The tavern reeked of stale ale, burnt bread, and poor decisions.
In the corner, hunched over a crooked wooden table, sat the man—or rather, the elf—that every fool in the kingdom had heard of but most were too afraid to approach. Long silver hair spilled over one shoulder, tangled and unwashed, his dark green cloak damp from the rain outside. A pair of short katanas, sheathed in obsidian-black scabbards, rested against the bench beside him. His boots were still caked in dried blood, yet no one asked questions. Not about him.
They called him the Gatekeeper General, the Watcher of the Walls, the Sword Who Sees. But those who knew better just called him Veyrion.
His left eye—glowing faintly beneath a messy bang—scanned the room lazily. Behind that eye pulsed a dormant power, the kind that could rip through dimensions when awakened. But for now, it was a quiet god, sleeping inside a broken man.
"Oi!" he slurred, slamming his cup against the table, spilling ale everywhere. "Why're you all so quiet? It's a tavern, not a graveyard."
A few chuckles rolled through the crowd, but no one dared laugh too loudly. Not around him.
Veyrion leaned back, balancing on the two rear legs of his chair, his voice laced with amusement and venom. "You lot drink, dance, screw, and pretend that the world's fine. But you haven't seen what I've seen. Past that gate? Out there?" He jabbed a thumb toward the door. "It's hell dressed in grass and sunshine."
A few adventurers sneered. One younger mercenary, cocky and half-drunk himself, scoffed. "Oh please, it's just bandits and goblins out there. You're just old and scared."
Veyrion chuckled. The kind of laugh that made you rethink your last ten decisions.
He stood slowly. Not a sound in the room—just the creaking of wood as he rose. Every motion he made screamed danger, even when drunk. He walked like he'd already killed you and was just being polite enough to wait for your ghost.
"Boy," he said, pointing at the mercenary, "tell me, when you fight… what's your weakness?"
"Huh? I don't have one."
Veyrion's left eye flared with a golden glint.
"Lie," he said simply. "You drag your right foot when you swing from the left. Leaves your hip open. Your stance is wide, too much distance between your feet—easy to trip. You telegraph your thrust. And you hold your breath when you're scared. That's four weaknesses in less than five seconds. Sit down, before you choke on your ego."
The mercenary turned pale, mouth slightly open. He sat.
The tavern roared with laughter now—nervous, unsure laughter—but laughter nonetheless.
Veyrion sat back down, slouching into his seat again. "You kids think strength is about swords and stats. But strength…" He raised his drink. "…is knowing the truth. And most of you are too scared to even look at it."
Someone approached from the shadows of the room. A young woman in city guard armor. She saluted.
"General Veyrion, sir. You're needed at the gate."
He waved her off. "I'm off-duty."
"Sir," she leaned closer. "There's… something strange. A caravan arrived without warning. No merchant registry. No royal seal. And… the horses are dead, but the wheels are still moving."
The tavern went quiet again.
Veyrion's face dropped the drunk act like a mask. His posture straightened. His eye glowed, faint and focused. The room went cold.
He stood. Fast.
"Bring my blades," he said. "And tell the captain to prepare the second wall. Lock the inner gate. I don't care who's on the other side—nobody comes in until I say so."
"Yes, sir."
As she turned to go, he called after her. "And bring my coat. The one with the good blood stains. I have a feeling I'll be painting more tonight."
He turned back to the tavern, the firelight casting eerie shadows across his sharp features.
"You see?" he said to no one in particular. "This is what I mean. You sit here thinking peace is normal. It's not. Peace is the eye of the storm. And I'm the poor bastard guarding the gate to the hurricane."
He left without paying. He never had to.
To be continued in Chapter 2…