The Crimson Vow gathered outside the inn, the sun bleeding a rare warmth over the city's battered streets. For once, no one spoke of blood or battle. The air, for all its tension, felt thinner — as though the city itself allowed them this one day.
"We made a fortune," Kieran grinned, holding up a small ledger as though it were some holy relic. "I say we enjoy it before fate remembers we exist."
Velis stretched with a yawn so unapologetically rude it made a passing noble woman scoff. Lyra's glare was immediate.
"And you," Lyra snapped, cornering the silver-eyed menace, "are getting a lecture."
"On what? How to bow prettier?" Velis grinned.
"On not insulting crown princes in their own damn court, you impudent brat."
Velis made a show of looking to Kieran for rescue. The rogue only raised both hands in surrender.
"Vel, you're on your own. No heroics today."
"Traitor!" Velis hissed, clapping a hand over her heart as though mortally wounded. "Et tu, Kieran?"
The others laughed — even Leon, though the sound still carried a brittle edge. Darius gave a half-grin, motioning for them to move.
They took to the streets.
And for once… the people cheered them.
Bakers offered bread still warm from the oven. A cobbler begged Leon to take a pair of handmade boots, "For the boy who broke the demon." Children threw flowers, though many were too bruised for their color to matter.
The tavern, when they reached it, was alive with light and sound. Tables filled with plates of roasted game, fruits, and cheap wine. The scent of woodsmoke and spice lingered in the air, and for one evening — one stolen night — the Crimson Vow became legends made flesh.
Outside, the city bore its wounds in silence. Inside, the Crimson Vow drowned theirs in drink and rare laughter.
Darius raised a mug, foam spilling over the rim as he downed it in one long, practiced pull. Gaius matched him, and Selene was not far behind. Even Iris, usually too proper for such scenes, had a glass of spiced wine in hand, her cheeks carrying the faintest flush.
"Come on, Leon," Darius called, voice thick with amusement. "You've earned it. Slayer of demons, breaker of beasts — you can't toast with water."
Leon waved them off with a sheepish grin, his fingers toying with the rim of his untouched glass.
"I'm underage," he muttered.
A beat of silence passed — and then, realization.
Selene leaned forward, one brow raised. "Wait… how old are you, Hero?"
Leon rubbed the back of his neck. "Eighteen."
The words hung in the air like a thrown blade.
Velis didn't react, simply cradling a cup of milk with the air of a smug cat. Sylva sat nearby, her face unreadable as ever, but her eyes lingered on Leon's face as though weighing something unspoken.
The others exchanged glances. Then Darius started to laugh. A deep, rough sound like gravel underfoot.
"You serious?" Gaius grinned. "Damn, kid — you don't even look it."
Iris shook her head, her expression caught between pity and fondness. "In this world, we're adults at sixteen."
Leon blinked. "…You what?"
Selene raised her mug. "Welcome to the grown-ups' table."
The table erupted in half-drunken cheers and a mug was shoved into Leon's hand before he could protest. He opened his mouth to argue — but then, across the crowded tavern, every eye was on him. Even the rough-faced mercenaries and farmers were grinning his way.
A man learns when to fight and when to surrender.
Leon chuckled dryly.
He raised the mug.
"To survival," he muttered.
And downed it.
The tavern roared approval.
The drink hit like fire, raw and biting, and he coughed hard enough that Velis leaned over and patted his back with exaggerated sympathy.
"You drink like a noble's daughter," she teased.
"And you look like one," Leon shot back hoarsely, earning a chorus of laughter.
The night blurred after that — a rare and reckless warmth bleeding through the cracks of old grief. The taste of danger still clung to the air like storm scent before a downpour, but for a while… they were only people. Mortal, scarred, stubbornly alive.
And somewhere in that firelit haze, Leon almost forgot the weight of the sword at his side.
* * * * *
The tavern was alive with noise — tankards clashing, voices booming, the flicker of lanterns casting long shadows on stone walls. The Ember Hearth was packed tonight, the air thick with the scent of ale, smoke, and sweat.
Velis slipped away from Lyra, who was halfway to drunk and lecturing a poor barmaid about the virtues of quality daggers. Kieran noticed the slip of a girl weaving through the crowd and grinned.
"Oi, kid," he called, raising a brow. "Come on. Let's stir the pot."
Velis's silver eyes glinted like coins under the tavern's low light. "You're buying the first round when I bankrupt these degenerates."
Kieran laughed, clapping a hand to her head. "Damn right I am."
They made a scene of it, striding toward the gaming tables like wolves through a flock of half-asleep sheep. Conversations dulled, eyes flicked their way. Kieran hopped onto a stool at the biggest table — already crowded with adventurers. Gold and silver coins gleamed in small piles. Dice rattled. Cards shuffled.
