Stormfront returned to the capital city of Ceiala with their next destination set: Pyru''s Tavern—a place where victories were celebrated with roaring laughter and failures drowned in ale.


    Tonight, they celebrated.


    The tavern was alive with the boisterous antics of off-duty soldiers. Wooden tables groaned under the weight of hearty meals and overflowing mugs, while the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sharp tang of spilled ale. In one corner, a lone musician played a lively tune, though his music was mostly drowned out by the rowdy voices of warriors swapping exaggerated tales of battle.


    For the Seraphim''s troops, Pyru’s had become a sanctuary. In this second home, worries, sorrows, and the horrors of past battles were numbed by the taste of alcohol and the warmth of camaraderie. Here, they could find a temporary escape—even if only for a night.


    Stormfront was no different.


    Just an hour in, Jermaine had already consumed enough ale to be the loudest person in the room. His laughter boomed as he slammed his fist onto the table, causing the mugs to rattle and drawing cheers from those around him.


    "Who’s next?" he bellowed, wiping foam from his beard. "Come on! Who’s brave enough to take on the Thunder God tonight?"


    Across from him, Elijah had his face buried in his hands. "Unc, please... not again."


    But Jermaine was far too deep into his mug to care. He shot to his feet, his hulking form towering over the table. "You should be proud, nephew! Your uncle’s the mightiest man in the Realm!" He flexed a muscled arm for emphasis, earning a few more laughs and cheers.


    Elijah peeked out from behind his hands. "Right, right. The mighty Thunder God. Don''t you think it’s time to stop before you embarrass us both?"


    Jermaine laughed even harder as he drained the last of his mug and slammed it down. "I’ll stop when someone actually beats me! Come on! Who''s next?"


    After several more brave yet unfortunate souls were swiftly defeated, Jermaine leaned back in his chair.  A smug grin lined his face. "Is that it? Is no one else foolish enough to—"


    The word froze on his lips as the room went silent.


    All eyes shifted to the table. Soldiers and patrons alike looked on with bated breath and wide eyes as Leon quietly slid into the chair across from Jermaine. He rested his elbow on the table with a calm smile. Though there was a faint glossiness in his eyes, he remained as composed as ever.


    "Mind if I give it a try?"


    A booming laugh erupted from Jermaine''s chest. "You? Leon, I didn’t think you had it in you!"


    Elijah looked up from his drink. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "You''re in for it now, Unc."


    Jermaine shot him a sidelong glance. "Huh? You think I can’t take him?"


    Elijah raised his hands in mock surrender. "I’m just saying... Leon is no pushover."


    Jermaine’s grin stretched wider as he locked his hand around Leon’s. His grip was firm, but Leon didn’t flinch. Instead, he met it with a calm, steady squeeze.


    For a brief moment, neither moved. Their muscles tensed as they silently fought to dominate the other. Leon''s knuckles turned white from the pressure, yet his glossy eyes did not betray the burning strain in his arm.


    “Still... I’ll only use a quarter of my strength—no, a tenth—to keep it fair,” Jermaine teased.


    Leon chuckled and leaned in. "Are you sure, Thunder God? I wouldn’t want you pulling a muscle."


    "You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, don’t you? Alright, then. Show me what you’ve got!"


    The crowd of soldiers and onlookers buzzed with excitement. They jostled for a better view of the impending clash. Gold and silver coins clinked, and piles of crystals glistened on nearby tables as bets were placed. The tavern hummed with chatter—some rooting for Leon’s surprising courage, others laughing, confident that Jermaine would win as always. At the center of it all, sat Elijah, the reluctant referee.


    <hr>


    In a quiet corner of the tavern, away from the rowdy cheers and clinking mugs, Nia swayed effortlessly to the rhythm of the music. The soft glow of the crystal lamps bathed her golden-brown skin in warm hues, highlighting each graceful movement as she spun in time with the melody. With her aura of strength and elegance, she seemed almost otherworldly—like a goddess walking among mortals. Wherever she moved, eyes followed.


