《Iron and Ice》


 Chapter 1

    Brimmond. A mostly human populated city in the topmost part of the island, hidden away in pale grass, with the tall northern mountains as its backdrop. It was nothing special, and that was the reason why Korie took to it so easily for the past five years. It''d become commonplace for him to switch residency every year or so, but despite the changes in habitats, the comfort of the city was undeniable.


    It was the sort of comfort that left him complacent.


    That, Korie could not stand. Complacency, and the paranoia that came with it. On that particular night, he''d been left restless, fighting and rolling around in his bed until sunlight was starting to brighten the room with blues and yellows. The anxiety was practically frying his mind and making all the hairs on his arms and back stand on end. It was a cruel irony, that the peace of mind the city granted him was fueling a war within himself.


    He was safe there. He didn''t have to fear anymore. He could live his life without the anticipation of everything crumbling down before him. A life akin to a flimsy card tower surrounded by strong rock walls; brittle, ready to fall despite all that protected it. It was something he was aware of, something that he thought about every day. So why did he still live a life of paranoia? It was not the freedom he''d imagined for himself when he''d made his escape, those ten years ago.


    Ten years. Five since he''d settled in Brimmond. One would think the fear would''ve gone away at that point, but it had not. In fact, as soon as any reminder of the past crossed his day-to-day, he''d find himself pacing around his loft, thinking all about the exit points of the space he lived in. The wide, sliding window, the staircase in the corner, the trap door access to the roof.


    It would all play out like a well-practiced theatrical act. First, his suitcase, located between his oak wood cupboard and desk, which he made sure to always leave clean and tidy as can be. His clothes and belongings, which he made sure to keep few, would be folded in with a practiced maneuver, or shoved in depending on the rush. Then, he''d collect his rucksack, hidden below the bed along with his longbow and quiver. Final step, exit from any of the three exit points of the loft and never look back.


    Some would call him paranoid. Because, yeah, he was. He was obviously paranoid of a cult coming to make him pay the price of betraying their higher power.


    And so the cycle would continue. From paranoia to complacency then right back around. Korie had no friends in that city, no family he could rely on, and he was doing nothing with his newfound freedom. Quite the opposite, what with his constant avoidance of any long term relationship that spanned beyond acquaintanceship. It could all be ripped away from him at any time, he worried himself. They could destroy everything he loved. And so his life remained at a standstill, in a boring city with a mundane life surrounded by regular people. But it was safe. He could hardly ask for more.


    The light of the sun was casting a glow upon the room at that point. It was nearly time for work, and despite his inability to get any rest, Korie stood up and stretched in preparation. His feet caused the floorboards to groan with each step, so he''d taken to walking gently in such early mornings. The loft he lived in was part of a home with very young children whose sleep he wouldn''t want to interrupt. He was already on thin ice with how late in the evenings he''d return from work.


    There was a folded up server''s outfit on the desk next to his single bed. A habit, one of the good ones. He enjoyed being prepared for any occasion; having an organized routine and following it kept him on track and away from falling into bad habits.


    He''d gone down such a rabbit hole before and he was not keen on a reprise.


    A pair of black trousers, well-fitted with a formal and neat appearance despite the establishment not quite meeting those standards. A white button-up shirt, long sleeves folded at the wrists. Comfortable, slip-resistant black shoes, the insoles of which were practically rubbed off from overuse. A black tie and a half apron of the same colour. It would all appear so standard on any other citizen of their city.


    He often wished the same applied to him. But every morning, as he fixed his tie with ashen fingers around his neck, he''d watch the twinkling lights dancing on his skin with a bitter, haunting familiarity. His freckles glowed icy blue as they flickered on his cheeks and neck, his coal dark skin, a tint as colourless as the daily newspaper.


    He could hear muffled voices coming from downstairs now. He took his shoes in one hand from his cupboard, grabbing his dark green coat with the other and throwing it over his shoulder. He was light on his feet with a distinctly elven manner as he stepped down the stairs, holding the textured wooden railing. The varnish had long faded from the planks in that home, but the two owners had neither the time nor the funds for a renovation.


    The parents, an elven man and a human woman, were a tale as old as time. Disapproving families or something of the sort had them backed into a corner in terms of gold, forcing them to raise two children with low paying jobs. They were housing Korie in their loft, after all; that certainly spoke of their economic struggles. To allow a stranger to live in their ceiling, let alone him¡­ it showed desperation.


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    The owners themselves appeared¡­ restrained. Korie appreciated that, though he could hear their mutterings through the floor and the open stairs in the middle of the night. Rarely were their whispers about him. But when they spoke of ¡®the darkspawn¡¯, it was clear they meant him. With skin so shadow-like, it was difficult not to mention it.


