Dark Whisperer

The tavern was alive with a crackling warmth that filled every corner of the room, chasing away the winter chill outside. Thorn stepped carefully down the narrow staircase, the worn steps creaking softly under his weight.

As he reached the bottom, he paused, letting his gaze sweep over the bustling interior. It was a scene of laughter and light, the clink of mugs and the murmur of conversation creating a lively symphony that seemed worlds apart from the snow-cloaked town outside.

He noticed the quick, subtle glances in his direction, and snippets of whispered exchanges floated to his ears.

“Who’s that?” someone muttered.

“Who cares, Barkeep – another round here!” a gruff voice called from the bar, followed by a cheer as mugs were raised and clinked together.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread, underpinned by the sharper tang of fish—the town’s specialty. Thorn’s stomach rumbled softly, and he realized he hadn’t eaten properly since leaving the forest that morning.

Sliding through the crowd with a practiced ease, Thorn made his way to an empty table near the back, slipping onto a sturdy wooden bench. He settled into his seat, taking a moment to watch and listen.

Near the bar, Old Callen’s voice rang out above the din, drawing a wave of laughter. “Double or nothing, Harlan?” he cackled, his eyes twinkling. “Or do you want to save yourself the trouble of walking home barefoot again?”

“C’mon, Harlan, roll ‘em already!” Bran taunted, leaning forward, his grin wide and teasing.

The table erupted in chuckles, Harlan’s face reddened. “Double or nothing,” slapping the dice down with a sharp thud that cut through the noise. “You’ll see who’s walking barefoot.”

Bran’s grin grew wider, “If you’re so sure, then roll. Let’s see if Lady Luck’s still in your corner, or if she’s turned her back on you again.”

Old Callen clapped his hands, “Aye, that’s the spirit! Don’t disappoint us now, lad.”

The group leaned in.

And then the door swung open.

Daithi stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders, and a chorus of cheers erupted from the townsfolk.

Someone clapped Daithi on the back.

“Daithi! It’s good to see you!” a burly fisherman called, raising his glass high.

“Looks like the real party’s started now!” shouted another, his cheeks flushed red from drink and excitement.

Daithi laughed, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to settle everyone’s spirits. “Easy now,” “I’m just here to take a load off, same as the rest of you.”

Finnian’s head snapped up at the sound of the cheers, his smile widening as he caught sight of the man. “Daithi, my friend!” he called, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. “Make way, make way for our esteemed guest!”

At Finnian’s command, the people parted like water before a prow. The tavern owner leaned forward, gesturing expansively to the bar.

Near the makeshift stage, Teagan, Mara, and Eris crowded around Kieron, their faces bright with anticipation as he strummed his lute, the strings humming softly under his practiced fingers.

Mara and Eris exchanged gleeful looks, swaying to the rhythm, their eyes alight. “Give ‘em your best, Kieron!” Teagan called, her voice bright with encouragement. “Play ‘em something that’ll make even Old Callen’s toes tap!”

Kieron’s grin widened, his fingers starting a playful melody that skipped along, bright and buoyant.

Teagan, Mara, and Eris cheered, clapping their hands, and a few others turned to listen, curious.

“Sing the one about Farmer Jack!”

“Alright, alright,” he called out, his voice light and playful.

He sang a ridiculous ballad about a hapless farmer who’d fallen head over heels in love with his prize cow.

His strumming a lively, rolling melody, and the tavern began to settle, eyes turning toward the bard, a ripple of laughter already spreading in anticipation.

“The Ballad of Farmer Jack and His Beloved Bessie”

The bard’s fingers danced across the lute strings, his voice carrying a tune as lively as it was absurd:

Oh, Farmer Jack was a lonely soul, with no one for company,

Till one fateful night, by the old barn’s light, he found love ‘neath an apple tree.

For there she stood, all spotted and fine, a creature of grace and might,

With a gaze so sweet and a moo so neat, that it took poor Jack’s heart at first sight!

The townsfolk around Thorn burst into laughter, clapping along as the bard leaned into the chorus:

Oh, Bessie, oh Bessie, the light of his days,

He sang her a love song, and she answered his praise!

With her great big eyes and her dainty hooves,

She set his poor heart a’flutter with those beautiful moos!

Thorn raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress a grin as the bard continued, his voice taking on a dramatic tone:

Now Jack’s poor wife, she couldn’t believe, when Jack he ran to the fields,

With flowers in hand, a ridiculous man, a’courting with bovine zeal.