    As she twirled on her heels, her gaze fell on Malik, who stood alone at the edge of the tavern. His arms were crossed, and his posture was as rigid as ever, with his eyes focused on something unseen in the distance. Even in a place meant for laughter and celebration, he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.


    It was clear that he didn’t want to be here; he never had. The squad had dragged him along, just like they did every other time.


    Nia smiled as she danced her way toward him. Her movements were light and free like a leaf caught in the wind. When she reached his side, she grasped his arm and tugged him toward the dance floor.


    "Come on," she said.


    Malik stiffened at her touch. He didn’t want this. Dancing was pointless—a waste of time. It had nothing to do with fighting or honing his skills. He should have been in the training room, sharpening his craft—not here, not doing this.


    "Nia, I—"


    "No," she interrupted. "No excuses."


    His instincts screamed for him to remain vigilant. <i>Always be alert, always be prepared</i>—that’s what he''d been taught since the moment he could walk. Being dragged onto a dance floor in a rowdy tavern went against everything in his nature. He cast a nervous glance around the crowded room, searching for an escape. Before he knew it, all eyes were on him.


    Nearby, a few soldiers choked on their drinks, caught between surprise and amusement as they watched Nia pull the ever-serious Malik to the center of the tavern. Whispers of disbelief spread among the tables closest to them; some pointed, while others chuckled. They had never seen Malik like this before, but even they understood that it was impossible to refuse Nia.


    She flashed him a warm smile. “You need to loosen up, Malik. It’s just one dance.”


    He hesitated. There was no reason for him to be here—he didn’t belong. His body remained rigid as he stood there, his eyes scanning the room once more. His mind was on high alert, instinctively searching for threats or anything that seemed out of place. Being on edge was all he knew. Even now, in the supposed safety of the tavern, it was difficult to switch off his instincts. It was hard to be anything other than what he was—what he had been trained to be. A weapon.


    But Nia wasn’t about to give up. She spun gracefully in front of him, her body moving to the rhythm.


    "It’s okay to enjoy yourself, you know," she whispered. "You don’t have to be the serious warrior all the time."


    She took his hands and guided him to the rhythm. He remained silent, but under her influence, his body began to relax just a bit. He was not one for words, and Nia understood that well. However, she also recognized that beneath his stoic exterior, he needed this—a reminder that life was not just about battles and survival; sometimes, it was about living.


    He looked down at her. There was a flicker of something in his crimson eyes—a glimmer of appreciation, perhaps. At first, his movements were awkward and stiff. However, with her silent encouragement, he gradually began to follow her lead.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "See? It''s not so bad, is it?" Nia asked.


    Malik sighed softly. "I guess not."


    “That’s the spirit! You’re dancing with the most beautiful woman in the tavern, yet you’re acting like it’s a chore.”


    "Everyone’s staring."


    Nia shrugged, completely unfazed. "Let them. If it makes them happy, who am I to stop them?" She squeezed his hand. "Right now, it’s just you and me. Focus on the music. Let it in. Let your guard down... just for tonight."


    Malik didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. He became less stiff as the seconds passed, and slowly, he let himself fall into the rhythm. Together, they swayed to the tune.


    <hr>


    At a nearby table, Byron and Kamari sat in silence, enjoying slices of pyrocrust—the tavern''s most famous dish. Kamari savored each bite. The familiar blend of melted cheese, roasted meat, and crispy crust exploded on his tongue. Pyrocrust was his favorite, and after the chaos of the day, it provided a small comfort.


    "You did well today, kid," Byron said, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow sip from his mug before setting it down with a thud.


    Kamari didn''t respond right away. He chewed slowly while staring at his plate. His mind was clearly elsewhere. As the silence stretched between them, he swallowed, keeping his eyes on the half-eaten slice of pyrocrust.


    "I could have done more,” he muttered.


    The mug hovered halfway to Byron''s lips. "Nonsense. You did everything that was expected of you—and more. We saved lives today."


    Kamari’s appetite faded as the memory of the earlier destruction resurfaced: the burning corpses, the screams, the blood-soaked pathways. He set the pyrocrust slice down and pushed the plate away. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the grotesque images from his mind. Even after all these years, witnessing that kind of devastation never got any easier.


