves to grieve.
When Bran finally stepped outside into the cold night, the wind bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. He stared up at the starless sky, his lips moving silently.
"I'll make them pay," he whispered, his voice carrying a promise as unyielding as steel. "I'll make them all pay."