“You’ve lost your wits!” his dear wife did cry, as she waved her skillet high,

But Jack didn’t care, ‘cause true love was there, in the form of a long-lashed eye!

The bard paused, his face twisting into a mockingly tragic expression as he sang the next verse, each word dripping with feigned heartbreak:

And when the moon rose full and high,

He’d sing her his tune with a soulful sigh,

“Oh, Bessie, my love, my spotted queen,

With you, my dear, I’d rather be seen!”

The crowd roared as the bard broke into a comically high-pitched voice, mimicking the imagined response:

“Moo, moo,” she sang, with a voice so fair,

“Moo, moo,” she cooed, in the cool night air!

And Jack he’d swoon, like a lovestruck calf,

Till his poor wife showed up, and chased his arse!

Even Thorn had to laugh aloud as the others joined in, slamming their mugs on the tables in time with the chorus:

Oh, Bessie, oh Bessie, the light of his days,

He sang her a love song, and she answered his praise!

With her great big eyes and her dainty hooves,

She set his poor heart a’flutter with those beautiful moos!

The bard took a long, dramatic pause, holding out his hand to silence the chuckling crowd before launching into the final, utterly ridiculous verse:

And so it went, for many a year, till Jack’s poor wife had had enough,

She chased him out, with a shout and a clout, and packed up all of his stuff.

“Go wed your cow, you crazy fool!” she cried with furious grace,

“But don’t bring her home for dinner, or I’ll cook her in your place!”

The tavern erupted in laughter, people doubling over in their seats. Thorn shook his head, his grin widening as the bard launched into the final chorus with gusto, the entire room joining in:

Oh, Bessie, oh Bessie, the light of his days,

He sang her a love song, and she answered his praise!

With her great big eyes and her dainty hooves,

She set his poor heart a’flutter with those beautiful moos!

The song ended with a flourish, the bard holding his last note dramatically as the townsfolk cheered and whooped. Someone threw a handful of coins into the air, and the bard caught them deftly, bowing with an exaggerated sweep of his hat.

“Thank you, thank you!” he called, grinning ear to ear. “And remember, my friends—love comes in many forms! Just… maybe not the four-legged kind, aye?”

The room erupted in laughter once more, and Thorn shook his head, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth. For a moment, he could almost forget the troubles that lurked outside the warmth of the tavern walls. Almost.

Thorn shook his head, hiding his smile behind his hand. There was something endearing about the whole scene—so much life and joy, even when the world outside seemed bleak and unforgiving. This was the real strength of places like this, he realized. Not the strength of arms or fortifications, but the strength of spirit.

Over at the bar, Selene was wiping down a row of freshly washed mugs. Eamon sidled up beside her, his expression casual but his voice low, barely audible over the noise. “Did you see Orin earlier?” he asked, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Saw him head to his room, but he hasn’t come down since.”

Selene paused, “Orin? Haven’t seen him,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the stairs that led to the upper rooms. “Odd, though. You’d think he’d be down here, bragging about those exotic spices he brought back. It’s usually hard to shut him up once he gets started.”

Eamon’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But it’s been hours, and he’s still holed up in his room.” He cast a quick glance around, “Maybe he’s just avoiding Finnian.”

Selene’s brow furrowed, and she followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. “Or maybe he’s up to something,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Wouldn’t be the first time, right?”

Eamon chuckled, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t. Remember last spring, when he claimed he’d found those rare herbs?”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“Turned out he was just hiding a stash of cheap knockoffs.” He shook his head, “Finnian wasn’t too pleased when he found out.”

“Oh dear…”

Selene’s eyes drifted back to the stairs.

“Maybe I’ll check on him later,” she said, more to herself than to Eamon. “Make sure he hasn’t gotten himself into trouble again.”

Finnian caught Selene’s eye with a quick gesture, his voice warm but firm. “Selene, could you help Leena upstairs? She’s had a bit too much, and I’d rather she rest here than try to stumble home.”

Selene glanced over at Leena, who was swaying, her eyes half-closed, a lazy smile plastered on her flushed face. “Uh… Sure thing,” she replied, glancing back at Eamon.

Eamon nodded subtly. Selene picked up the cue.

“C’mon, Leena, let’s get you to bed.”

Harlan hesitated, his fingers hovering over the dice.