"Look who the hell thinks they're important," grumbled one scarred man, a longsword strapped to his back.
Velis grinned wide. "Important? No. Better? Definitely."
A round of laughter, edged with irritation.
"Careful, brat," someone growled. "This table eats cocky pups alive."
Kieran leaned in, stacking a pile of crowns. **"We'll see about that."
They started with poker. Kieran took the first seat. Velis stood behind, watching with that unreadable, faintly amused gaze of hers.
First hand — Kieran lost. Laughter erupted around the table.
Second hand — another loss.
The jeers came sharper this time.
"Guess that mouth's all you've got, pretty boy."
Kieran shrugged, unfazed, and slid a bigger stack of coins forward. "Relax. That was just foreplay."
The third round began, and Velis finally took a seat. The adventurers exchanged glances, then outright chuckles.
"You lettin' a kid play for you?"
"Better chance with a drunk stray."
Kieran didn't respond. Velis tilted her head, a mock-innocent look in her silver gaze.
She won the first hand.
Kieran barked a laugh. The others scowled.
Second hand — another win.
By the fifth, the table was dead silent.
By the tenth, Velis was openly mocking them.
"Didn't anyone teach you boys how to count cards? Or do numbers get difficult after you lose all your teeth?"
Kieran cackled, pounding the table. "Gods, you lot are embarrassing yourselves. Hope you've got the coin for the lesson!"
A burly mercenary with a broken nose slammed his cards down.
"You're cheatin'."
"I'm winning," Velis replied sweetly, resting her chin on her palm. "There's a difference."
More muttering, sour faces. The bartender was called to deal the cards for fairness.
New game — blackjack.
Kieran took point, and to everyone's growing frustration, he cleaned house. Round after round.
Velis leaned against the table, fanning herself with a stolen playing card. "And they said Cindralis had the best gamblers. I'm starting to think we're in the wrong kingdom for sport."
"You've got a death wish, kid," spat one adventurer.
"If I do, it's not one you can fulfill," Velis chirped.
It was then the heavy oaken door swung open. A hush spread across the tavern like frost.
A group of figures entered, cloaked but unmistakably lethal. Sharp eyes, sharper smiles. Their leader, a tall, dark-haired woman with a scar down one cheek, spoke.
"Word is there's a big-mouthed runt and a loud-mouthed bastard bleeding this city dry."
Kieran smiled slow.
Velis's silver eyes gleamed. "Took you long enough."
The woman smirked and took a seat.
"Let's see if those tongues are as sharp as they sound."
Coins clinked. Cards shuffled. Tension thick as storm air.
Velis and Kieran exchanged a look, that reckless, irredeemable grin mirrored between them.
"Game on," Kieran murmured.
Velis's fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the table.
Somewhere deep inside, she wondered how many more wolves this city could throw at her before she got bored.
She hoped the answer was a lot.
* * * * *
The tavern's air had shifted. Gone was the raucous clatter of tankards and roaring laughter. In its place lingered a dense, unspoken challenge that thickened the smoky haze. The gamblers' corner became the eye of a storm, its very walls seeming to lean in, eager witnesses to the inevitable wreck.
Velis sat with one boot perched on her chair's crossbeam, silver eyes gleaming beneath the flicker of lanternlight. Kieran stood behind her, arms folded, leaning casually against a post as though he hadn't a care in the world.
The table's new occupants wore expressions carved from stone. Six of them — sharp-eyed men and women, hardened by streets and battle, their leathers scuffed but their rings gleaming. Names were exchanged, but no one listened. Names were for tombstones.
"We hear you two got mouths bigger than your hands," one of them — a wiry woman with a scar beneath her left eye — said, dealing cards with a flick of the wrist. "Hope your luck's thick enough to keep up."
Kieran smirked. "Sweetheart, our luck's so thick it needs a blade to cut through it."
Velis grinned wide, the kind of grin that made grown men rethink life choices. "And if not," she added, "I'll carve open your purse strings and your pride in the same cut."
The gathered adventurers chuckled, but it was humor forged in rivalry's fire — the kind that could turn to bloodshed in an eyeblink.
The woman tossed down a card, pinning it to the table with a dagger.
"Gold's fine," she said. "But we're short on patience. Raise the stakes. A wager of blood."
Silence dropped like a hammer. Even the barkeep stilled, wiping down a glass that didn't need cleaning.
Kieran raised a brow. "Explain."
"Winner gets a favor," another man — broad-shouldered, with pale eyes like storm-lit glass — said. "Anything. No questions asked, called in when the time's right. No refusals."