    That particular morning he was not keen on the social act, so he walked as silently as he could towards the door, sliding his shoes on after standing on the front door mat. He opened the door and was immediately greeted by the cool breeze; it was always early winter in that city, or so it felt like. The sun was deceptive. The weather never stopped being cold, even as it shone brightly over the cobbled streets, making the stone shimmer with the layer of early morning frost. Korie inhaled deeply, the sharp bite of the air seeping into his skin, its coldness a constant reminder of the chill that ran through his veins. His body was always ice cold, much like a corpse rather than the heat of someone whose heart still beat. The frigid weather only seemed to deepen the unrelenting cold he¡¯d grown so accustomed to.


    He slid on his coat, adjusting the draping fabric over his shoulders and fixing up the cuffs of his sleeves. Most of the items he owned had some value of sentiment to them, good or bad, and this coat was one of his first purchases after freedom. It was well loved, with stitching here and there, damages from overuse.


    Brimmond was waking up as he began to walk. He passed a couple of vendors setting up their carts, bundled in thick coats and gloves, their breaths visible in the cold morning air. One was arranging crates of apples, the fruit slightly dulled by frost but still bright in comparison to the grey cobblestone houses and shops. Another was wrestling with a tarp that had stiffened overnight, muttering under his breath as he tried to secure it against the wind. A brown coated dog trotted by, its long coat thick and matted, sniffing at the scraps near the vendors. It paused to watch him, tilting its head, before losing interest and padding away.


    The town¡¯s stone buildings, their shutters still closed against the chill, lined the narrow streets. Some had faint trails of smoke curling from their chimneys, while others remained dark and quiet. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from a bakery a few doors down, a scent that was mouthwatering on an empty stomach. His had a word to say about it, grumbling faintly, but he ignored it. The tavern would have something for him to eat before opening, if he managed to get there before the breakfast rush.


    The Low Lantern came into view, standing tall at the junction of two bustling cobblestone streets. The building itself was constructed primarily from sturdy spruce wood, its weathered planks darkened by years of exposure to the humidity and snowfall. Those support beams had soaked up the water for countless seasons, it being one of the older buildings in the city. Lanterns hung outside the tavern¡¯s entrance and at each corner, their warm glow illuminating the cobblestones below and cutting through the chilly morning fog.


    The windows were decorative aside from letting some light in during the day, and considering their clientele, had hardly any function.


    There had been an ambitious attempt at an expansion a few years back. It resulted in a large cobblestone addition jutting out from the back of the building, the new kitchen. They''d pushed the limits of their lot size, building as close to the fence of the establishment next to theirs as they could''ve. The alleyway that was formed became the route to the employee entry, but none of Korie''s coworkers really used it. It was an uncomfortably slim path with a permanent stink of rot and waste, due to the large rubbish bin that had been crammed into the back wall. Not even strays would come searching for food, though rats and other vermin found the smell and taste of their rubbish magnificent. Or so Korie would assume with how frequently he''d get to enjoy their company during his breaks.


    Korie walked into the alley, glancing behind himself as he tried to fix up his hair. His hair was wavy with a pale white shade, cold rather than warm, and he kept it long over his face and pointy ears, cutting it a bit shorter the rest of the way. It was his most normal feature, along with his right eye, an arctic hue.


    He reached the back door and opened it, avoiding the stench of rubbish by holding the edge of his coat over his nose and mouth. The kitchen was large, with wooden counters following the walls as well as a sink and cold storage. One of his coworkers, Emilia, was working on one of the daily morning preparations, cutting up loaves of bread and sorting them aside. She was a nice old lady, whose eyesight was failing her, but despite that fact she was a great cook and a pleasant personality.


    ¡°Good day, Korie,¡± She spoke with a lazy wave, and he gave a gentle bow of his head as a greeting to her in return. ¡°Early as always.¡±


    ¡°Good morning,¡± he said, his own tone soft and rough from the lack of proper rest. He cleared his throat, took off his coat and hung it on one of the wall hangers across the door.


    ¡°Youth like you should be coming to work late,¡± She said to him as he was putting on his apron properly, rolling his sleeves up. ¡°You need to get out more, boy. You''ve got no reason to work yourself to the bone. Enjoy your age while you''re still young.¡±


    Korie wasn''t sure how to respond to that for a beat. She''d never bothered with giving him advice before. Most of the time she cared little about other people''s business. Or so Korie had assumed.


    ¡°I''ve got plenty of decades left in me,¡± he reasoned. ¡°I don''t need to rush.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you naive man,¡± She shook her head. She didn''t comment any more on that front, and Korie appreciated it. He hadn''t expected to be judged so early in the morning, and he was not used to having to reason for himself. Usually, it was the customers doing the judging. It''s not like he had the freedom to tell them to fuck off.


