Author's Preface
The barkeeper leaned forward against the counter, broad arms folded, settling into the posture of a man preparing to hold forth on a subject he’d given considerable thought.
“The Life Clan,” he began, his voice carrying that particular cadence of someone who’d told this story before but still found it worth telling. “Now that’s a territory worth seeing, especially if you’ve never been there before.”
Cel settled onto his stool more fully, attention sharpening despite the lingering irritation from Theron.
“The great woods are what most people remember first.” The barkeeper’s gaze drifted toward the window, though darkness had already claimed most of the view beyond it. “Trees so old they were standing before the Void Catastrophe. Some of them wide enough that it’d take ten men holding hands to circle the trunk. They say you can walk for days under that canopy and never see the sky properly.”
His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing to illustrate proportions that words couldn’t quite capture.
“Verdanthold sits right in the heart of it. Built among those ancient trees - not just near them. The city grows up and around the trunks, houses and bridges suspended between branches thicker than most buildings are wide.”
Cel tried to picture it - a city threaded through living wood, existing in three dimensions instead of just spreading flat across earth.
“Lady Morgana Groveheart rules from there,” the barkeeper continued, something shifting in his tone. Respect, maybe, or wariness. “Folk call her the Crimson Witch. Though not to her face, mind you. She earned that name during the campaigns to take back lost territory. They say in open battle, no one’s stronger. Not even the Hallowed. That she’ll massacre through rift-creatures like they’re made of paper.”
He paused, reaching for a rag and wiping down a section of counter that didn’t need cleaning.
“Strange woman, from what I hear. Cares more about fighting than politics. She handles only what she has to and leaves the rest to the houses beneath her.” He considered for a moment. “Maybe that’s why the Life Clan stays stable.”
“What about House Grovethorn?” Cel asked, remembering Theron’s constant companion - Sylvaine Grovethorn.
“Ah, them.” The barkeeper’s expression turned thoughtful. “They run the orphanage system across Life Clan territory. Been doing it for generations now. Some say it’s genuine compassion, wanting to care for children who’ve lost their parents to rift-creature attacks. Others say it’s about control - raising the next generation of commoners to be loyal to Life Clan specifically.”
His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.
“Probably both, if you ask me. People rarely do things for just one reason. But the orphanages are well-maintained, from what travelers say. Children are fed, clothed, taught trades. Could be worse situations for them to end up in.”
‘Yeah… like becoming the test object of a cult.’
The conversation continued, drifting through details about Life Clan politics, the philosophical divide between them and the Death Clan, the support they’d been providing to Storm Clan in recent years. The barkeeper spoke with the easy knowledge of someone who’d heard stories from dozens of travelers, piecing together a picture of the territory from fragments.
Cel absorbed it all, filing information away for later use. Not because he particularly cared about Life Clan dynamics, but because understanding the environment he’d soon be traveling through seemed practical. Necessary, even.
The door opened.
Two figures entered, both wearing heavy cloaks with hoods drawn up despite the tavern’s warmth. They moved with the careful deliberation of people trying not to draw attention, which of course made them immediately conspicuous. Everyone who entered the Golden Hart did so with familiarity or obvious first-time curiosity. These two seemed determined to be neither.
They crossed to the bar and settled onto stools beside Cel, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
The barkeeper straightened from his conversational lean, his expression shifting back into professional hospitality. “Evening. What’ll it be?”
The figure on Cel’s right shifted slightly. “Sorry, we’re—” The voice caught itself, then continued more quietly. “We’re not here to drink, actually.”
Something about that voice pulled at Cel’s attention. Familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place it. Male. Young. Carrying a particular bluntness that—
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Cel turned.
The hood had fallen back slightly, revealing a face he recognized immediately despite the attempt at concealment. Stone-gray eyes met his with the same direct assessment they’d carried every time they’d sparred at the Academy.
Owen Peakscale.
The second figure beside him shifted, and through the gap in her hood Cel caught sight of light green hair and the precise set of Sylvaine Grovethorn’s features.
