Deon sat on the edge of the bedroll, a worn leather book resting closed in his lap. The room was quiet, save for the distant murmur of village life beyond the wooden walls.
He glanced over his shoulder. "You're up."
From the tangled mess of sheets, a low groan answered him.
"No," Nil muttered, voice muffled. "You're in a dream where I woke up."
Sunlight leaked through the narrow window, a slanted beam cutting across the bed and warming Nil's face. He winced, turning away like it personally offended him.
Deon smirked faintly. "It's past seven. I finished a book while you snored like a dying ox."
Nil yawned, dragging the blanket over his head. "You finished a book in a dream."
A pause stretched between them—lazy, unhurried.
"...Can't you see?" Nil murmured, half-asleep. "None of this is real. You, that book, the sun trying to blind me."
Deon leaned back on his palms, watching the slow rise and fall of the blanket. "So I'm a figment of your imagination now?"
"Mm-hmm," came the drowsy reply.
He chuckled, reaching for a half-empty flask near his bedroll. "Well, your imagination is terribly underpaid."
Nil exploded out of the sheets like a man on fire, the blanket flung across the room in a heap. Without a word, he stalked toward the basin in the corner and hacked his throat clear, spitting once before splashing cold water on his face.
Deon watched him over the rim of his book, unreadable. The silence he'd been nursing since dawn fractured in an instant.
Nil was a blur of motion—clattering across the wooden floor, opening drawers that didn't belong to him, slamming shut windows that weren't even his to touch. Every step was noise. Every gesture, chaos.
He yanked open the door to check the hallway, shut it again with a bang, and turned back into the room as if he'd forgotten why he left in the first place.
Deon raised an eyebrow, finally closing the book on his lap. "You always wake up like a drunk storm?"
Nil didn't answer. He was already halfway into a tunic, adjusting buckles on the thick, travel-worn belt around his waist. Blades, pouches, vials. Tiny enchantment sigils glinted in the sunlight.
Deon leaned forward, gaze narrowing. "You're carrying a lot of mana tools for a boy running on foot."
Nil grinned, slipping a dagger into his boot. "You noticed, huh?"
"I'd have to be blind not to."
"Guess I just like shiny things."
Deon didn't smile. "Shiny things like that could feed a family for a year."
Nil's smirk thinned, just slightly. "Good thing I'm not a family."
Deon stretched with a faint grunt, cracking his neck. "Well, let's get you made into an adventurer. It's 7:12—we booked for eight."
Nil's smirk dropped. "Damn. Nine hundred cre for a glorified formality."
Deon yawned. "Then let's not waste any more time."
Nil threw on his tunic, adjusting the belt and checking each weapon like a man preparing for war. "Let's get it over with."
Deon reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, white card—flat, smooth, and slightly translucent. He handed it over.
Nil squinted at it. "What am I supposed to do? Write my dreams on it?"
"Hold it," Deon said. "Push a bit of mana into it. Not too much. Just enough to get a reaction."
Nil gripped the card and closed his eyes. The pulse from his core traveled down his arm—a slow, careful stream of energy.
The card cracked.
Then crumbled.
In an instant, it disintegrated into fine, silvery dust that vanished before it hit the floor.
Nil blinked. "Did I overdo it?"
Deon's eyes stayed on the air where the card had been. "No. That's what happens when your mana is pure—too pure, even. That card was supposed to burst, not vanish."
Nil looked at his hand, flexing it. "I thought they used a glowing white orb for this sort of thing."
"They used to. Cards are cheaper. It's not the shape that matters—it's the Casine inside. Reacts the same either way."
Nil let out a slow breath. "So I passed?"
Deon gave a small nod, eyes still lingering on the space where the card vanished. "You passed the hell out of it. You're definitely above C-rank."
He paused, then added, "Actually... can you cast something? A spell you can control?"
Nil lit up. "Why wouldn't I be able to—"
"Don't use the mana rings," Deon cut in sharply.
Nil raised a brow but smirked anyway. "Still. Of course."
He stepped into the center of the room, his expression cooling into something focused. No chant. No gestures. Just sheer will.
In a blink, six flaming spears crackled into existence, suspended mid-air in a glowing circle around him. The heat rolled outward, warping the air and making the cheap wooden beams of the room creak in protest.
Deon's smile vanished. "Nullify them. Now. Unless you want this whole place to catch fire."