    Despite its height and size, the interior of the tavern was a lot more¡­ humble. Circular, dark wooden tables were around the center for those willing to sit under the light of a candle chandelier, but most customers picked the booths. They were separated from one another with slim walls, allowing for a semblance of privacy that their regulars quite appreciated. A part of those regulars were shady people choosing to visit the Low Lantern for their criminal dealings, but the restaurant¡¯s reputation was not defined by them. Korie cleaned up the bar counter, sorted out glasses and made sure all the tables were clean, and the OPEN sign was flipped around, facing the glass that revealed the outside world.


    And so another regular shift at the low-end tavern began.

 Chapter 2

    The ship groaned as it settled against the dock, ropes snapping taut as they were secured. The moment the gangplank hit the wood, Lyra stepped off, her boots meeting solid ground for the first time in days.


    The air was thick with salt and the acrid tang of fish left too long in the sun. Dockhands shouted over one another, their voices drowned in the din of crashing waves and the steady hammering of workers repairing hulls. The streets were wet from an earlier rain, the slick cobblestones reflecting the dim light of the sky.


    Brimmond. Lyra exhaled softly. This was a place where someone could disappear if they wanted to. Or where someone could be found if she knew where to look.


    She had no names, only a whisper of a riddle given to her in hushed words before she left the mainland.


    "The one who fled is stained with black magic. He knows the way to the bloodied halls, and he remembers his own. Find him in the shadow of the low lantern."


    Black magic. Bloodied halls. Shadows and lanterns.


    It was as much of a direction as she could hope for.


    She adjusted the weight of her pack and strode forward, ignoring the merchants hawking cheap trinkets and the beggars whose outstretched hands she could not afford to fill. Lodging was her first priority - she needed a place to return to, somewhere inconspicuous.


    An inn near the docks caught her eye, its wooden sign cracked and sun-bleached but still bearing the name The Seafarer¡¯s Respite. The windows were smeared with grime, and the door was slightly warped from the sea air, but it would do.


    The innkeeper barely looked at her as she slid a few coins across the counter. ¡°One night,¡± she said, voice even.


    He pocketed the money and handed her a key without question. No name asked. No unnecessary words exchanged. She appreciated that.


    The room was small, barely more than a cot, a rickety chair, and a washbasin with a water jug that smelled faintly of iron. She set down her pack but didn¡¯t linger. There was no time to waste.


    Lyra moved through Brimmond¡¯s streets with purpose, scanning faces, listening to conversations, watching the ebb and flow of the people who called this place home. She knew better than to ask outright about the cryptic riddle she had been given - subtlety was key in places like this. Experience had taught her that taverns and inns were always the first places to check when entering a new city. A place like Brimmond thrived on loose tongues and heavy coin purses. People drank to forget, to celebrate, to mourn. And people talked.


    At The Broken Oar, she bought a watered-down drink and leaned against the counter, listening. Talk of trade deals, of ships delayed by storms, of petty feuds between merchants. Nothing useful.


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    At The Rusted Coin, she approached a man who looked like he knew things. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, his teeth yellowed from years of pipe smoke. ¡°Looking for someone,¡± she said, placing a single coin on the table.


    He picked it up, rolled it between his fingers, and smirked. ¡°Aren¡¯t we all?¡±


    She left before she wasted more breath on him.


    Hours passed. The sun dipped lower, painting the city in hues of burnt orange and crimson. Her patience, already running thin, was beginning to fray. The people she spoke to were either clueless or playing dumb, their empty words a waste of time.


    Then came the man who pushed too far.


    He was lean, wiry, his grin too sharp for comfort. He saw something in her, something he thought he could take advantage of. ¡°I might have what you¡¯re looking for,¡± he said, drawing out the words.


    ¡°How much?¡± she asked, already tired of the game.


    ¡°A hundred gold.¡±


    She scoffed. ¡°Try again.¡±


    He leaned forward, that grin widening. ¡°Information costs, love. Especially the kind you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    Lyra moved fast. One hand slammed against the table, the other gripping the dagger at her belt as she leaned in close. ¡°Do I look like I have a hundred gold?¡± she said, voice quiet but sharp as a blade¡¯s edge.


    The man swallowed hard. ¡°I- look, I was just-¡±


    She twisted the knife just enough for him to feel the cold metal against his gut. ¡°I don¡¯t have patience for games.¡±


    He held up both hands. ¡°Alright, alright! I don¡¯t know much, but I know where to start.¡±


    She eased the pressure just slightly. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a place. The Low Lantern. You ask the right questions, maybe you¡¯ll find what you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    Lyra stilled.


    She had heard that name before. Seen it, even.


    A wave of irritation prickled beneath her skin, sharp and immediate. The one who fled is stained with black magic. He knows the way to the bloodied halls, and he remembers his own. Find him in the shadow of the low lantern.