    "Yeah, but we lost even more." His voice dropped. "Listen, Byron. I’m not as strong as I need to be. Every time I think I’ve improved, I’m reminded of how far I still have to go."


    Byron''s expression softened as he studied Kamari for a moment before speaking. "You''re being too hard on yourself, kid. You always are." He paused. "You''re still beating yourself up over what happened that night."


    Kamari''s jaw clenched as the familiar bitterness rose in his chest. His clan. His people. It was a night he could never forget. His father''s words echoed in his mind, haunting him: <i>Keep them safe.</i>


    "I should’ve been stro—"


    Byron shook his head to cut him off. "You did everything you could. We all did. What happened that night... no one could have prevented it. Not even me."


    Kamari''s fists clenched in his lap. The painful memories flooded his mind: the fire, the screams, the dying faces of his family and friends. They had trusted him to protect them, and he had failed them all. He''d been carrying that failure with him ever since—an unhealed wound that gnawed at him every waking second. It made him feel like a fraud. No matter how much stronger he became, it would never feel like enough.


    “You’ve got to stop carrying that weight, kid. It’s going to crush you if you don’t.” Byron’s voice softened even more, almost pleading now. “You need to let it go.”


    Kamari wanted to argue, but before he could form the words, a sudden crash echoed through the tavern.


    Splinters of wood skittered across the floor as a table was shattered, leaving silence in its wake. Kamari’s warrior instincts flared to life. Yellow flames crackled around his fists. His crimson eyes swept the room, darting between the patrons frozen in place, their breaths held.


    Suddenly, the tension broke. Laughter and cheers erupted, echoing off the wooden walls.


    Kamari turned toward the source of the commotion. Leon lay sprawled on the floor, groaning, while Jermaine stood over him, a wide grin declaring his victory.


    Realizing there was no threat, Kamari exhaled slowly, and the fire around his fists flickered out.


    <hr>


    Meanwhile, Jermaine’s booming laughter drowned out everything else. His arms were raised triumphantly, and his face was flushed with victory—and alcohol.


    "Drinks are on me!" He roared.


    The soldiers and patrons erupted into raucous cheers. They gathered around him like moths to a flame, clinking their mugs together. Some even slapped him on the back as bets were settled—gold, silver, and crystals exchanging hands across the tavern. The musician paused as he was unable to compete with the thunderous celebration.


    Elijah walked over to Leon and offered a hand. "Well, that was... anticlimactic. We’ll have to work on your technique. Maybe try bending your wrist forward a bit—might help with leverage."


    Leon grabbed Elijah’s hand and laughed. "Thanks for the tip."


    Meanwhile, Jermaine erupted with another deafening laugh. "No amount of leverage would change the outcome! Have you forgotten who I am, nephew? The Great Thunder God of Meiyr!"


    Elijah cringed. "Unc, seriously... stop."


    Just as the raucous energy seemed to peak, Nia glided over. She slipped her arm around Jermaine. "Alright, big guy. Time to go," she whispered.


    Jermaine blinked down at her. His eyes were glassy with alcohol, and a lopsided grin lined his face. "Hey there, beautiful... have we met before?"


    His words were slurred, but the unmistakable charm in his voice made Nia smile. She chuckled as she guided him toward the door. "How could you forget about your beautiful wife?" She teased. "I''m hurt."


    Jermaine’s face lit up with a childlike excitement. "Really? Me and you?"


    "You should drink less," Nia said before kissing him on his cheek.


    Jermaine grinned from ear to ear as Nia, barely half his size, steadied his drunken stumbles. His following words were incoherent, almost lost in the noise of the tavern.


    "Best. Night. Ever."


    Back at the table, Byron rubbed his temples before letting out a weary sigh. "Looks like I have to speak with Lavern again. That’s the fourth table this week."


    Elijah glanced at the shattered remains of the table and shook his head. Leon wiped the dust from his clothes, still smirking in his drunken stupor. Meanwhile, Kamari remained seated, lost in thought and barely registering the chaos around him. Byron''s earlier words echoed in his mind.


