The tavern’s roar dimmed for a heartbeat as a mountain of a mercenary slammed his fist onto the bar hard enough to rattle the mugs. His armor bore fresh dents, his beard smelled of stale mead and poor decisions, and his bloodshot eyes locked onto Towan with the intensity of a man who either wanted another drink—or a fight.
“Another round. And make itstrong.” The mercenary said with a slurring voice like gravel
Towan didn’t flinch. He’d seen worse. Hell, he’d been worse. His hand hovered over the ale tap, but he didn’t pour. “You’ve had enough.”
The mercenary’s face twisted. “You ain’t my ma—”
Rellie’s voice cut through like a blade through fog. She didn’t look up from wiping down the counter, her gloves leaving streaks on the wood. “You’re not angry. You’resad**. Go home.”
The man froze. His fist unclenched. For a second, the entire tavern seemed to hold its breath.
Then Cassia leaned in, her voice low, almost gentle—the way you’d talk to a wounded animal. “The ‘she’ you keep cursing under your breath?” A pause. “Write her a letter. Burn it after. It’ll hurt less than this.”
The mercenary stared at her. Then at Towan. Then at his own calloused hands—ink-stained, just like Cassia had noticed. The kind of stains left by someone who gripped a quill too tight, too often.
Without a word, he slapped a handful of coins onto the bar—too much for the drinks he’d had—and lurched toward the door. The crowd parted for him like he was carrying something fragile.
Towan watched him go, then turned to Cassia, brow arched. “How’d you—”
Cassia shrugged, already stacking mugs. “Guild halls are full of men like that. They either want to fight, fuck, or forget.” She smirked. “Also, poets always have the worst penmanship. His knuckles were smudged. Poor bastard probably wrote her a novel before he started drinking.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
From the kitchen, Herb muttered, “Andthat’swhy I don’t serve inkwells at the bar.”
The tavern had settled into that rare, quiet lull—the kind that came in the dead hours between last call and dawn. Only a few stragglers remained: a pair of off-duty guards nursing their drinks in silence, an old scholar snoring into his notes, and the ever-present flicker of candlelight gilding the worn edges of the bar.
Towan leaned against the counter, watching Rellie move between tables with her usual precision. The question had been gnawing at him since the mercenary left.
"How did you know he was sad?" he asked, voice low.
Rellie stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the tap of her gloved fingers against the wood—once, twice—a mimicry of a heartbeat. Or maybe a countdown.
"It seemed obvious," she said at last, but the way she avoided his eyes said more than her words. She turned away, cloth swirling over the table in tight, methodical circles—as if she could wipe away the past along with the ale stains.
Then—
CRASH.
Cassia fumbled a mug, sending it shattering across the floor. The sound was sudden. Sharp. Like a blade hitting stone.
Towan's body reacted before his mind could catch up—his shoulders locked, his grip on the broom turning his knuckles bone-white.
"Relax, boss," Rellie said, not even glancing up from her wiping. "It's just clay. No danger here."
Cassia froze, her gaze darting from the broken pieces to Towan’s hands. "Shit. You okay?"
Towan forced a laugh, rough at the edges. "Yeah. Fine. Just... loud."
Rellie’s eyes flicked to his trembling fingers. "Liar." She nudged a shard with her boot but didn’t press further
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that came when people understood some wounds didn’t need poking.
Then Herb appeared, wordless as ever, sliding a steaming mug toward Towan—that same bitter brew from before, the one that tasted of ash and absolution. No one mentioned how Towan’s hands shook when he took it. No one needed to said it.
Cassia swept up the broken pieces, her movements uncharacteristically gentle.
Rellie resumed her circling, gloves whispering against wood.
And Towan drank—
warmth crawling into his bones, chasing away ghosts none of them would name.