    She had been looking at it all wrong.


    She had treated it like a riddle, some cryptic puzzle to be solved, dissecting its meaning over and over in search of a hidden answer. But it wasn¡¯t hidden at all, was it? The Low Lantern wasn¡¯t a metaphor or an abstract clue - it was a real place, and it had been sitting right in front of her the whole damn time.


    A quiet exhale left her nose, more controlled than the frustration coiling inside her. Typical. Whispers twisted reality, distorting what was simple until it became something far more elusive. How many hours had she wasted chasing shadows when the answer had been carved into a signpost somewhere in this city?


    The wiry man must have seen something shift in her expression, because he took a cautious step back.


    She sheathed her dagger with a flick of her wrist. ¡°Where is it?¡±


    He hesitated.


    Lyra raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°Central city,¡± he said quickly. ¡°Two main roads cross there, can¡¯t miss it. Just follow the lanterns.¡±


    She turned without another word.


    Frustration simmered beneath her skin, but it was tempered by renewed purpose.


    Now, at least, she knew exactly where to go.

 Chapter 3

    As the sun lowered behind the horizon and the sky turned to darkening blues, the customers at The Low Lantern began to increase in numbers.


    The tavern was alive with sound. Laughter and drunken shouts clashed with the steady hum of conversation, the air thick with the scent of ale, sweat, and candle smoke. It was packed - sailors fresh off their ships, merchants drowning the weight of their losses, locals too deep in their cups to care about anything beyond the dice rolling in front of them. It was a cacophony of voices layered over the scrape of chairs, the clatter of tankards, the occasional crash of something breaking followed by jeering laughter. Three groups of men occupied the booth tables, while a few couples sat at the round tables, which were designed to seat no more than three people.


    The servers used a numbered table plan in order to serve each table. That night, however, it just so happened that two of the four were home sick with a cold, so Korie and his coworker had double the work cut out for them. It was a miracle that they hadn''t messed up an order yet, though it was bound to happen.


    Lyra stepped through the threshold and into the Low Lantern, scanning the crowded space with quick, sharp eyes.


    The floor was scuffed, uneven in places, worn by years of boots dragging dirt and seawater across it. Lanterns hung low, their dim glow doing little to banish the shadows that stretched between the wooden beams overhead. The tavern¡¯s long bar ran along the far side of the room, lined with patrons nursing their drinks, their postures wary in the way of men who lived knowing they could be stabbed at any moment.


    All sorts of people stopped by the tavern and inn those days. They were not always the most honest workers. In fact, a lot of them were part of the local syndicate groups, coming in to celebrate a good day''s work and throw some money at the bard on stage. Still, there was a balance to it all and many regular folk also ate their warm meals there on the daily. Those not fortunate enough to own their own kitchen, that slept in bunkhouses and loitered the streets at night, would also visit for the cheaper options on the menu, though some other clientele often appeared unhappy about their presence.


    It all meant that they were considered a dump, but that was fine by them and certainly fine by Korie. The more unassuming, the better.


    She moved through the bodies with practiced ease, her hood still drawn just enough to shadow her face. It was pure luck that she found an empty table at the back of the room, tucked neatly against the wall. Convenient. Fortuitous. Suspicious.


    But she took it nonetheless, lowering herself into the chair with one smooth motion, her back pressing against the cool wooden wall. From here, she could see everything - the entrance, the bar, the faces of those too busy drowning themselves in liquor to notice her presence.


    Her fingers tapped idly against the table¡¯s surface as she let herself settle into the rhythm of the room. The overlapping conversations made it impossible to pick out anything distinct, just a mess of slurred words, drunken arguments, and murmured dealings spoken too low to catch. Not ideal.


    Lyra exhaled slowly through her nose, shifting in her chair. She wasn¡¯t foolish enough to think information would just fall into her lap, but she had hoped for something - some clear direction, some whisper in the air that pointed her toward what she was looking for.


    And what was she looking for?


    She wasn¡¯t sure.


    Her thumb ran absently over the worn wood of the table as her mind turned over the riddle again.


    The one who fled is stained with black magic.


    That was the only real clue she had, and it was infuriatingly vague.


    Black magic. It could mean anything. There were those who dabbled in it, certainly - those who bent the natural order of things to their will, who paid the price for power they should never have wielded. She had only a rudimentary understanding of such things, just enough to defend herself against them if needed. If she was in the right place, she was no closer to deciphering the rest of the irritating riddle.


    Her gaze drifted across the room, watching the way people moved, the way some leaned too close together while others kept their backs to the wall just as she did.


    Who had fled?


    Who bore the stain of magic?


    Her fingers stilled against the table.


    She didn¡¯t know yet.


