"Is everything okay, Althur?" The boy leaned over, asked softly, and when he saw the gentleman beside him, he fell into contemplation.

"Still fine, nothing special." Althur replied. He took the beer again and took a few more sips.

"How's that ginger beer?" He asked back.

"Quite strange. But it's fine." The boy's face was a little red in the dim light, even though the beer had only a little alcohol in it.

Althur looked at the ginger beer with suspicion. He wondered if it was fit for consumption by a child. He had never had a father and had no intention of becoming one. Still, it was better than the filthy water that flowed in the town. The only pure water came from the snow-capped mountains and was reserved for the rich and holy. It ran along the canal that lined the south side of the town, for something lavish.

"Aye, it's good, right?" The bartender agreed, leaning over the bar. Lowering his voice, he recited a line from one of the old hymns of the Temple of Lut, "Without the temple here, we are free to taste the wine and beer. They don't want to waste a single drop of water by creating drunk and violent people. A drop of water in the desert is more precious than gold in the sand.

"Not enough,"

"What are we talking about now?" The man seemed to forget as he brought back the rumors, quarrels, and information he had heard from the rough and noisy miners.

"Some things are better left unsaid," Althur reminded him.

"Right, right," the bartender said, nodding.

"Let's change the subject then."

"Hmm, what about the ghost stories around here? They're rather vague, aren't they? Most of them are just fanciful tales and eerie noises, supposedly heard everywhere, on the pavement, in the tunnel, or underground."

"That's nothing to write about," Althur said. "Well, if there was a haunted house in the capital, you'd have a swarm of reporters, writers, and thrill-seekers trying to get an interview."

"With the spooks."

"Exactly. But the capital is a strange place. I heard there's a plague spreading in the square. It's dreadful."

"So apart from the fair ladies in white, the lost but merry beggars, and the keen but weary horsemen, there's nothing else." Althur summed it up.

"Hold on, I'm thinking." The tall man frowned. He seemed to be a decent fellow, trying to earn his silver coin.

"If you like the gossip of the living, I can tell you plenty."

"I'm not from around here. People in the capital don't mind being in the papers, unless they're wanted by the law. They love scandals, affairs, and, of course, anything to do with high society, the aristocrats who are admired and envied by all." Althur repeated the words he had heard from the people outside during his brief wandering through the capital.

"Well, poor people and thieves don't really matter."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"We don't have castles here. I don't think ghosts usually appear in poor places. Well, there are no misers. Ghosts seem to like going after such people."

"Outsiders are usually not allowed in the mines; it's hard to tell the difference between the crazy and the sane."

The man's voice rose in excitement. "Yes, yes, this is a rare and fascinating story." He composed himself and continued. "Two years ago, after the headless knights had faded from memory, a boy came back to life. It was not far from here."

Althur listened, as if lost in thought. He pulled out an old map showing the layout of this town, unchanged for many years.

"Is it nearing here?" He pointed to some red dots.

The man followed his finger, trying to make sense of the map. As a slum bartender, he had no need for such skills.

"This is where we are." Althur indicated a specific spot. As a seasoned traveler, he had no trouble with maps and locations.

"Then it's here." The man pointed to a dot that, according to Althur's estimate, was about a five-minute walk from this place.

"What a coincidence. What's it for?" The bartender asked with curiosity.

"About strange things."

"You seem very interested. Where are you headed? Yes, that boy was very sick. We only have the hospice infirmary here. Beyond that is the church infirmary, but it's hard to get him there. Everyone thought he was dead, but then he came back to life, like a walking corpse. He looked new enough."

"And what was the boy's name?"

"Peter. That's what the old man called him."

Althur listened to the man's words. Everything fit. He had the feeling that everything he did today was pointless. The noise and shouting from outside grew louder.

"What's going on out there?" The bartender wondered.

As people rushed out to see him, Althur stood up. "Let's stop here; I'll come back later. Let's check it out."

He gestured for Brahms, who had long since finished his ginger ale, to follow him. They quickly made their way through the crowd and disappeared.

The bartender ran out to see what was going on. He saw smoke rising in the distance, but no one seemed alarmed. They just stood there, like they were watching a show.

"It's the blacksmith's block." A drunken voice said, looking dazed and angry, shouting loudly.

"Damn it. Haha. Fire, it's gone."

No one paid attention to the madman next to him, including the bartender. He looked at the rising smoke, steadily but not violently.

"Place of the damned intact."

"That's the dwarf's curse. Haha. He was cursed for not cutting off his finger."

The bartender remembered the story of the blacksmith. He was a violent and fierce man, known for his skill. But he refused to cut off his little finger because he did not believe in the dwarf's curse. Only those who were not whole could forge the best items.

The man scanned the room; he couldn't spot the two odd newcomers who had just walked into the pub. They were fast, he thought. It was the edge area near the main stream where all the chaos would quickly die down. Most of the damage came from the houses of the remaining blacksmiths. Those people were zealots who chopped off their little fingers and smeared blood on their first finished work; they feared the curse.

As people began to gossip and jeer, people from the surrounding area rushed over and extinguished the fire. There was a boy, the blacksmith's apprentice, who stood stunned and frightened by the bizarre fire, as if he had just witnessed a nightmare. He couldn't understand what was happening; he stood frozen. He watched as people quickly used various tools to put out the fire, afraid that a gust of wind would destroy the whole place. He stood there, trying to look, trying to find the people inside.

"What a day."

"That damn name." The tall man howled loudly as he turned his head to look inside and saw a drunken man sprawled on the floor in his own vomit.

"Stupid bastard." Far from slender in appearance, he quickly grabbed the drunk and threw him into the trash beside him.

"Okay, let's disperse." He shouted and went back inside.

The apprentice stood there, and when the fire died down, he entered and noticed two skull-like things destroyed inside the furnace. He felt trapped in a dream and could hardly believe that everything before his eyes was real. The child stood there, looking intently at his unharmed hand. He was doubtful.

"The blacksmith is dead. So is his wife." He heard someone say it as the fire died down.

"Who knows it was her?" Someone sneered.

"The wife. That woman." The child was confused and didn't seem to retain much of his memory. He stared at the smoke that stung his eyes and burned his nose. Unbelievable.