Nil snapped his fingers. The spears flickered—then evaporated into nothing. Not a spark left behind.
Deon let out a low whistle, then laughed. "Damn. I thought you were bluffing when you said you were aiming for the School of Zlandria."
He stepped forward and ruffled Nil's hair like he was ten years younger. "You're definitely A-rank material... but I'm giving you A-minus. No dungeon experience. No field history."
Nil didn't argue. For once, he just grinned.
The wood beneath their feet sizzled, charred black where the fire spears had hovered. A faint trail of smoke curled toward the ceiling.
Nil sniffed the air, then turned to Deon, eyes sharp. "Deon... what rank are you?"
Deon didn't answer at first. His gaze drifted to the smoldering floor, then back to Nil.
After a pause, he said casually, "Higher than yours."
Nil didn't smile. "You're S-rank. At least."
Deon's expression didn't flicker. "What makes you think that?"
"I felt it," Nil said quietly. "When I summoned those spears... just for a moment, you pushed your mana out. Not to stop me. Not to fight me. Just... to steady the room."
He stepped closer, voice steady. "Mana core wasn't passive. It was awakened. Controlled. Heavy. No merchant has that kind of presence."
The room went still. Smoke lingered in the air between them like a ghost.
Deon's jaw tightened—barely—but Nil saw it.
For a breath, they simply stared at each other. Neither spoke. Neither moved.
Like two swords unsheathed but not yet swung.
Deon broke the silence, his face unreadable—but his voice landed heavy.
"I outrank S," he said, calm as stone. "And yes, I'm a merchant. I also hold stakes in the Adventurer's Guild. That's who I am."
He leaned forward, just enough to feel dangerous.
"But you, Nil... you're no commoner. That ring—it isn't just enchanted. It's an artifact. Ancient. Bound to something old. Maybe even alive."
The air between them thickened.
"I've told you who I am," Deon said softly. "Now it's your turn."
Nil swallowed. His jaw tightened.
"I'm Nil Gern. Son of a farmer out west. That's it."
He looked down at the ring, turning it once on his finger.
"Picked this up from a black market dealer about a year ago. Didn't know what it was. Just... liked the way it hummed when I touched it. Turns out I've got a bit of mana in me. Luck, I guess."
He looked up, steady now—
Deon chuckled, a deep, effortless sound. "Well then, I've no way to prove the truth of it—so I'll take your word, for now."
Nil's gaze sharpened, his tone dry. "Shouldn't that same courtesy be extended to me, old man? Now I see why nine hundred Cre meant nothing to you. You're no mere wanderer—you're a gods-damned SS-rank adventurer."
Deon arched his back with a groan, arms stretching toward the ceiling. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. What I am, at the moment, is hungry. I've been awake since the fourth hour."
Nil didn't move. He merely studied Deon's face as if trying to peer beneath the skin. Then he muttered,
"Spare me your heroic suffering," Nil muttered. "If I don't get milk tea soon, I'm committing arson. Let's eat and get out of this gods-damned tavern."
Deon opened the door—it wasn't locked, as he'd already gone in and out multiple times that morning. He stepped out, Nil following close behind.
"Well, let's eat and get out of this place," Nil muttered, clearly annoyed.
"What do you want? Something heavy or light?" Deon asked as they descended into the tavern's main dining area.
"Light. I still need to exchange my coins for Cre," Nil said.
They reached the hall.
An old man shuffled over, spine curled like a broken bow, voice rasped thin from years of offering the same damn greeting to men who never remembered him.
"Gentlemen," he said, bowing just deep enough to keep his dignity. "How was your stay?"
Deon gave a curt nod. "Good enough for a night."
Nil scoffed. "Like hell it was. Mosquitoes ate me alive, and those sheets? "Looked like they'd seen three wars and buried a king." Do you lot ever clean, or do you just pray for rain?"
Deon shot him a sideways glance. Gods, Nil... there's blunt, and then there's trying to get us poisoned.
The old man didn't flinch. Just straightened with a tired smile, the kind men wear after a lifetime of saying "sorry" for things they can't fix.
"We scrub. We patch. Doesn't matter. Count's third son stumbles through with his drunkards every fortnight, smashing chairs and pissing on the floors. We chase the damage with a broom and a prayer."
Deon arched an eyebrow. "Sounds exhausting."