    She didn¡¯t track the minutes. She had no real notion of how long she had been sitting there, only that she was waiting, watching, her mind turning over the riddle in slow, deliberate loops. Lyra was in no hurry. She would sit here all night if she had to.


    She had spent months chasing ghosts across the continent, following half-truths and whispers only to find herself at dead ends. What was another night spent in the back of a crowded tavern, cloaked in candlelight and the murmuring lull of a hundred voices speaking over one another?


    The thought almost amused her. Almost.


    Her fingers tapped absently against the side of her chair as she observed the room with sharp, unreadable eyes. She had been trained to see what others did not - the subtle shifts in body language, the way some leaned too close in hushed discussions while others kept their backs to the wall in the same way she did.


    She was still deep in thought when a shadow moved into her peripheral vision.


    A server.


    Korie walked around quickly, trying not to appear too panicked about the amount of dishes on his tray as he held it up. He was agile enough to hold his balance, but the plates and glasses were stacking up far quicker than he''d prepared himself for. He made it back to the kitchen in order to unload his tray of dirty dishes and load it back up with bowls and plates of deliciously cooked meals. The smell coming from the roasted pork and stew in the kitchen was heavenly at this hour, but his shift was far from over. He''d have to be patient until he could have his break; they were in a bit of a rush now and it was hardly the time for one. He returned back up front, carrying two plates and a bowl this time around.


    The bartender, Nico, caught his hand as he walked past and he looked down at it, then back up at him questioningly. He wasn''t exactly friends with the man. He was a young human in his twenties, with a pretty nihilistic view of the world. He believed in nothing but his own kind and it showed with the glares of dismay he''d send him if he walked too close. Plus, Korie, apparently, loved beyond the bounds that he deemed proper. Or so the man had said to him once, when he''d witnessed a male customer flirting with him on the job. Korie had no interest in Nico and he could only wonder what other nasty opinions he held for others.


    "That table¡¯s been waiting a while, you know," The man nodded at it, and Korie glanced at where he''d been motioned towards. There was a woman sitting there, alone. He couldn''t see well from this distance, but she appeared to be wearing some solid steel, her long blade hanging off the seat at her side. Not many would come clad in their full armor at a tavern, but Korie knew what types did, and a wave of discomfort came over him at the thought of serving that table. Thankfully, it was not his table and so he wanted nothing to do with it.


    "Not my table," He explained to Nico, pulling his hand away in a polite manner.


    "Perceval took his break, so you ought to serve them."


    Korie blinked at him, looking quite annoyed. His coworker had left him to work all on his own then. Great. As if his workload hadn''t been enough that night, now he had to do quadruple the usual work. He took a deep breath, relaxing himself. It was hardly the time for irritation to take its hold.


    He''d best demand some sort of compensation the next day. "Okay," He sighed, holding his tray close as he walked off.


    She noticed him immediately, and it was hard not to. Blending in was clearly not something he did - not with that dark skin, the inky shade of night, and those pointed ears that were so unmistakably elven. A dark elf?


    That was¡­ unusual.


    Her posture remained relaxed, but something in her muscles tensed instinctively. Age-old warnings whispered in the back of her mind, echoes of lessons drilled into her from childhood.


    "Dark elves cannot be trusted."


    "They are tainted, marked by old evils."


    "Cunning, deceitful, dangerous."


    It was hard to shake lessons learned so young.


    And yet, this one was here¡ªnot as a patron, but serving tables, carrying drinks, blending into the fabric of the Low Lantern¡¯s daily business as though it were perfectly ordinary. It struck her as odd. A dark elf working in a tavern? Not in some shadowed corner, not lurking with the more questionable patrons, but simply¡­ here?


    She didn''t trust it.


    Still, she barely let her expression shift as he reached her table.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take whatever¡¯s cheapest,¡± she murmured, her voice even, distracted.


    She watched him as he nodded and stepped away, disappearing back into the sea of moving bodies.


    For a brief moment, something bitter rose in her throat, and it had nothing to do with the ale she had just ordered. There was a time when she would have ordered nothing but the best. A time when she would not have had to order at all, when the finest wine and richest meals had been placed before her without question, without cost.


    Nobility did not ask. Nobility received.


    That life felt so far away now.


    She exhaled, quiet and slow. The past was gone, a door locked behind her, and she had no use for ghosts. She shook away the lingering thoughts before they could settle, before they could distract her from what mattered. Memories of comfort and privilege would not serve her well here.


    Instead, her gaze sharpened, her thoughts honing in on something far more relevant.


    The dark elf.


    He didn¡¯t belong here, not in the way the other workers did. He was out of place, conspicuous in a way that defied the natural order of things. It unsettled her - not because of his race, not entirely. It was because things that didn¡¯t fit often meant something and Lyra had learned long ago that the smallest anomalies could unravel everything.


