Full moon hung low above Thornskull Tavern, its silver light spilling across warped rooftops and glistening wet timbers, casting jagged shadows through drizzle-soaked air. Night clung to stillness, broken only by faint patter of rain against rattling windowpanes. Inside, Laura sprawled across lumpy bed, spiky red hair splayed like wildfire over pillow, bandana dangling from limp fingers. Staff leaned against wall, crystal dim but restless, ember-glow pulsing in time with slow breaths. Down hall, Figarland slept lighter, boots off but leathers still on, strange sword propped within arm's reach. Runes shimmered faintly, quiet hum threading through silence—like it waited.
Below, tavern's last embers crackled in hearth, casting long shadows as Lirra and pockmarked accomplice crept up creaking stairs. Bounty notice crinkled in man's grip, Figarland's sketched face glaring up from parchment. Three hundred gold promised fortune—enough to buy silence, loyalty, or fresh start. Lirra's scar twitched as she gestured to Room Three, dagger glinting in dim light. Man nodded, blade tapping silent rhythm against thigh. They weren't alone. Two more figures slipped from tavern's lower shadows—hulking brutes in patched armor, mercenaries who'd lingered under guise of drunken stupor. One carried notched axe, other coiled rope and shortsword. Trap was set.
Lirra reached Figarland's door first, scarred hand testing latch—unlocked, sloppy for rogue. Smirk curled her lips as she eased it open with whisper of hinges. Pockmarked man slid in behind, blade raised, while mercenaries took position outside Laura's room, heavy breaths fogging chill air. Plan was simple: slit thief's throat, then deal with loudmouth witch if she stirred. Quick, quiet, profitable.
Inside Room Three, Figarland's chest rose and fell, wild brown hair spilling across pillow. Sword at side pulsed brighter for instant, violet flicker catching Lirra's eye. She hesitated—then lunged, dagger arcing for neck. But Figarland was no fool. Icy blue eyes snapped open, and he rolled, blade sinking into mattress with dull thunk. He kicked out, catching Lirra's wrist and sending her staggering into wall. Pockmarked man cursed, slashing down, but Figarland grabbed sword—hilt alive with twisting runes—and parried, unearthly blade singing as it met steel.
Noise shattered night. Laura jolted awake, witch's senses buzzing as shouts and clash of metal echoed down hall. She snatched staff, crystal flaring to life, and kicked door open just as axe-wielding mercenary charged. "Oh, you picked wrong witch," she snarled, slamming staff into floor. Gust of wind erupted, hurling brute back into rope-toting partner. They crashed through railing, tumbling to tavern floor below in heap of splintered wood and curses.
Figarland burst from room, sword flashing as he drove Lirra and accomplice back. "Ambush!" he roared, voice cutting through chaos. "Move, fireball!"
Laura didn't need telling twice. She bolted down hall, red dress and yellow pants blurring, as more figures emerged—tavern stragglers shedding drunken act, blades and clubs in hand. Wiry man with scar across nose swung cudgel at head, but she ducked, staff swinging up to crack jaw with sickening crunch. Figarland fought like beast, sword a whirlwind of violet and gold, slicing through dagger and hand holding it in brutal stroke. Blood sprayed, air thrumming with alien pulse.
Stairs became bottleneck. Lirra rallied crew—six now, including battered pair from below—forming wall of steel and muscle. "He's worth gold!" she barked, scar livid in torchlight. "Witch too, if she's trouble!" Crossbowman notched bolt from bar, aiming for Figarland's back. Laura saw it first.
"Down!" she yelled, shoving Figarland aside. Bolt whizzed past, embedding in wall. She thrust staff forward, chanting fast and fierce. Crystal blazed, and fireball size of melon streaked out, slamming into crossbowman. He screamed as flames engulfed him, flailing into table that caught like dry tinder. Fire spread, licking up wooden beams, turning tavern into furnace.
"Time to go!" Figarland grabbed arm, dragging her toward back. Mercenaries charged through growing inferno, axes and swords gleaming. Laura spun, hurling wind blast that sent two crashing into bar, bottles shattering in spray of glass and liquor. Figarland kicked window open, frame splintering, and leapt out into muddy yard. Laura followed, landing hard, cloak snagging on jagged edge.
Inside, Lirra shrieked orders over roar of flames. "They're marked now! Every blade from here to Blackridge'll hunt them!" Fire raged, devouring walls and spitting embers like confetti into night sky. Laura glared back, spiky hair wild, sweat streaking face. She raised staff one last time, crystal flaring like dying sun, and drove it into earth. Massive fireball erupted, bigger than before, roaring sphere of chaos smashing into tavern's heart. Building exploded in storm of flame and debris—timbers flying, stone cracking, skull sign shattering into ash. Blast knocked Laura and Figarland back, heat searing skin as they scrambled to feet.
Wreckage blazed behind, pyre lighting muddy road. Lirra and crew were gone—buried, burned, or fleeing, it didn't matter. Figarland's chest heaved, sword still smoking. "Let 'em come," he growled, smirk breaking through soot-streaked face. "I've got more where that came from."
Laura wiped ash from eyes, twirling staff. "That's my confetti," she said, voice steady despite chaos. "But she's right—we're marked now. Every merc and bounty hunter'll want piece of us."
"Then we'd better move," Figarland replied, sheathing sword—its glow dimming but alive. "Road's long, and I've got feeling this partnership's about to get bloodier."
They turned from inferno, rain washing ash from shoulders as they vanished into night, faint pulse of Figarland's blade and crackle of Laura's magic trailing behind. Tavern lay in ruins, embers scattering like confetti over earth—warning to enemies, and promise of more to come.