“You’re stalling, Harlan,” Old Callen said, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge that pushed at Harlan’s pride. “Or did you forget how to roll?”

The taunt worked. Harlan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands gripping the dice tighter. “Fine,” he snapped, “I’m not scared of a little gamble.”

He lifted the dice, and the table fell silent. Harlan’s eyes darted to Bran, then to the dice in his hand.

“Let’s see if you’re leaving here with those boots,” Bran said, his grin sharp, almost predatory. “Or if they’ll be keeping my feet warm tonight.”

Harlan’s hand trembled slightly, he glared at the dice.

“Well?” Old Callen urged, leaning back with a sly smile. “We’re all waiting, lad.”

Harlan took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the dice one last time. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Here goes.”

“Well, what’ll it be?” Finnian asked, deftly sliding a mug in front of him. “Something to warm the bones, or do you need something stronger to keep you standing?”

Daithi laughed softly, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “The first, I think. It’s been a long day.”

The tavern owner nodded sagely, already reaching for a pitcher. “Aye, that it has.” He poured the steaming liquid

“There you go. Freshly brewed today. Should take the edge off.”

“Thank you, Finnian.” Daithi took a careful sip, “Just what I needed.”

“I’m glad you made it. Thought those ledgers might have swallowed you up for good.”

Daithi chuckled softly, “They nearly did,” Daithi sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not getting any easier,”.

Finnian leaned closer, his tone dropping low. “You’re doing the best you can, Daithi.”

“But it’s more than that,” Daithi replied, rubbing a hand over his face. “Things are... slipping out of control.”

Finnian’s expression softened, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “Which is why we need to stay strong,” he murmured. “The council needs to be unified. No more of this back and forth.”

“I agree,” Daithi said, his voice firmer now. “The people need direction. And we can’t afford to let them see us divided.”

“Exactly.” Finnian’s smile widened, though his eyes remained cool. “Which is why I think we need some... fresh perspectives. A voice to guide us back.”

Daithi nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re not wrong. We’ve been going around in circles with some of these issues for a while now.” He set his glass down, fingers tapping lightly on the wood.

“So, what’s the angle here? You’ve got someone in mind?”

Finnian’s smile widened, “I do, actually. But I want to get your take on it first.” He glanced around again, his tone lowering. “Someone who understands things others might not. Someone who’s... been around.”

“Who were you thinking of?”

“Hey, I’ve got a question for you lot,” one of the hunters called out, his voice cutting through the hum of the tavern, loud enough to draw a few heads.

“How do you manage to come back with empty nets when you’re literally on top of the food?” He leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face as the other hunters burst into laughter, slapping the table and clinking their mugs together.

At the fishermen’s table, the mood was far from jovial.

One of the fishermen, a burly man with dark circles under his eyes and a thick, weather-beaten beard, looked up slowly, his gaze dark and unamused.

“Maybe we don’t waste our time chasing shadows in the woods,” he muttered. His fingers drummed against the side of his mug.

“Oh, right, that’s it,” the hunter shot back, “Too busy hauling in all those… what was it again? Slippery eels?”

The comment earned another round of raucous laughter from the hunters’ table, a few of them banging their fists on the wooden surface in delight. But the fishermen’s table was stone-faced, their eyes narrowing.

Thorn, from his spot near the back, noticed the way the man’s shoulders tensed, the way his grip on his mug tightened.

“You think you’re funny?” the fisherman growled, his voice low but carrying, “Maybe if you lot spent less time running your mouths and more time helping out, we wouldn’t be having these problems.”

“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s just a joke.”

Another fisherman, younger and leaner, leaned forward. “Maybe you’d find it funnier if your family was wondering where their next meal was coming from,” he snapped, “But then again, I guess it’s easy to laugh when you’re frolicking through the woods instead of trying to make a living.”

Thorn could see the signs—a clenched fist here, a sharp inhale there.

Old Callen’s table was quieter now, the playful banter replaced by a tight, anxious silence.

Harlan’s hand trembled as he lifted the dice.

“Last roll,” he muttered, he glanced at Bran, who sat across from him, a crooked grin on his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“If this doesn’t go my way, it’s the walk of shame for me.”

“Make it good then, Harlan. Or you’ll be the talk of the town for weeks. Imagine telling your wife you lost those fancy boots over a bad roll... again!”

“Aye, roll them dice, lad. We’re all watching,” Old Callen said, his voice carrying a slight edge, the words a nudge, a dare.

The table fell silent.