Nil folded his arms, jaw tight. "Typical. Nobles make the mess, peasants sweep the pieces. You won't see peace till someone drags the Count's name through mud—or higher."
His voice sharpened. "Not that it matters. If the Count had any spine, his son wouldn't be a walking disaster. Fucking nobles..."
The old man scratched at his neck, eyes drifting to the floor. "Aye. And rain falls upward, too. It is what it is."
Deon cut in smooth, like a knife sliding between ribs. "So then, Mister Roeb—what's for breakfast?"
Nil blinked. "Wait, what? You know his name? We've been here one night!"
He jabbed Deon in the ribs—not hard, but with all the subtlety of a bar fight. "What've you been doing since sunrise? Flirting with the staff?"
Deon didn't flinch. Just stared at him, deadpan. "What do you think I do in the mornings? Practice my smile in the mirror?"
Roeb watched their back-and-forth with a twinkle in his eye, the corner of his mouth curling up.
"You two are lively," he said warmly. "Like a father and son, almost."
Deon burst out laughing.
Nil went red. Not blushing—boiling.
"F-Father and son?!" he choked. "This oversized lizard is a total stranger! I met him YESTERDAY!"
Roeb smiled, bowing slightly. "Ah—my apologies, Mr. Nil, for the misunderstanding. So, gentlemen, breakfast—do you prefer it heavy or light?"
Deon and Nil answered in perfect unison.
"Heavy."
"Light."
Nil blinked and turned to him. "Didn't we agree on something light?"
Deon leaned forward, deadpan. "When did I agree to that? I've been up since the fourth hour. I'm starving."
Nil stared at him, lips twitching. This guy's a total bitch.
Then he glanced at Roeb. Right... SS-rank adventurer. If I said that out loud, the old man might drop dead from a heart attack.
He stifled a laugh, shoulders shaking with a low, sharp chuckle.
Roeb raised an eyebrow. "Light and heavy, then. I'll bring both. No charge for the entertainment."
Nil didn't wait. He claimed the nearest chair like it owed him coin, slumping in with all the grace of a man too tired to pretend otherwise.
Deon stretched his left arm with a low yawn, wandered over, and dropped beside him with a lazy grin. "Morning," he muttered, still half-asleep.
Nil didn't look at him. "When I first saw you, I thought you were smart. Sharp, even. Someone with actual brain cells."
He tilted his head, voice flat but rising. "Turns out you're just a bitch."
Deon smirked. "Shut the fuck up."
Smart kid, Deon thought. Figures me out in two lines. SS-rank? Nailed it.
Lies like a merchant, though. No way in all the hells he's a farmer's brat. But there's something in him. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Nil stole a glance at him. This tall, pale bastard from Helin — an SS-rank adventurer, here of all places. Never thought I'd meet one. Let alone split a room with him. Share insults. Eat breakfast.
No way he buys my story.
Hell, I don't buy it.
A woman approached — barely taller than Nil, dressed in threadbare green stitched so many times it looked like it was holding itself together out of spite. She moved like someone already tired of the day, hands full: one glass of steaming milk tea, one wooden platter stacked with roasted meat.
She slid the tea in front of Nil, the dish toward Deon, and offered a weary smile. "Hope you enjoy, misters. You're our first customers today."
Nil didn't look up. "We were here yesterday."
Her smile cracked. "Ah—right. Sorry. I don't handle rooms."
Deon didn't reply. He was already blowing air over the meat, eyes half-lidded. The skin crackled under breath — glazed, golden, soaked in spice.
Nil's stomach growled. He grabbed the tea and took a sip too fast.
Fire kissed his tongue. He hissed, a drop spilling onto the table, and wiped it off like it didn't matter — like his pride hadn't just been seared open.
He stared at the meat like it was treasure in a locked chest.
Deon bit into his breakfast like it owed him money. Juices spilled. Crunch gave way to tenderness. He chewed with the focus of a man unbothered by the world — a war veteran returning to the only battle worth fighting: food.
"You eat," Nil said, "like someone who lost a bet to hunger."
Deon didn't answer. Just took another bite, slower this time. At peace. Dangerous in the way quiet men are.
Nil took another sip. Still hot. Still cruel.
Deon noticed him watching. He smirked, sliced off a crisp edge of meat, and offered it across the table. "Don't stare like that. Here. Try it."
Nil hesitated. Then reached out, took the piece, and bit down.
