The tavern smelled of cheap ale and burning wood, the air thick with drunken laughter. The wooden beams overhead groaned under the weight of too many bodies crammed into the dimly lit space. A minstrel plucked at a lute in the corner, his song barely cutting through the rowdy voices of men who had long since lost themselves to drink.
Erchid wiped down the counter, his movements slow and deliberate. To everyone in this city, he was just another nameless face behind the bar—a man of little consequence. He poured drinks, listened to the woes of weary men, and watched as they drowned their miseries in ale. But in the shadows, in the silent deaths that stained the moonlit streets, he was something else entirely.
Tonight, the air carried more than just the scent of stale beer. It carried fear.
"Did you hear?" a bearded man muttered over his mug, his breath thick with liquor. "The Minister of War—dead. Throat slit in his own bed."
Erchid kept his expression blank as he reached for a bottle of dark whiskey, pouring a drink for another patron without pause.
His companion, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, leaned in. "Aye, they say the guards found him drownin' in his own blood. His wife screamin' her lungs out."
The bearded man shook his head. "Who could get past all those guards?"
The scarred man lowered his voice, glancing around before answering, "They're sayin' it was him. The ghost in the night. Mystique."
A hush fell over the table. Even the drunkest among them shifted uneasily.
Erchid set down the bottle with a soft clink, his fingers briefly tightening around the glass before he resumed wiping the counter, his face unreadable.
The bearded man swallowed hard, his bravado slipping. "Well… here's to the bastard, then. May he stay far from my bed."
The others forced out nervous laughter, raising their mugs in a half-hearted toast.
Tonight, however, was different.
A girl sat at the far end of the bar, her cloak pulled low over her face. She hadn't ordered a drink, nor had she spoken to anyone. She simply sat there, hands folded neatly, watching. It was unusual for someone to linger in this place without a reason, and Erchid had spent too many years in the underbelly of the world to ignore an oddity.
He approached, leaning slightly against the bar. "Will you order something or are you waiting for someone?"
She lifted her head just enough for the dim candlelight to catch the edge of her jawline. Young, but not naive. Her eyes were sharp beneath the hood, yet her lips were pressed together in something resembling hesitation.
"Why do people kneel before the king?"
Erchid blinked he was surprised more like her reply caught him off guard . Of all the things he had expected, this wasn't it.
He smirked, reaching for a bottle of ale and pouring himself a drink. "Because they fear him."
She tilted her head, considering his answer. "Shouldn't they love him?"
Erchid let out a low chuckle, the sound foreign even to himself. "Fear lasts longer."
The girl was quiet for a moment, then rested her chin against her palm. "Wouldn't fear of the king lead to hatred and resentment?"
He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying her. She wasn't slurring her words like the rest of the patrons, wasn't here to drink or find company. She was here to talk—to question things that people rarely dared to question.
"You talk like someone who's never been afraid," he said, his voice dropping slightly.
She smiled, just barely. "Maybe I haven't."
He scoffed. "Then you've been lucky."
"Or maybe I've just never had a reason to fear," she countered. "But if a king must rule by fear, doesn't that mean he's already lost?"
Erchid swirled his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the flickering candlelight. "Maybe. But power doesn't care about being loved. It only cares about existing."
She watched him carefully, her gaze unwavering. "And you? Do you fear power?"
Something in her voice made his grip tighten around the glass. A test. That's what this was. A stranger in a tavern, asking dangerous questions. The kind that could get someone killed.
"I fear nothing," he said simply.
"Nothing at all?"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Only fools say they fear nothing."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Then what do you fear?"
Erchid stared at her, debating whether to answer at all. But before he could speak, the doors to the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of cold night air and two armored guards. Their presence sent a ripple through the drunken patrons—men who had learned to be wary of those in uniform.
Erchid's gaze flicked back to the girl, but she was already standing.
"Meet me," she said quietly, her voice barely carrying over the noise. "Outside the city at the outskirts of the haunted house. Third night after the cock crows."
Then she turned and walked away, slipping past the guards like a ghost, leaving nothing but questions in her wake.
Erchid watched her go, his fingers still curled around his glass.
Whoever she was, she was no ordinary girl. And for the first time in a long, long time, something within him stirred.
Curiosity.
He questioned himself if this was a trap by his enemies to lure him but after thinking he concluded it wasn't since they never knew who he really was .
Instead, he found himself counting the days.