Harlan hesitated, his knuckles white as he clutched the dice, beads of sweat dotting his brow.

A deep breath. A quick, fleeting look at Bran’s smirking face. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw the dice onto the table.

They clattered loudly, the sharp clicks echoing in the sudden quiet, spinning and bouncing, each tumble feeling like an eternity.

A collective intake of breath.

Leena’s head lolled slightly as she turned, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like a protest, but she let Selene lead her away. Selene hooked an arm around the older woman’s waist, steadying her as they began to make their way through the throng. The crowd parted slightly, but it wasn’t an easy path—there were elbows to dodge, laughter to weave through, and tables to sidestep.

Her thoughts drifted back to what Eamon had said earlier, his words playing over in her mind.

Orin hasn’t been down since he went up to his room.

Selene’s brow furrowed slightly, and she cast a glance toward the dimly lit stairs at the far end of the room. Leena’s room was down the same hall, not far from Orin’s. She didn’t like to pry, but the whole thing felt... off. Maybe once she got Leena settled, she’d take a quick peek, just to ease her mind.

“Alright, Leena, almost there,” she murmured, guiding her toward the narrow staircase at the back. “Just a few more steps, and you can lie down.”

“Selis.”

Daithi blinked, caught off guard. “Selis?” he repeated, his voice rising a notch.

“Why would we invite that madman back to the council?”

“He has the knowledge, Daithi. The understanding of our traditions, the wisdom of the old ways. He’s exactly what we need to remind everyone of where we come from, to lead us back to our roots.”

Daithi frowned.

“Listen, Daithi, Selis is the right person for this,” he said, leaning in closer. “You might not like him, but he knows things—things we need to understand.”

Daithi’s eyes hardened, and he shook his head, “No, Finnian. I won’t bring him back to the council just because he’s got his head full of riddles and gods know what else. He’s unstable, and you know it.” He glanced around, catching the eyes of a few onlookers who quickly looked away.

“What message does it send to everyone else if we invite him back?”

Finnian’s composure wavered, his hand gripping the bar, “You’re being shortsighted, Daithi,” he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “Selis can help us navigate what’s coming. He understands the old ways better than anyone else, and we need that now more than ever.”

“And at what cost?” Daithi shot back, his eyes narrowing. “We’re supposed to be moving forward, not dragging the town back into the past.”

“Traditions are more than enough,” Finnian interrupted sharply, his eyes flashing for just a moment, “Tradition is what kept us strong before. It can do so again.”

Daithi hesitated, clearly uncertain. His gaze shifted, almost unconsciously, toward the dim corner where a shadowed form sat alone. Finnian’s eyes followed, confusion flickering across his face as Daithi’s expression changed, his focus sharpening.

“…Hmm, what if…”

“What?” Finnian’s brow furrowed,

“You may be right. Fresh eyes, fresh thoughts. Maybe he could offer... something useful.”

“No, no, Daithi,” He leaned in urgently, dropping his voice even lower. “Outsiders are trouble. They bring more problems than they solve. I’m talking about our own people. We have what we need right here. Selis is—”

But Daithi wasn’t listening anymore.

Finnian’s smile froze. “That’s not what I meant.” He gritted his teeth, “Daithi, you’re misunderstanding—”

But Daithi was already rising from his seat, patting Finnian’s shoulder in a distracted, almost absent-minded gesture. “You may be right. Fresh eyes, fresh thoughts. Maybe he could offer... something useful.”

“An outsider,” Daithi murmured thoughtfully.

“You said it yourself. A fresh perspective.”

Finnian’s hand clenched around the rim of the counter. “No,”

But Daithi was already moving, weaving his way through the crowd toward Thorn’s corner.

As Daithi approached Thorn, the pleasant mask Finnian wore slipped, just for a heartbeat. His teeth bared slightly, a grimace more akin to a snarl than a smile, and his eyes burned with a sudden, fierce hatred.

At Old Callen’s table, Harlan’s final roll had hit the table.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence, and then Harlan’s shoulders slumped, his face crumpling in disappointment.

A collective groan rippled around the table, a mix of sympathy and amusement, quickly followed by laughter and a few playful jeers.

“Ah, there it is!” Bran crowed, slapping Harlan on the back with exaggerated sympathy. “Looks like it’s the walk of shame for you”

Old Callen leaned back in his chair, grinning, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Aye, a fair bet’s a fair bet. Don’t worry, lad, I’ll save you a seat next to the fire to warm those bare feet.”