Crunch. Salt. Fat. Smoke.
His eyes narrowed as flavor spilled in.
If I eat too much, I won't have room for Merke's stew. Can't leave Gleo without trying that.
"It's average," he muttered.
Deon snorted. "Sure. But better than that sorry-ass chicken yesterday."
Nil didn't argue. Just leaned back and waved him off. "Hurry up. We've got to leave soon."
Deon, mouth full, scowled. "Gods. Never interrupt a man mid-meal."
Nil waved a hand toward the bar. "Hey, old man. Come sit. Let's chat a bit."
Reob approached slowly, with the stiff, shuffling gait of a man who looked like gravity was winning more each day. Nil watched him and muttered under his breath, "He walks like death's already got a hand on his back."
Deon was halfway through his meal, chewing like the world was silent around him.
Reob settled into the chair beside Nil with a soft grunt. "What is it, gentlemen?" he asked, eyes flicking to the plate. "Meal treating you well, Mister Deon?"
Deon gave him a slow thumbs-up, mouth full, too focused to talk.
Nil grinned, forgetting his tea completely. He clapped Reob on the back — gently, but with the kind of energy that made old bones creak. "This guy here's been quiet all morning,nearly made me start talking to myself. Figured I'd pull you into the mess."
Reob chuckled. "You young ones always get bored too fast."
"How old are you, anyway?" Nil asked, eyeing him sideways. "You look like you've been around since the first rain."
"Hah!" Reob laughed, voice light but a little wheezy. "I stopped counting a while ago. But come Jeth, I reckon I'll be sixty-seven."
Nil nodded solemnly. "Sixty-seven, huh? That's... old spine territory."
Reob gave a quick, tired smile.
"Ah well... it is what it is. Time flows whether we will it or not. No man can tame it." He chuckled under his breath, a hollow sound. "Unless you're religious — then maybe a god or two."
Nil's lips twitched, a hint of dry amusement creeping through his guarded expression.
"Not just any god," he muttered.
Across the table, Deon tore into the last of his meat.
Grease and dark juices clung to his chin, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes — cold and sharp — drifted over the tavern like a blade skimming water.
Nil's tea sat untouched. The steam had long since died, leaving only a faint memory of warmth.
Reob leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. His gaze sharpened, the easy smile slipping away.
"Mister Nil... where are you from? And what's your destination? Same for you, Mister Deon."
Nil glanced at the battered clock above the hearth.
The hands twitched against the draft, struggling forward — like something half-dead.
"I'm from Dnih," Nil said evenly. "Heading to the University of Magic in Zlandria."
For half a breath, Reob's face cracked — wide-eyed, almost boyish surprise — before he barked a laugh, rough and too loud.
"Well then! May fortune smile on you, boy!" His voice rattled in his chest, the laughter brittle as dried leaves.
Deon said nothing. He wiped the grease from his mouth with slow, methodical strokes.
His eyes never once left the door.
Nil's tea cooled into bitterness.
The tavern door slammed open with a crash that snapped every head toward it.
A young waitress stumbled in — pale as chalk, breathless, her apron flapping around thin wrists.
She made straight for Reob, clutching his sleeve with desperate fingers.
"The Count's son," she gasped. "His carriage—he's coming into Gleo!"
For one terrible moment, Reob simply stared at her.
The tavern stilled. Even the fire seemed to hesitate, crackling lower.
"What?" Reob rasped. "Not here. He always— he always goes to my tavern in the city. Not here."
His voice cracked, brittle and stunned.
Nil leaned toward Deon, whispering low enough only the table heard.
"Didn't the old man say the Count's son was the reason this place is rotting?
Now he acts like he never even shows up."
Deon didn't answer. His eyes narrowed, watching the open door with the stillness of a hunter.
Outside, the steady drum of hooves grew louder — thunder rolling over bone-dry earth.
And beyond the door, the light died, swallowed whole by the weight of a storm that hadn't been there a minute ago.
Nil's face twisted into a brief scowl.
"Hey, old man — it's just the Count's brat. Why're you acting like a damn dragon just tore through the roof?"
Reob forced a laugh — tight, dry, brittle.
"Heh-heh... It's just... the Count's son is a problem. He usually only visits the tavern in Glen..."
Nil smirked.
"So, you've got branches now, huh? Must be swimming in coin."
Deon finally spoke, his voice low and lazy.