    <i>You did everything you could. We all did.</i>


    His fingers curled into his palm, clenching so hard that his nails nearly pierced his skin. No matter how often he heard those words, they never seemed true. A gnawing doubt had taken root inside, one that refused to let go. He glanced down at his half-eaten slice of pyrocrust, untouched since the conversation began. As the seconds ticked by, the laughter and noise of the tavern were drowned out by the storm of his thoughts.


    <hr>


    Later that night, Kamari drifted into a restless sleep. It wasn’t unusual—his nights were always thick with something heavy he could never quite shake.


    A stifling pressure filled the room. It started as a faint sensation, but it gradually intensified. It pressed against his chest, making his breaths shallow and ragged. He shifted in bed, attempting to shake off the feeling, but it latched onto him like a second skin.


    Then came the smell.


    At first, it was just a hint—sharp and metallic. Then, it thickened into the stench of blood, smoke, and burning wood. His pulse quickened. He still couldn''t see anything—just the darkness pressing in on all sides. But the smell… The smell was unmistakable.


    Far away, voices echoed—not words, but a low, unsettling murmur that pricked his skin. The darkness around him began to shift, with flickers of red and orange light cutting through the void.


    He blinked. Once... twice. Then, his pulse quickened even further as it all came rushing back.


    The flames. The screams. The corpses.


    His heart sank as the scene took shape around him. It was the nightmare he could never escape: his home village engulfed in flames.


    He was there once again.


    Fire leaped from house to house. People screamed—some in terror, others in agony. Bodies fell across the dirt pathways. It was pure chaos.


    The roar of the flames grew deafening, swallowing every other sound as he lay in the dirt, his skin smeared with blood and ash. He tried to move, to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t respond. His limbs felt like lead. His muscles were locked in place. All he could do was watch.


    And then, through the thick smoke—it appeared.


    A figure moved toward him like a predator closing in on its prey. Its form was cloaked in shadow. Jagged horns jutted from its head. Massive ebony wings stretched out behind it. Its eyes—bottomless pits of black—were fixed on Kamari.


    A demon.


    Kamari’s heart thundered in his chest. His instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything—but he couldn’t. His body continued to tremble, frozen in place.


    Kamari’s breath caught in his throat as the demon’s cold hand wrapped around his neck. He desperately clawed at its arm, but it was useless; its grip only tightened, choking off his air. The demon’s other hand pierced his chest. The pain was blinding—a white-hot agony. A raw scream ripped from his throat as its claws dug deeper, twisting inside him.


    Suddenly, everything went black.


    Kamari jolted awake. His scream echoed through the room. He sat up abruptly, clutching his chest and gasping for air. His heart pounded wildly as if trying to break free from his ribcage. He pressed his hand against his chest, half-expecting to find the demon''s claws still embedded there. But there was nothing. No wound. No blood. Nothing.


    The soft glow of dawn streamed through the window beside his bed as his fingers twitched against his chest. The pain was a phantom. He sat there in silence. The images of flames and corpses played on repeat in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t go away.


    A low growl rumbled in his throat. Frustration gnawed at him, eating away at the last shreds of calm he had left. Then, with a sudden, violent roar, he drove his fist into the mattress, over and over again.


    He collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving. The sunlight spilling through the window felt warm against his skin, but it did nothing to alleviate the cold dread that clung to him.


    For a minute, he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. He let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his curly, crimson-tipped hair. With a deep sigh, he forced himself to sit up again.


    Outside, the world was peaceful. Birds sang, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves as the citizens of Ceiala strolled along the winding, cobbled streets. At the center of the city stood a massive stone statue of the legendary warrior Suleos Ardentia, a symbol of strength and protection. The statue featured an outstretched hand holding a gigantic Irei Crystal skillfully carved into the shape of a red flame. Kamari’s gaze settled on it and a strange calm washed over him, quieting the chaos in his mind.


    There was no time to dwell on the past or linger in it. He had to push through, just like he always did. However, as he sat there, the truth gnawed at him: no matter how much distance he tried to create between himself and that night, the memories would always be waiting for him in the dark.