The hunters’ banter had sharpened, their voices cutting through the murmur of the tavern. “What’s the matter?” - “Lake too cold for you lot to cast a net? Or maybe you’re just scared you’ll actually catch something this time, eh?” He leaned back.

The fishermen, hunched over their mugs, stiffened, exchanging dark, sidelong glances. One of them, a burly man with a sun-weathered face and heavy, calloused hands, tightened his grip around his mug until his knuckles whitened. “You talk big,” he said, his voice low and edged with warning, “maybe you should send your wife out to hunt... we all know she’s great with wood”

The hunter’s smile disappeared. His gaze fiery.

The fishermen didn’t flinch, their eyes hard, unyielding, as they met the hunter’s gaze.

“Careful now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying clear across the room. “Wouldn’t want to spill your drink.”

Thorn, from his darkened corner, caught the subtle shift—the way the fishermen’s muscles tensed, the hunters leaning forward, ready, like two predators circling each other.

Upstairs, Selene guided Leena into a small, cozy room. She gently helped the older woman into bed tucking a blanket around her with a reassuring smile.

“Stay here, get some rest,”

Selene closed the door and straightened up, ready to head back downstairs, but something made her pause. Her eyes drifted toward the end of the hall, where a faint sliver of light peeked out from a slightly ajar door.

Orin’s door. She strained her ears, catching a faint, rhythmic drip that echoed softly in the silence. Her brow furrowed, curiosity and a creeping sense of unease prickling at the back of her mind.

What was that sound?

She hesitated, then, almost against her better judgment, she began to move down the hall, each step quieter than the last, her breath shallow.

The sound grew louder as she approached—drip, drip, drip—steady and unyielding, like a heartbeat.

Daithi approached the table cautiously, his gaze lingering on Thorn’s still form. The stranger sat alone, his expression inscrutable, his attention locked onto the empty bar where Finnian had been moments before. Daithi hesitated, unsure if he was intruding on some private contemplation, but he knew this was too important to leave to chance.

“May I?” Daithi asked quietly, gesturing to the empty seat across from Thorn.

Thorn didn’t immediately respond. His eyes remained fixed on the bar, a slight frown creasing his brow. He had seen something in Finnian’s face—a flicker of raw, unguarded emotion that didn’t fit with the jovial, affable tavern owner’s public demeanour. Rage. Contempt. He wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but every instinct screamed at him to be cautious.

“Excuse me?” Daithi’s voice cut through his thoughts, a thread of genuine concern lacing the words now.

Thorn blinked, shaking off the trance-like state he’d fallen into. He turned his head slowly, meeting Daithi’s worried gaze, and gave a faint, polite nod. “Of course,” he murmured. “Please, sit.”

Relief washed over Daithi’s face as he lowered himself onto the stool opposite Thorn. For a moment, neither spoke.

“Something troubling you?” Daithi’s question was casual, but there was a keen edge to it. He studied Thorn with the shrewd eyes of a man used to weighing people’s worth, judging their character with little more than a glance.

Thorn hesitated. He could play this a dozen ways—deflect, probe, ignore. But he sensed that Daithi was here for a reason beyond simple curiosity. And he needed to know what that reason was. So, he chose the path that offered the most information.

“Just thinking,” Thorn replied evenly, leaning back slightly. “Who is the bald man behind the bar?”

Daithi blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Finnian?” He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see the tavern owner still there. “Ah, yes. He’s… well-respected around here. People trust him.”

“Do they?” Thorn murmured, his tone deliberately neutral.

Daithi narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing something beneath the calm surface of Thorn’s words. But he shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. “He means well, even if he’s a bit... fervent at times.”

Thorn’s gaze sharpened. “Fervent?”

Daithi shifted uncomfortably, as if realizing he might have said too much. He cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. “He believes in tradition. Strongly. And in a place like this, tradition holds weight. But...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But I didn’t come here to talk about Finnian.”

Thorn tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Then why did you come?”

Daithi hesitated for a moment, then spoke, “I wanted to know what you thought of the town—what you’ve seen so far.”

Thorn glanced down at his half-eaten plate, a piece of salt fish resting on the edge. “I’m having dinner. Salt fish. Tastes like it came from the sea. If the lake is connected to the sea, why are you having food shortages?”