"Don't worry, old man."
But his eyes sharpened, catching the way Reob's hands fidgeted — like a man hiding something ugly behind his teeth.
Then—
BOOM.
The door exploded inward, the hinges shrieking.
Three rough-looking men stormed inside — boots pounding like war drums — and behind them came a fourth.
He wore a crisp white shirt, golden trousers, and gold rings that gleamed under the sickly tavern light — more than a merchant prince could boast.
Pale, huge — a slab of meat stuffed into silk — he was so wide the doorway seemed to buckle around him.
The air thickened. Even the drunkards fell silent.
Reob rushed forward, nearly stumbling over himself to greet him. His laugh was a panicked cough.
"Heh-heh... Welcome, Master Mar! I-I didn't expect— didn't imagine you'd grace a place like Gleo! Rotten, filthy Gleo, but— but your presence, truly, it's an honor! Very honored, yes, yes, very honored, heh-heh..."
Master Mar didn't answer.
He only smiled — slow, cold — his gold rings scraping faintly against each other as he flexed his thick fingers.
Behind him, the three thugs spread out across the tavern, slow and predatory — like wolves set loose in a pen.
Somewhere near the back, a glass slipped from trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.
No one dared move.
Outside, thunder rolled — or maybe it was just the hooves of something worse.
He drawled each word with the languid cadence of someone who had never been told 'no,' the contempt in his voice curling lazily, as though the world were a stage meant only for his amusement.
"Reob, it's been far too long, hasn't it? I was getting bored in the city, so I thought I'd come out here to hunt monsters. Haha! Now, make me comfortable — quickly."
Reob's spine stiffened. A forced smile stretched thin across his face as he bowed sharply. "Of course, my lord. I'll see to it at once. Please, sit wherever you prefer."
The tavern seemed to draw in a collective breath. A young waitress froze mid-step, the tray in her hands shaking, the clink of porcelain a brittle sound in the heavy silence. Her eyes flicked to the table, then to the floor, before darting nervously to the men surrounding Mar.
With deliberate slowness, Mar strolled toward a nearby table, each step an unspoken command. He sank into the chair Reob had just vacated with a casual arrogance, the wood groaning beneath him. A smug grin stretched across his face as he sprawled, as if this were his throne.
Instantly, the staff erupted into frantic action. Chairs scraped across the floor, silverware clattered in hurried, disjointed movements. The air thickened with tension, the stench of ale and smoke mingling with the stifled panic of the staff, all heads lowered in trembling submission. A waitress nearly stumbled as she rushed to clear the table, her hands unsteady as she avoided looking him in the eye.
Mar's men followed, their boots thudding like the beating of a war drum, shaking the very foundation of the tavern with each step. They filled the space behind him, broad shoulders casting long shadows over the room. The tavern seemed to shrink under the weight of their presence, and the staff scrambled to make way, their backs bent in the unspoken law of deference.
One of Mar's men lunged forward, seizing a tavern boy by the collar.
With a guttural snarl, he hurled the boy against the wall, the impact rattling the beams and knocking a painting askew.
Spittle flew from the man's mouth as he bellowed, voice low and scalding with contempt,
"You dare make the master wait? Huh? You think he's got all day to waste on worms like you?"
The boy gasped, legs kicking uselessly as he stammered,
"I-I'm very sorry, sir! I'll bring it right away!"
Two staff members scrambled, nearly tripping over themselves as they rushed forward with trays of the tavern's finest wine and steaming platters, their hands trembling as they set them before Mar without daring to lift their heads.
The boy was dragged to Mar's feet by the scruff of his shirt.
Mar leaned back with a slow grin, then pressed his boot down on the boy's face, grinding him into the dirt-streaked floorboards with the lazy cruelty of a man snuffing out a bug.
At a nearby table, Deon cast a glance toward the waitress hovering near him, her tray shivering in her hands.
Quietly, he asked,
"What's your name?"
Then, flicking his eyes toward Nil's untouched mug, he added with a dry twist of his lips,
"Also, your tea's frozen solid."
Nil let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"Oh?"
Without hesitation, he tipped the mug back and drained it in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Still better than city water."
Leaning closer, he muttered under his breath,
"Deon, let's pay and get out the back. Otherwise, you'll have to deal with that fat bastard's tantrum."
Deon smirked faintly, his fingers ghosting over the coins at his belt.