    So she let her focus settle on the curious, out-of-place server. She would be watching him particularly closely.


    ??


    Korie was being watched.


    No. Outright stared at. Ever since he tended to the fighter''s table, She''d kept her eyes fixed on him like he was an object of great interest. He''d met strange folks, sure, but it was rare that one would watch him so intently.


    He watched her too, but only for moments at a time. She was a human, her dark oak hair tied up in a warrior''s knot with a metal piece holding it together. She was tall, obvious by the length of her legs despite the way she was slouched over, leaning back against the wall with her second drink in hand. Was she taller than him? Either way, she was obviously stronger. Her muscles were visible through her leather piece, and he questioned the comfort of her armour. Hauling that heavy piece around all day would exhaust him before he could even try and swing a sword, let alone walk or run.


    Would she be able to catch up if he ran?


    Korie could hardly focus for the rest of the shift, moving on autopilot as the passage of time evaded him completely. All he could think about was who is she? Why is she staring? Did they send her to get him? His panic only built as time went on and patronage lessened.


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    Doors, windows, staircase. He counted his exits anxiously, trying to reassure himself that he had the upper hand here, that he knew The Low Lantern better than a customer. The cellar could serve as a hiding spot, if need be, though it was a dead end. He could feel pressure building on the top of his head, the lights blurring as his mind drifted.


    He could not tolerate this any longer. He went into the kitchen, locating the walk-in cupboard for a moment, standing there silently. He took a slow, deep breath, shutting his eyes and exhaling softly. The air left his lungs until there was nothing left to exhale, and he slowly opened his eyes, hugging his tray against his chest.


    Okay. Everything was fine. He was not being pursued or chased, nor was he under immediate danger. His panic often outgrew him, gripped his heart and squeezed until it hurt to breathe. And for what reason? Because some stranger was looking at him funny? That did not mean that his enemies were closing in and he needed to internalize that before he spiraled worse.


    His freckles, once flickering with distress, were now slowing their pulsing, cooling down the same way water did when moved off the stove. He observed the gentle icy glow of the little freckles on his arms, and shook his head. He opened the door to the cupboard once again, stepping out with a renewed smile, going back to the gentle server persona quickly. He was going to do his job, whether some customer stared at him or not.


    She did stare quite intently, though.


    He began to serve again. The pace had slowed down quite a bit at that point, the previous rush having ended as the time to end food service closed in. There were still a few people, but only a group''s worth. And her.


    "Take these to table eight," Nico spoke to him from behind the counter, and he turned his head to him. There were three mugs of ale there and he placed his tray down, loading them onto it. He said nothing to his coworker, turning around and heading towards the designated table.


    That trio from before, half-slumped against their table, were determined to drink themselves into unconsciousness before the night was over. Their words blended into a muddled mess of drunken amusement and crude jokes, their gestures growing wilder with each passing minute.


    "Our drinks, fellas," The dwarf spoke, patting the orc on the arm.


    The three focused on him with cheers as Korie placed the drinks down and one of them gave him a drunk smack on the back as praise for his work. He flinched, smiling hesitantly. Why did customers find it appropriate to touch him...?


    Lyra''s eyes narrowed slightly.


    She saw him stiffen, just for a fraction of a second. It was subtle, but she had spent a lifetime learning to read people, to notice the way discomfort manifested in ways most wouldn¡¯t catch. The slight tension in his shoulders, the brief hesitation before he turned away. The kind of reaction that came not from fear, but from someone who was used to unwanted contact and had learned to endure it.


    But what held her attention wasn¡¯t the reaction itself. It was what the light revealed as he moved.


    The freckles.


    She had noticed them throughout the night, scattered across his face and the tips of his ears, but it wasn¡¯t until now, under the shifting glow of the lanterns, that she saw them properly.


    They weren¡¯t just freckles. They glowed.


    Not in an overwhelming way, not enough to immediately draw the eye, but it was there, like embers trapped in ice, faint pinpricks of light against his dark skin.


    Lyra didn¡¯t move, her fingers still resting lightly against the side of her tankard, but her focus sharpened. She had never seen anything like it before. Never heard of it, even. Dark elves, according to everything she had ever been told, were creatures of shadow, of dark magic and hidden deceit. There had been no mention of freckles that shimmered like delicate frost, no record of a trait like this. It was unnatural, unexplained. Unknown.


    And Lyra did not like the unknown.


    Korie glanced at the lady sitting alone, and their eyes met for a second. Two seconds. Three. He looked away when he realized himself and he allowed his body to take control, walking over to her table even if he didn''t particularly want to. "Is there anything you need, madam?" He asked, his manners polite as he held his tray against his stomach.