Daithi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple. If we’re lucky, the ice recedes enough for a few boats to sail out. But in winter, it’s a major risk. The ice can shift, or freeze over more than our boats can handle. For many years, we managed by farming in the spring and summer, storing the harvest, and relying on the lake to sustain us through the rest. But...”

He trailed off, his expression tightening. Thorn waited, sensing there was more to this. “But now you can’t?”

Daithi nodded slowly. “The lake isn’t giving as much as it used to. Fish stocks have dropped, and there are... other issues.” He glanced around, as if wary of prying ears. “The kind that make men nervous to even talk about.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “Like bandits?”

Daithi's gaze snapped back to Thorn, surprise flickering across his face. “You’ve encountered them?”

“I crossed paths with a few,” Thorn said, his tone casual. “Seemed more desperate than dangerous.”

Daithi’s shoulders slumped slightly. “They’re growing bolder, attacking traders, even raiding small farms. It’s all adding up—shortages, fewer trade routes, and more mouths to feed.”

There was a brief silence before Thorn spoke again. “And hunting? What’s the game like around here?”

“Sparse,” Daithi admitted. “It’s been difficult, especially in winter.”

Thorn nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I spotted a doe earlier today. Seemed healthy. If there’s still game, maybe the problem isn’t as dire as it seems.”

Daithi’s eyes lit up, a glimmer of hope breaking through his weariness. “You saw a doe?” He leaned forward, almost eager. “If there’s something we’re missing—if there’s a way to improve our hunting—”

“It could help,” Thorn interjected, his voice calm but firm. “But you’d need someone who knows what they’re doing, not just going out there swinging a bow around.”

Daithi leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I’d like to extend an invitation.”

Thorn’s gaze met his, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “To what?”

“To the council meeting tomorrow. If you could share your insights... your experience, it might make all the difference. We need every advantage we can get.”

“To what?” Thorn asked, his voice soft but steady.

“To the next town council meeting,” Daithi replied, his gaze unwavering. “We need more perspectives. New voices to challenge the old ways, to push for solutions that the council hasn’t yet considered.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “This town is on the brink, Thorn. We’re struggling. I won’t lie to you—we need help. And I think you might have something valuable to offer.”

For a long moment, Thorn said nothing. His eyes searched Daithi’s face, weighing the sincerity of his words. Part of him wanted to refuse outright—he had seen what meddling in local politics could lead to. It was a path fraught with pitfalls, one that often ended in violence and betrayal.

But there was something genuine in Daithi’s gaze. A quiet desperation. A willingness to listen, to change. Thorn felt the weight of the man’s plea settle on him, and he found himself reconsidering. He leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful.

“And what, exactly, would you want me to offer?” he asked carefully.

“Your insight,” Daithi replied simply. “Your experience. You’ve seen more of the world than any of us. Maybe… just maybe, you’ve seen places overcome challenges like the ones we’re facing.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “And if nothing else, you could help us see what we’re missing.”

One of the fishermen, slammed his mug down on the table, shoving his chair back with such force that it toppled over, clattering loudly against the floor. He stood, unsteady but resolute, jabbing a thick, calloused finger at the nearest hunter. “Say that again, I dare you,”.

The hunter, who had been lounging back in his chair with a smug, lopsided grin, straightened up, his expression hardening. “Fine, I will,” he began, his tone mocking, but he didn’t get the chance to finish. The words had barely left his mouth when a mug whizzed through the air, crashing square into his face.

The sudden, violent act was like a match struck in a room soaked in oil.

For a heartbeat, there was a stunned silence, a collective intake of breath, and then everything exploded at once.

The tavern erupted into chaos.

Chairs were overturned, tables shoved aside, and shouts filled the air, overlapping in a cacophony of anger and confusion. A few patrons tried to duck out of the way, while others, caught up in the frenzy, lunged into the fray, fists swinging and mugs flying.

Kieron, who had been mid-verse, was abruptly cut off, his lute silencing with a discordant twang as he froze, wide-eyed and bewildered. He stood there on the makeshift stage, his mouth half-open in a stunned expression, fingers still poised over the strings.

Daithi turned, startled by the sudden commotion. He looked back at Thorn, his eyes wide, darting between the chaos and the man across from him. “We need you,” he said, almost shouting over the escalating noise. He gestured toward Thorn, his voice strained with urgency. “Please, we could use your help—more than I think even we know.”

Thorn stood, his gaze sharp and assessing, taking in the escalating situation.

