"Haah… I can’t believe it. Where’s the informant? I’ve been sitting here for 3 hours now…"
The cloaked figure sighed deeply and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose beneath his half-mask.
This was precisely the kind of attention he’d been instructed to avoid.
Lady Ophelia had been explicit in her orders: maintain a low profile, secure the missing shipnts, and return to Aurean without incident.
Three simple tasks that now seed impossibly complicated by his montary lapse in judgnt.
"For the love of the Great Tree," he muttered under his breath, his palm eting his forehead with an audible smack.
"One night. I just needed to get through one night without causing a scene."
He glanced around at the tavern’s patrons, who were still gawking at him with expressions ranging from terror to awe.
So had already begun edging toward the door, while others whispered feverishly to their companions, no doubt spinning tales that would grow more exaggerated with each retelling.
"Lady Ophelia’s going to deduct this from my pay for sure..."
He reached for his drink, hoping the strong elven spirits might dull the headache that was beginning to form behind his temples.
The liquid burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat, warming him from the inside out.
He had just set the empty glass back on the counter when he felt it—that distinct prickling sensation at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched.
Not by the tavern patrons—their curious stares were obvious and expected. No, this was different. More focused. More deliberate.
He didn’t turn around imdiately. Instead, he caught the reflection in the polished surface of a copper serving tray hanging on the wall behind the bar.
Two figures stood in the splintered doorway, their dark uniforms unmistakable even in the dim tavern light.
The Florence family insignia glead on their collars, a subtle announcent of their allegiance that might as well have been a trumpet blast to Julian’s trained eye.
"No fucking way…"
The pair—a young man and woman, both looking barely old enough to enter a tavern without being questioned—scanned the room with the wide-eyed wonder of tourists rather than the calculated assessnt of trained operatives.
Their gazes finally settled on his cloaked form, and he could practically feel the weight of their stares between his shoulder blades.
They approached cautiously, weaving through the scattered tables and gawking patrons with the awkward determination of those trying desperately not to appear out of place while being precisely that.
The young man nearly tripped over an abandoned stool, catching himself at the last mont with a muffled curse that made his female companion wince.
He closed his eyes briefly, summoning patience from reserves he wasn’t entirely sure existed anymore.
Lady Ophelia had ntioned sending "support" for this mission, but he’d assud that ant additional resources, not... whatever this was.
"Excuse ," ca a voice from behind him, pitched low in an obvious attempt at discretion that sohow managed to be more conspicuous than shouting would have been.
"Are you... the Chief of Operations?"
The man in the brown cloak didn’t respond.
He took another mont to study their reflections—the young man’s eager, nervous energy; the woman’s more reserved deanor but equally obvious inexperience. Your journey continues at .Côm
Both wore their weapons with the careful self-consciousness of those who had trained extensively but never truly tested their skills in combat.
"It depends," he said finally, his voice low enough that they had to lean forward to hear him.
"Who’s asking?"
The young man straightened his posture, attempting to project confidence and authority.
"l and Fletra of the Florence House Guard," he declared, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.
"Lady Ophelia sent us to—"
"Shhh…." He raised a gloved hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The tavern had grown quieter since the incident with Balthazar, and too many ears were straining to catch this conversation.
"Outside," he said simply.
Without waiting for their response, he stood, his height causing both Florence guards to take an involuntary step backward.
He reached into his cloak, retrieving two small pouches that clinked softly with the unmistakable sound of coins.
Turning to the waitress, who stood frozen behind the bar with wide, erald green eyes that seed to catch every flicker of candlelight, he placed both pouches on the counter with surprising gentleness.
"The first is for the repairs," he said, pushing one pouch forward.
The drawstring had co loose, revealing a bag of silver coins—far more than necessary to fix a simple wall.
"The second is for you, for your kind service and the... unpleasantness you endured."
The waitress stared at him, her silver hair falling in a cascade around her slender shoulders as she tilted her head in confusion.
Her delicate elven features shifted from fear to bewildernt, her long fingers hesitating before reaching toward the unexpected offering.
"Sir, I... this is too much," she whispered, her lodic voice carrying the subtle accent typical of Silverleaf natives.
"The damage isn’t—"
"Please, I’m truly sorry about what happened here. I didn’t intend to cause such a disturbance in your establishnt."
The cloak shifted slightly as he bowed his head in a gesture of genuine respect—sothing rarely shown to tavern servers, especially by those who carried themselves with such obvious authority.
"I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive for what I did," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, almost vulnerable beneath its natural depth.
The waitress opened her mouth to respond, perhaps to offer forgiveness or even thanks, but he had already turned away...
Outside, the cool night air was a welco change from the stifling atmosphere of the tavern. The cloaked figure leaned against the rough stone wall of the building, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the two young guards who stood before him, their expressions a mixture of eagerness and uncertainty.
"So," he said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried above the sounds of the city, "who are you?"
l, ever eager to prove himself, stepped forward, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest.
"l, of the Florence House Guard, reporting for duty, sir!"
He declared, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.
Fletra, though less boisterous, mirrored his stance, her hand resting on the staff at her side.
"Fletra, sir. Also of the Florence Guard. We were sent by Lady Ophelia to assist you."
The cloaked figure’s red eyes narrowed.
"Assist ? With what, exactly?"
The cloak figure couldn’t believe what they were saying.
"With... with the mission, sir," l stamred, his confidence faltering slightly under the intensity of the gaze.
"To recover the stolen shipnts."
"And... to provide support, sir," Fletra added.
The cloaked figure let out a dry chuckle that echoed in the stillness of the night.
"Support..." he repeated, shaking his head.
"Haah...It seems Lady Ophelia has a rather unique sense of humor. Nothing short of what I expected."
Reviews
All reviews (0)