A darkly amused glint sparked in Velis's gaze. She tilted her head toward Kieran. "You hear that? They want to owe us their lives. Or maybe the other way around."
Kieran whistled low. "Knew it'd be a good night."
They exchanged a glance. No words. The decision had already been made.
Velis leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Deal the cards."
The first hand hit the wood with a slap.
Velis and Kieran played like they were born at a gaming table. Every smirk, every twitch of a finger, was baited wire. They read the room like wolves smelling blood. Every bluff called. Every flicker of nervousness exploited.
Kieran baited them with reckless bets, pretending to sweat losses. Velis reeled them in with the same innocent look a serpent might wear before it strikes.
And the gamblers were good — no amateurs at this table. But it wasn't enough.
One by one, their confidence cracked. The woman with the scar cursed under her breath when Velis called her on a bluff. The big man's face reddened when Kieran wiped the board clean with a single, impossible hand.
By the sixth round, the crowd had gathered close, drinks abandoned, breath held.
Velis dropped her final hand like a hammer.
"Full house," she purred, silver eyes gleaming. "That makes ten to two. Game's ours."
A heavy, beat-long silence.
Then the woman spoke, voice a dry scrape. "What's your call?"
Velis leaned back in her chair, fingers lacing behind her head. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "We'll cash it in when the blood runs thickest and the city walls burn. Until then… keep your throats clean."
Kieran laughed. A low, pleased thing. "Told you lot we were just getting started."
They left the table to a chorus of muttered curses and wary, grudging respect. Velis scooped a few coins for show, but it wasn't about the money.
It was about names remembered. Debts owed. And a table full of enemies too proud to admit they'd been outplayed by a silver-eyed child and a laughing scoundrel.
As they walked back toward the others, Kieran nudged Velis.
"You do realize we just signed ourselves up for a dozen murder attempts, right?"
Velis's grin could have cut glass. "Good. I was getting bored."
* * * * *
The tavern roared with life. Laughter crashed against the walls like waves against rock. Dice clattered, cards flipped, and voices rose in a chorus of crude songs and half-drunk boasts. Somewhere across the room, Velis was taunting some poor bastard twice her size, while Kieran kept score with that crooked grin of his. The others were scattered about — Iris nursing watered wine, Selene quietly charming a crowd of eager mages, Leon half-bewildered by the strange, rowdy celebration.
And Darius?
He sat alone at the bar, a battered mug of dark ale in his calloused hand. The stuff burned like liquid fire down his throat, the kind of drink meant to numb rather than please. He liked it that way. Less taste, more memory.
Another swallow. Another moment lost.
The weight of his armor was gone, left back in whatever room the city had seen fit to stuff them in. But the weight in his chest — that never left. It clung to him like old bloodstains. Faded, but never forgotten.
His fingers traced the rim of the mug, the rough edge catching on a scar across his knuckles. There were too many to count. Too many nights like this, in places just like this. Dravengard's taverns were louder, meaner. The air always thick with woodsmoke, sweat, and iron.
He remembered one in particular.
A night where the laughter sounded just like this. Where a man named Rovan lost a bet and had to sing an old soldier's song atop a table. Where Captain Vaedric promised they'd see the end of the war before their hair grayed. Where blood ran thicker than ale, and brothers-in-arms meant something.
Now Rovan was buried beneath a cairn of unmarked stone. Vaedric's bones scattered somewhere along the Frostwind border. And the war? Still burning, a ceaseless, gnawing beast with no stomach for peace.
Darius downed the rest of his drink in a single pull, slamming the empty mug on the counter with a dull thud. The tavern didn't notice. Why would it? Wars came and went. Kings rose and fell. But places like this stayed the same — their walls stained with stories no one wanted to tell.
He considered leaving. But his legs felt leaden, weighed down by ghosts.
It wasn't cowardice. It wasn't grief.
It was memory. Heavy, stubborn, and cruel.
"Another," he grunted to the barkeep.
The man obliged without a word. Darius lifted the fresh mug but didn't drink. His reflection stared back from the dark surface — older than he remembered. Eyes like cracked ice. A face carved by loss.
He thought of the Crimson Vow. Of Leon, too green and too kind. Of Velis, all sharp teeth and secrets. Of Lyra, watching everything like a hawk waiting for weakness. Of Sylva, whose quiet pain mirrored too much of his own.
He wondered how many of them would make it.
How many names he'd carry when this was done.
And whether there'd be anyone left to remember his.
The fire crackled. Somewhere, dice rolled. Velis's voice, bright and cruel, cut through the haze, and Darius let a crooked, humorless smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
One more night.
He raised his drink in a silent toast to old ghosts.
And drank deep.