Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's walking catastrophe, slumped against the tavern's bar, his body a map of aches from the Zenoite mine. His thigh gash throbbed like a pissed-off Zeltar, his burned ribs screamed with every breath, and his grazed arm stung like a bad date with Bera's spoon.
The Black Stone Tavern was quieter now, the morning crowd thin, but the air still buzzed with last night's ballad-singing chaos.Bera leaned over the bar, her apron tight enough to make Killy's thoughts wander to places even the Supreme Elf shouldn't go.
She twirled her spoon, eyes glinting with mischief. "Still smelling like a moozze den, elf," she purred, voice low and dangerous. "My stew's got more appeal than your greasy hide, and that's saying something."
Killy grinned, leaning closer despite his ribs' protests. "Bera, love, your stew's hot, but I'm betting your curves could boil a Gromble alive. Care to test me in the kitchen again?" She flicked a rag at his face, hitting his grazed arm. "Keep dreaming, you oily pest. My spoon's got better taste than to tangle with your... swordplay." Her wink was pure provocation, and Killy clutched his heart, staggering theatrically. "Oh, Broom Queen, my blades are ready to dance in your pot anytime!"
Marko, polishing a tankard nearby, snorted so hard he nearly dropped it. "Get a room, you two, or at least a bath! Those moozze tails are scaring us customers." He kicked the sack, a Krovar scale skidding across the floor, glinting like a taunt.
Janko, the Cursed Cat, skulked in a corner, muttering curses and picking Flaevyn feathers from his sleeve—remnants of a failed prank. Killy waved a moozze tail at him, grinning. "Oi, Cursed Cat, want this for your next whiskers? Matches your charm!"
Janko's scowl could've curdled ale, but he stayed put, pinned by the memory of last night's tavern roasting.
The door creaked, and Goran stomped in, his beard a bristling storm cloud, eyes sharper than Killy's twin swords. He jerked his head toward the ladder. "Roof, elf. Now." Killy blinked, still buzzing from Bera's taunts, but followed, dragging his battered body up the rungs, the curse making each step a war.
On the tavern roof, Aeneria's morning sky stretched wide, stars fading into dawn. Goran sat on the shingles, tankard in hand, his usual glower softened by something Killy couldn't place—pride, maybe, or something heavier."You're getting good, kid," Goran rumbled, voice like gravel rolling downhill. "Too good."
Killy sprawled beside him, ribs screaming, and stared. "Uh, thanks, big guy. Didn't know you noticed anything past your ale." Goran snorted, sipping, then fixed Killy with a look that made the shard in his pocket feel heavier. "Your dual-sword work—Wind's Rebuke, Thunder's Edge—it's sharper than mine was at your age. No qi, and you're still swinging like a damn storm. That Krovar? Peak Warrior. Most'd be dead. You dropped a boulder on it, greased it like a Gromble orgy, and walked away."
Killy's jaw dropped, nearly sliding off the roof. "You saying I'm better than you, old man?" Goran chuckled, a rare sound, like a Zeltar laughing. "Not yet, fool. My experience, even without qi, would still floor you. But that curse?" He nodded at Killy, who winced as his thigh gash pulsed. "It's holding you back. Without it, you'd be a problem—even for me. Back in my day, I was strong, but you? You're a freak, kid. Stronger than I was at twenty, curse or no curse. Won't be long before you outstrip me, qi or not."
Killy's eyes widened, Goran, the seven-time Arena of Immortals champion, admitting this? "Why're you telling me this?" he blurted, flailing, his burned ribs protesting.
Goran stared at the horizon, voice low. "Because Opeka's too small for you. That shard, the First Altar, those questions eating you—they're your path, not this village. I tied myself here, drinking away the Destroyers, the Ork Wars, the blood and steel. Don't make my mistake. You've got a destiny, kid. Follow it."
Killy swallowed, stunned, the shard's pulse syncing with his heartbeat. Goran sipped his ale, then continued, words heavy as Zenoite. "Go to Adena, the big city north of Solarija. My old comrade, Brakus, runs a tavern there—The Scaled Fang. Fought with him in the Ork Wars, back when we were Destroyers, carving through tusked bastards under Solarija's banner. He's no drunk like me.
Leads a sect now—Dragon's Tail, one of the strongest in this corner of the kingdom. Brakus knows Altars, sects, the old qi paths. He'll help you with that shard, maybe point you to answers. But don't expect a warm hug—he's meaner than a moozze swarm."Killy's mind reeled, the Supreme Elf speechless for the second time in a day. Goran, a Destroyer, pushing him toward a city, a sect, a destiny? "Brakus? Dragon's Tail?
You're just now telling me you were a badass?" Killy flailed, nearly toppling off the roof. "What's next, you saying Bera's secretly a cultivator?"
Goran snorted, tossing his empty tankard at Killy, who dodged, wincing as his arm stung. "Don't push it, elf. Go to Adena. Find Brakus. Don't make me drag you there myself."
Back in the tavern, Killy stumbled down the ladder, his head spinning faster than a Flaevyn in a gale.
Bera was wiping the bar, her apron still doing dangerous things to his imagination. "What's got you looking like a moozze ate your braid?" she teased, leaning forward, her voice a sultry challenge. "Dreaming of my spoon again, or did Goran spank you up there?" Killy grinned, pervy spark reigniting despite his aches. "Bera, love, I'd let your spoon spank me any day, but Goran's sending me to Adena to chase my destiny. Wanna come? I'll need someone to keep my blades... polished." She flicked ale at him, laughing, her eyes wicked. "Polish your own blades, you greasy Gromble. My curves stay here, but I'll save you a stew—if you survive."
Marko, overhearing, tossed a moozze tail at Killy's head. "Adena, eh? Better not bring that stink there, elf. Those city folk'll forge you into a spoon!" Janko, still sulking, muttered, "Hope they shave that braid off." Killy waved the moozze tail like a flag, grinning.
"Cursed Cat, my braid's gonna shine in Adena, unlike your whiskers!"
The tavern erupted in laughs, Bera tossing another rag that stuck to Killy's oily tunic.As Killy limped out, the shard's glow felt heavier, Adena's promise looming like a storm. The Krovar scales in his sack clinked, a reminder of his victory, but Goran's words echoed louder—destiny, Brakus, Dragon's Tail.
The Supreme Elf clutched the shard, his grin wild. "Adena, here comes the legend," he muttered, whistling a new verse of "Cursed Cat" as Opeka faded behind him.