The tavern buzzed with laughter and clinking mugs, but for Alex, Nicolas, and Emily, the wait for a table had been excruciating. When they finally sat, they found themselves crammed into a tight space. So much for a relaxing evening of drinks and merriment.
At the next table sat the Mountain Killers party, renowned for their swift and ruthless efficiency. Nicolas, already deep into his cups, was never one to avoid attention. His gaze lingered on the group before he suddenly raised his voice.
"Hey, where's the Zronan Killer?"
The atmosphere at the neighboring table shifted. A few adventurers exchanged glances before a broad-shouldered man in armor finally responded, his voice deep and deliberate.
"The Zronan Killer is resting. He was seriously wounded in the arena."
Nicolas squinted at the man. "And who are you? Another one of the Mountain Killers?"
The warrior set down his tankard with a quiet thud. His golden hair framed a face marked by experience, a neatly trimmed beard adding to his imposing presence. His armor, though sturdy, bore signs of recent battle.
"I am Sir Alric Valthorne. And yes, I ride with the Mountain Killers."
His sheer presence dominated the table. Across from him, a lone figure sat in silence—Annie The Esper.
Nicolas, regaining a semblance of sobriety, straightened up and bowed slightly toward her. "May I sit beside you?"
Annie, ever the silent enigma, barely acknowledged the request. Instead, she cast a fleeting glance at Alric, who answered for her. "You may."
She shifted slightly, making room as Nicolas eased into the seat. Emily and Alex exchanged wary glances but said nothing.
Nicolas hesitated, then spoke. "So, your leader is in bad shape."
Alric exhaled heavily. "The Zronan Killer means a great deal to us. As you said, he was our leader. But he will return in time. Until then, Annie and I handle most of the work."
Emily seized the moment. "Is there any work available? We're training to be knights. If there's an opportunity, we'd love to join you."
Alric arched an eyebrow. "A bold request. You seek employment over drinks?"
Alex jumped in. "Your reputation precedes you. If there's room in your ranks, we'd like to prove ourselves."
Nicolas was surprised by his friends' sudden ambition but found himself warming to the idea. Annie, sipping her drink, seemed indifferent, though a subtle tension in her posture hinted at impatience.
Alric considered them, then smiled faintly. "If you're serious—and if you have the skill—we might arrange something. But it won't be easy."
Before anyone could respond, the tavern doors swung open with a loud bang. A hush fell over the room as a tall figure stepped inside, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders. His sharp gaze immediately locked onto the Mountain Killers' table.
The silence was brief. Conversations resumed, laughter and clinking mugs filling the air once more. Yet, at one table, all attention remained on the stranger.
Alric slowly set his drink down, his gaze locked onto the man. Annie, too, looked up—her expression unreadable. The figure moved with eerie grace, weaving through the crowd until he stood before them.
The flickering lanterns cast deep shadows across his face, obscuring his features. His voice, when he spoke, was like a blade slicing through the noise.
"Sir Alric Valthorne. Annie The Esper. At last, I've found you. But I see you're missing your most important man."
Alric's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The man reached for his cloak, pulling it back slightly to reveal an aged yet well-maintained suit of armor. Upon his chest gleamed an emblem—a nearly forgotten sigil. The mark of The Dark Council.
A wave of tension rippled through the table. The Dark Council, a clandestine order of mages and assassins, was known only in hushed whispers. Their work was the stuff of nightmares.
Very few people knew the Dark Council emblem. Only people who had done something underground knew about it.
The glass in Annie's hand trembled slightly. Her cold, calculating eyes studied him, searching his face for something familiar. Then, a single word escaped her lips.
"Ronan."
Alex, Emily, and Nicolas exchanged uneasy glances.
Ronan's lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "So, you do remember me, Annie. I had wondered. But let's not waste time on nostalgia. The Dark Council has an offer for you."
Alric stood, his hand drifting to his sword hilt. "What offer? Speak."
The tavern quieted once more. The bartender shot a warning glare. "Hey! No swordplay here. You know the rules."
Ronan, without even turning, raised a gloved hand in a casual gesture. "No need for concern. He was merely showing me his blade."
The tension dissolved as the other patrons resumed their revelry. Ronan took a slow step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No need for hostility. Let's have a drink first. After all, it's been too long since I've seen old friends."