    His voice was calm, steady - just another server offering service to another patron. Nothing in his tone suggested he had noticed her interest, that he was aware of how closely she had been watching him all night.


    She lifted her gaze to him fully for the first time, letting herself look.


    Now that he was standing so near, she could take in the finer details - the sharpness of his features, the cool depth of his skin beneath the warm glow of lantern light, the way those frozen freckles dusted across his face and ears, faint but unmistakable. The same shimmer she had seen moments ago, now clear as day. She had no better opportunity to take him in, to study him, and so she did. She wasn¡¯t sure what she had expected. Something sinister? Something unnatural?


    Instead, all she saw was a man.


    A man who was waiting for her answer.


    For a moment, she considered waving him off, keeping her curiosity to herself, tucking it away to examine later when she had more time to process. But the question was already pressing at her tongue, and she found she couldn¡¯t stop herself.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    It wasn¡¯t a demand. It wasn¡¯t even laced with the guarded suspicion she so often carried when speaking to strangers. It was just a question, quiet and measured.


    He''d been ready to bow, to say he''d return shortly. He''d been expecting a request for drink or food. He''d even leaned forward a little in preparation of the routine, but then paused as he blinked at the woman, her question stopping him in his tracks. His brain froze up.


    They''re here. It was all he could think about, a wave of pure dread washing over him as he momentarily allowed space for his paranoia to control him. All that time spent in the kitchen''s backroom was wasted, his panic immediately rising back up again to choke him, same as before. He was a damn mess, and he was certainly not having the best of days; he was a glass mirror ready to drop and shatter.


    He hadn''t even come up with a fake name to spit out because he''d been too busy staring and panicking internally. "Korie," He responded, clutching at his tray. Doors, windows, stairs.


    His heart pulsed with fear that she might chase him down if he did try to run.


    ¡°Korie,¡± Lyra muttered to herself, the name rolling off her tongue in quiet thought.


    The sound of her voice speaking his name echoed in his head, replacing any other thought in an instant. The manner she''d spoken the name with¡­ it held an interesting variety of subtle emotions. No disgust, no anger. It was the curiosity that suddenly had Korie''s attention magnetized, the nonchalant interest that simultaneously had a depth to it. Korie could recognize compliments and flirtation, malice and contempt, yet the woman in front of him rested against the wall with a posture that was confident and present. She regarded him as though he was simply living in her world, and that amount of self assured pride gave him an odd sense of importance from her attention.


    Something about this woman felt different. Her eyes watched him with a sharp gaze like no other. There was an intensity in her presence that set her apart from the usual, an unwavering resolve that made his instincts bristle. It wasn¡¯t just her words, but the way she carried herself, the quiet confidence in her stance, the way her eyes never wavered. And yet, despite her lack of hostility, despite the absence of any malice or deception in her gaze, her question left him uneasy, as if she had already seen through every wall he had ever built.


    "I was more so referring to our service," Korie spoke again, smiling and exhaling a light laugh despite the awkward tension he''d built with his silence. He wouldn''t want to unsettle a customer, of course, even if said customer had a terrifying aura and a sharp blade at her side.


    Her head tilted slightly as she studied him, her gaze still holding that same measured curiosity. His was a simple name, unassuming, but now that it had been given form, it settled into her mind as something tangible. No longer just the server - he was someone, someone with a name, a presence. Someone who had caught her attention for reasons she still wasn¡¯t entirely sure of.


    Her lips pressed together as she considered him, ignoring his comment about service. ¡°You¡¯ve had a busy night.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question, just an observation.


    "A night like any other," Korie said softly, his tone smooth and gentle as he slipped into his polite server persona. It was a role he knew well, one he had practiced for a long time and could play with ease.


    Korie didn¡¯t look outwardly nervous - his posture remained steady, his expression composed - but there was something there, a tension in his fingers where they gripped his tray just a little too tightly. A slight, nearly imperceptible flare to the freckles on his face, a reaction to something unseen. Was it her?


    Not everyone was lost in drink.


    A few of the remaining patrons - the ones tucked into a table near the far side of the room - were casting glances toward Korie, their expressions sour with something that bordered on disdain. It wasn¡¯t the usual drunken stupor or casual tavern talk. It was something else.


    Their expressions weren¡¯t neutral.


    There was something sharp in their glances, something edged with disdain. It wasn¡¯t simple curiosity - it was contempt.


    Lyra¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly.


    She turned her gaze back to Korie, her voice quieter this time, but no less firm. ¡°Do you get much trouble here?¡±


    She wasn¡¯t sure what she expected him to say but she doubted that someone who looked like him - dark skin, unique glowing freckles, so blatantly out of place - had never been on the receiving end of some¡­ off-colour comments. After all, even she couldn''t help but eye him with not just curiosity, but suspicion as well.