"Agreed."
His gaze shifted back to the waitress, who was staring in horror at the scene across the tavern.
In a voice barely louder than a breath, she answered,
"My name is... Liari Heleo."
Deon's eyes narrowed slightly.
Liari, huh?
For a heartbeat, the name echoed like a ghost from a life he'd left behind — a girl with the same wide, frightened eyes.
But now wasn't the time.
Softening his tone, he said,
"Don't shake so much. You're doing fine."
But Liari's lip trembled as her eyes darted to the boy crushed beneath Mar's boot.
"But... look at Gen... he's being stepped on like a dog... and nobody dares stop it..."
Nil muttered under his breath, voice sharp and bitter,
"What do you expect us to do? Fight a noble? A count's son in his own county?"
Deon said nothing.
His gaze flicked again to Liari — and the more he looked, the less he saw the trembling girl.
Instead, he saw a memory he couldn't kill:
his daughter, wide-eyed and small, standing in a place she shouldn't have been.
Blood on the floor.
She reached for him. He hadn't been fast enough.
Deon looked away, jaw tightening until the bone creaked.
Damn me, he thought. Why did I ever ask her name?
The tavern door shuddered open.
Reob stumbled back inside, pale as curdled milk. His gaze landed on Gen — crumpled under Mar's boot — and something twisted behind his eyes.
Not pity.
Something uglier.
Reob marched over and drove his boot into Gen's ribs with a sickening crunch.
"You piece of filth," Reob spat, voice high and shaking. "You dare offend Lord Mar?!"
Nil stared, stunned silent.
He muttered, voice low and raw,
"I didn't think Reob could crawl any lower."
Liari stood frozen beside them. Her tray lay smashed at her feet, forgotten.
Tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound.
Only the trembling of her thin shoulders betrayed her.
Reob dropped to his knees before Mar, forehead scraping the sticky floorboards.
"Master Mar — please — I beg you, spare him," he gasped. "I'll see he's punished. I swear it."
Mar leaned back lazily in his chair, fat rings glinting in the sour light.
He tapped one finger against his lip, savoring the moment like a man sniffing wine before a feast.
"Reob," he drawled, mockery coating every word, "I hadn't planned to... but since you're so eager..."
He smiled.
The tavern seemed to breathe around him — a slow, rancid exhale of fear.
Even the walls seemed to shrink back from that smile.
Across the room, Mar's men howled with laughter.
A hard, barking sound — not human — the sound of dogs tearing flesh.
One leaned down, spat on Gen's broken body, and said,
"Thank the gods our master's merciful, boy."
Nil's hands balled into fists under the table, nails biting flesh.
His thoughts raced:
Reob isn't just scared. He's a man already dead inside. What's he hiding? Tax fraud? Smuggling? Worse?
Deon sat motionless.
A statue carved of rage.
Nil wanted to run.
Everything in him screamed to run.
But Deon stayed — and Nil stayed with him.
Mar's chair creaked as he shifted.
His gaze slid across the room — a cold, greedy crawl — and locked onto Liari.
A spark lit behind his eyes.
His mouth twitched. Mar's tongue wet his lips with a slow, unconscious hunger.
Mar stood, his bulk shifting the air like a stormcloud.
He sauntered closer.
The ground seemed to sag under his weight.
"Master Mar," Reob whined, scrambling after him. "The grand room is ready — just as you asked."
Mar bent low, his breath foul and wet against Reob's ear.
"I'll forgive your debt," he whispered, "if you bring me that girl."
Reob hesitated.
One heartbeat.
Too long
Then he bowed, deeper than before.
Mar smiled and turned his gaze back to Liari, stripping her with his eyes.
Nil stiffened, the hairs on his neck rising. He didn't understand — not fully — but some old, buried part of him did.
He turned to Liari and asked, voice brittle,
"Why do you work here?"
Liari blinked, her soul already halfway gone.
Her voice came out a whisper, raw as scraped bone.
"My parents died," she said. "Mr. Reob... raised me. I thought... helping him... was the right thing."
She smiled then — a small, broken thing — and it was worse than any scream.
The tavern held its breath.
And in the rotting heart of it all, Mar smiled wider.
Mar lifted a thick finger and pointed at Liari.
Her breath caught, stuck in her throat, unable to escape.
And with a smile so wide it looked like it might split his face open, he said,
"Bring her."