Cel stood up quickly, muscle memory from months of etiquette lessons taking over. Began to execute the proper greeting for addressing nobles of higher standing—
“Stop.” Owen’s voice cut through the motion. His hand came up in a gesture that was half command, half plea. “No need for that. We’re undercover.” He gestured at the hoods with his free hand, as if the heavy cloaks weren’t obvious enough.
Cel’s body locked mid-bow, caught between ingrained response and the absurdity of the situation. Slowly, he straightened, settling back onto his stool with confusion replacing protocol.
“What are you doing here?” The question came out more bewildered than he’d intended.
“We’re here for you.” Owen said it like it was obvious. Like two nobles sneaking into a commoner tavern in disguise to find a fellow commoner student made perfect sense.
The confusion deepened. “Why?”
“I want a rematch.”
Cel stared at him. “A rematch of what?”
Owen’s expression shifted into something between disbelief and amusement. “Did you forget? Our arm-wrestling match. You beat me that night in the tavern. But I’ve grown stronger now. I want to test myself against you again.”
Cel’s mind scrolled back through recent memory, searching for when this supposed match had occurred. He'd been to the Golden Hart dozens of times over the past months. Had engaged in countless casual conversations, drinking contests, and arm-wrestling matches. But with Owen?
Nothing came to mind.
“I don’t remember that,” he said honestly.
Owen’s face fell slightly, genuine disappointment crossing his features. Then he rallied, determination settling back into place. “Well, regardless. I’m challenging you now.”
“I’m not interested.” The refusal came fast. Cel had more important things to worry about than arm-wrestling nobles who apparently remembered encounters he’d completely forgotten.
“Then what do you want?” Owen leaned forward slightly, gray eyes intent. “Name your terms. What would make you accept?”
Cel considered. He thought of Silas, and what he'd wanted from Zara for his silence. Of Hestia, and what she'd wanted from him for keeping his secret.
"A favor," he said finally, a faint, wry edge to his voice. "I hear those are quite in fashion these days. If I win, you owe me one. Within reason."
“Done.” Owen’s agreement came without hesitation. He started to rise, already looking around for a suitable surface—
“Hold on.” The barkeeper’s voice cut across them, sharp with the particular alarm of a man who’d seen this before. “You two aren’t destroying another one of my tables.”
Cel’s head snapped toward him. “When did I ever break a table?”
The barkeeper just looked at him, expression suggesting the question answered itself.
“We’ll do it on the ground then.” Owen was already moving, dropping to one knee beside the bar.
Cel followed Owen down, positioning himself opposite the Mountain Clan heir. They locked hands, elbows planted against wood that had been scarred by years of use. Around them, the tavern’s ambient conversation died as regulars noticed what was happening.
Someone whistled. Another voice called out, “Finally! Someone brave enough to challenge our champion!”
“Brave or stupid,” a woman’s voice added, though it carried more amusement than genuine concern.
The crowd gathered closer, forming a loose circle. Coins changed hands as bets were shouted across the space.
“Ten copper on Celvian!”
“Twenty on the stranger lasting more than three seconds!”
“You’re completely mad. Only a moron would bet against Celvian.”
“That’s what makes it sporting!”
Owen’s grip tightened around Cel’s hand, his gray eyes serious despite the theatrical nature of the setup. “Don’t hold back,” he said quietly, meant only for Cel’s ears. “Give it your all.”
Cel nodded once. “Alright.”
Someone counted down. “Three. Two. One.”
Cel poured his full strength into the connection immediately.
Owen’s hand slammed into the floor.
Wood cracked. Splintered. The impact drove through old boards that had survived years of use, creating a crater of broken timber around Owen’s knuckles.
Silence dropped across the tavern like a physical weight.
Owen stared at his hand, still pinned against shattered wood. At the damage radiating outward from the impact point. At the complete and absolute destruction of whatever test he’d imagined this would be.
“MY FLOOR!”