    He offered a practiced smile at her next question, the kind that was warm enough to seem genuine but distant enough to keep questions from digging too deep. "Nothing I can''t handle," he spoke, his tone light as if the thought of trouble barely crossed his mind. "Most people are just here for a good meal." It was an easy answer, one he had given many times before. One that kept things simple.


    Korie¡¯s response came smoothly, but Lyra caught the careful weight of his words.


    His answers were the sort that addressed her question without truly revealing anything. Tactful. Thought out. Practiced. Rehearsed. The kind of answers a person gave when they had been asked the same thing before, when they knew how to sidestep unwanted attention without outright lying. The kind of answers that made it clear there was something beneath the surface, something unsaid - but also made it clear he wasn¡¯t going to hand it over easily. Lyra didn¡¯t push. She only studied him, watching the way he carried himself, how his expression remained composed, his posture carefully neutral.


    Smart.


    That was something she could respect.


    Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, thoughtful, before she finally leaned back slightly, shifting her weight in her chair.


    ¡°Well,¡± she murmured, almost to herself, ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have another drink then.¡± Her fingers tapped idly against the rough wood of the table before she glanced up at him once more and slid a couple of gold coins across the table, a tip for the server. ¡°Something with honey, perhaps.¡±


    As Korie departed for the bar, Lyra leaned back in her chair, fingers idly tapping against the table as she thought back to the wiry man¡¯s words.


    "You ask the right questions, maybe you¡¯ll find what you¡¯re looking for."


    The right question. She had many. Too many, perhaps.


    The wrong question, at the wrong moment, to the wrong person spelled disaster. She had learned that lesson more times than she cared to count. People were predictable in their secrecy; push too hard, pry too obviously, and they would recoil, clam up, retreat into a fortress of deflection and misdirection. Equally, being too careful, too indirect, yielded nothing.


    She was running out of patience for empty trails.


    Korie returned with her drink, setting it down without a word. Lyra muttered her thanks, wrapping her fingers around the cup and taking a slow, measured sip. The honeyed liquor coated her tongue, warm, pleasant. Better than the swill she had been nursing before.


    Her gaze flicked back to Korie, studying him over the rim of her cup.


    Surely, as a server, he heard things.


    Taverns were full of whispered dealings, drunken confessions, quiet threats muttered between hands of dice. And Korie¡­ there was just something about him. She couldn¡¯t name it exactly, but her instincts told her he knew more than he let on. Lyra always trusted her instincts. So, as casually as one might remark about the weather, she set her cup down and said, ¡°Do you know anything about Tarek Nocturne?¡±


    Those words echoed in his skull as he internalized them. That name... It bore a curse, one that had burned a brand into his very being and haunted him. It was as though nothing could sever the unseen chains binding him to that wretched man.


    Tarek Nocturne; a loathsome parasite at the center of a criminal underworld, tainting every facet of his existence with misery.


    Crime was not something he stumbled into; it was the air he breathed, the road he walked, the blood in his veins. The sordid underbelly of this godsforsaken island, the syndicates, the black markets, the gambling dens, they all bent the knee to him. He was a man who cared only for gold and status, utterly devoid of a guilty conscience.


    Korie clutched his tray against his chest, the hairs on his body standing on end. He had to force back a full body shiver of repulsion. Tarek was a man he''d had to meet on multiple occasions, and none of them had left a good mark on him.


    The first time, he had been young. Too young to grasp the weight of his own existence. "What a sight you are. They did good work on you lad," He''d said then, the words so nonchalant and uncaring. Those words festered in his mind, rotting there, impossible to scrub away. He''d spoken of his torture as though he''d only received a haircut.


    That was the sort of man Tarek was. A man lacking in empathy, who allowed and encouraged countless souls to be tortured. Anything that would make him richer went. Anything that would increase his social status or his power over the kingdom went. Anything; and Korie had experienced firsthand what potential anything had to offer.


    "I don''t..." He spoke quietly, blinking in order to clear the haze in his eyes. He sounded timid this time around, pained, even. Most of all, he felt fear.


    She was here for him. She had to be. Sent by the boss himself, no doubt. A blade dispatched to sever a loose end. A cold sweat formed at the base of his nape. The realization that his greatest fear was coming to fruition had him in a state of shock and disbelief.


    He needed to leave, now.


    He took a long step back or two, watching her for a few moments, and then turned around to quickly rush to the kitchen, his feet moving before he could think. The kitchen had an exit, the back door. He dropped the tray onto a counter and did not bother to grab his coat, pushing the door open with his whole body as he stumbled out into the back alley. He heard her, stepping after him. There was no way he was going to allow himself to be caught. He began to sprint without a care; he''d run forever if it meant never going back to his previous life.