He was about to step forward when Finnian’s imposing form emerged from the throng, cutting through the chaos.

Finnian moved with a deliberate, heavy pace, like an unstoppable tide rolling through the tavern. There was no rush to his steps—he didn’t need it. His usual warm smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard expression, and his jaw was set like iron.

The burly fisherman swung a wild fist, but Finnian didn’t even flinch. The punch landed solidly against his back, but it was like hitting a stone wall. Without breaking stride, Finnian swung back, his arm moving in a slow, sweeping arc.

The blow connected with the side of the man’s head, sending him stumbling, his knees buckling under the sheer force.

Another brawler, a wiry hunter, lunged at him, fists raised, trying to catch Finnian off guard. But Finnian didn’t even bother to dodge. The hunter’s punches glanced off Finnian’s chest and arms, barely making an impact.

With a single, effortless motion, Finnian reached out, grabbed the man by the collar, and lifted him clean off the ground. He held him there for a moment, suspended in the air, before throwing him across the room.

The hunter crashed into a table, sending mugs and plates flying, his body crumpling against the floorboards.

The fight raged around him, but Finnian was like an elephant amidst a pack of lions—slow, powerful, and utterly unyielding.

A wild punch from behind struck him on the shoulder, and he turned slowly, almost lazily, his eyes narrowing. He swung his arm, a heavy, sweeping motion that sent the attacker crashing into a nearby chair.

Finnian swung his arm outwards, catching a man square in the chest and sending him sprawling across the floor, skidding until he collided with a table leg.

Another attacker lunged; a glass bottle raised to smash against Finnian’s head. But Finnian’s arm came up, slow but unyielding, and he caught the bottle mid-swing, wrenching it out of the man’s grasp.

He held it for a moment, his eyes dark and steady, then he carefully placed it on the floor. Without a word, he backhanded the man, the force of the blow sending him reeling into the wall, where he slumped, dazed.

Finnian didn’t block, didn’t dodge. He let the hits come, absorbing them like the ocean absorbs a wave, and responded with heavy, crushing blows that ended each confrontation with brutal finality.

His strength wasn’t in speed—it was in the weight behind each movement.

The brawlers, once so fierce and defiant, began to hesitate, their movements faltering as they realized what they were up against.

Finnian wasn’t just stopping the fight—he was breaking it, grinding it down with slow, methodical efficiency. His expression never changed, his eyes cold and unblinking.

The chaos gradually died, the sounds of scuffling and shouting replaced by the heavy breathing of those who had been left standing—or rather, those who had been left lying.

Finnian stood in the centre of it all, his presence a dark, looming shadow. He hadn’t needed to rush or rage; he had simply dominated, imposing his will on the room with sheer, overwhelming force.

Daithi watched, stunned, as Finnian’s control over the room became absolute. It was as if the chaos itself bowed to him, silenced by his presence.

Thorn, still poised to act, paused, his eyes narrowing as he watched Finnian assert his authority. He could feel the unspoken challenge, the way Finnian’s gaze swept the room, daring anyone to defy him.

Slowly, Thorn sat back down, his movements deliberate, almost taunting. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the table, his gaze still fixed on Finnian.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, unreadable smile, as if to say, I’m watching you. But he didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Finnian’s eyes found Thorn’s across the room.

“This is my tavern. This is my town,” Finnian’s stare seemed to say, his stance unyielding, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. And we don’t need outsiders.

Thorn’s lips curled slightly, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. He leaned slightly toward Daithi, never breaking eye contact with Finnian.

“I’ll come to your council meeting,”

Selene nudged the door open with the tips of her fingers, the hinges creaking softly. The room inside was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners, and her breath hitched as she took in the sight.

Orin was slumped in a chair, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed and unfocused. His skin was pale, almost sickly, his hair wet and slicked against his forehead. Water dripped slowly from his fingers, pooling beneath him on the wooden floor.

Selene’s heart began to pound, a cold fear coiling in her chest.

She stood frozen, her eyes wide, unable to tear her gaze away from Orin’s limp form.

The sight didn’t make sense.

She wanted to call out his name, to shake him awake, but the words caught in her throat.

Selene’s hand moved to her mouth, stifling a gasp as she fought to keep calm, her mind racing.

Should she run? Should she get help? But she couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from the impossible, terrible image before her. She could only stand there, paralyzed, as the rhythmic drip marked each agonizing second, dragging out her fear into a long, endless moment.