The barkeeper’s shout shattered the quiet. He stood behind the counter, staring at the damage with an expression that cycled rapidly through shock, dismay, and resignation. “Do you know how much good wood costs? How long it takes to get someone in here to replace sections?”
Then someone laughed.
The sound broke whatever spell had held everyone frozen. Laughter spread through the crowd like fire through dry kindling.
“Told you!”
“Never bet against Celvian!”
“That lasted even less than one second!”
Cel pushed himself upright, genuine apology surfacing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Owen was laughing too. Not bitter or defeated, just genuinely amused by the outcome. He climbed to his feet, shaking his hand out, and reached into his cloak. A leather pouch appeared, heavy enough that it landed on the bar with a solid thunk.
“All drinks tonight are on me,” he announced to the room. “Keep the rest for the floor.”
The tavern erupted. Cheers rose from every corner as regulars surged toward the bar, already calling out orders to the barkeeper whose dismay had transformed into something more resigned.
Owen turned back to Cel, still grinning. “You weren’t holding back.”
“You asked me not to.”
“I know. I just didn’t expect—” He gestured at the broken floor. “That.”
Sylvaine had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, hood still drawn up, posture suggesting she’d rather be anywhere else. Now she shifted slightly, a wordless signal that penetrated Owen’s continued amusement.
“Right. We should go.” Owen met Cel’s eyes once more. “You won fair. I’ll remember that favor owed.”
They moved toward the door together, slipping back into the streets. The crowd was too busy celebrating their sudden windfall to pay much attention to the nobles’ departure.
Just before they reached the exit, Owen glanced back. Caught Cel’s gaze across the increasingly chaotic space. Raised one hand in a gesture that might have been acknowledgement, farewell or simple respect for someone who’d thoroughly beaten him.
Then they were gone, door swinging shut behind them.
Cel stood beside the broken floor, surrounded by celebrating regulars who’d already moved past the incident to focus on free drinks. Someone clapped him on the shoulder - the same regular who’d greeted him when he’d first arrived.
“Heard the Academy departs soon for your final examinations.” The man’s face had gone slightly red, whether from excitement or alcohol Cel couldn’t determine. “That true?”
“Yes.” Cel confirmed. “In a week.”
“This calls for a proper goodbye then!” The declaration carried across the tavern, drawing immediate agreement. More people surged toward the bar, calling for the barkeeper to pour rounds.
Cel found himself pulled into the celebration despite having contributed nothing but property damage. A tankard was pressed into his hands - contents dark and probably stronger than anything a normal student should drink. But he accepted it anyway, letting the warm chaos wash over him.
He'd won a favor from a Great Clan heir, after all.
***
Evening had settled over Stella, the last remnants of daylight giving way to the particular darkness that came when too many buildings blocked the sky. Owen and Sylvaine moved through streets that had grown quieter, leaving only the night workers and people with nowhere better to be.
Owen pushed his hood back, apparently deciding concealment no longer mattered outside the tavern. His expression carried satisfaction that Sylvaine recognized from dozens of similar moments - the look he got when some plan or test had produced exactly the result he’d expected.
“I told you,” he said, voice carrying that hint of vindication. “Quite interesting, wasn’t it?”
Sylvaine’s sigh emerged quiet but pointed. “Was it really worth the effort? Showing me something I already knew?”
Owen’s grin widened. "Come on. It was fun, admit it. Seeing him beat me that easily.”
Sylvaine glanced at him sidelong. “You sound almost admiring.”
“I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Owen’s tone carried genuine puzzlement. “You know that we value strength. Finding it in unexpected places doesn’t diminish that value.”
Sylvaine just shook her head, unwilling to indulge him further.
“We should find Theron now,” she said, steering them back toward the purpose that had brought them into the city in the first place. "Before he does something that requires both of us to fix."
Owen's grin faded into something more resigned. "Fair point." He pulled his hood back up, the satisfaction of the evening settling into something more businesslike. "Let's go."