The Whistling Tankard sat at the edge of Arcanis’s lower district, tucked into a crooked alley that most respectable citizens avoided. Its wooden sign swung lazily in the evening breeze, its painted image of a cracked tankard barely legible beneath years of grime. To Lyric, it was exactly the kind of place where no one asked too many questions—and where you could find whatever you needed, no matter how questionable.
The bar’s door was sturdy and unmarked, save for a small sliding visor at head height. Lyric approached cautiously, the bandages hidden beneath his cloak feeling heavier with every step. He knocked twice and waited.
A moment later, the visor slid open with a faint whoosh. Two sharp eyes peered out, narrowing as they took in his hooded figure.
“You again?” The voice was rough, clipped. “Back so soon?”
Lyric didn’t flinch. “Just let me in.”
The visor closed with a metallic snap, followed by the clunk of several locks disengaging. The door creaked open, and Lyric stepped inside.
The interior of the Whistling Tankard was as dimly lit as he remembered, the air thick with the mingling scents of cheap ale, stale bread, and a hint of something metallic. The walls were lined with mismatched tables and chairs, most of them occupied by rough-looking patrons. A few heads turned as Lyric entered, but they quickly lost interest.
“Just keep moving,” he muttered to himself.
The bar’s counter was a slab of dark wood, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Behind it stood the barkeep, a burly man with a beard like a tangled nest of wires. His eyes flicked up as Lyric approached, recognition sparking in his gaze.
“Lyric,” the barkeep rumbled. “Didn’t think I’d see you so soon. Need another set already?”
“Not yet,” Lyric said, his voice low. He slid onto a stool, the motion sending a dull ache through his bandaged arms. “Just a drink. Something strong.”
The barkeep nodded, pulling a dusty bottle from the shelf behind him. He poured a dark, amber liquid into a chipped glass and slid it across the counter.
Lyric took it without a word, the warmth of the drink spreading through him as he tipped it back. The buzz of conversation around him was faint—muted vibrations that barely registered against the stronger hum of magic in the city beyond the walls.
He glanced around the room, his gaze passing over a group of men playing cards at a corner table, a pair of women arguing in low tones by the fire, and a lone figure hunched over their drink in the shadows.
The Tankard wasn’t friendly, but it was familiar. It was a place where people like him—outcasts, drifters, and those with secrets—could disappear for a while.
For a while, Lyric let himself relax, the steady hum of the bar settling into the background. He even let a faint smile tug at his lips as the barkeep cracked a joke about a Gravitas mage who had tried to cheat at arm-wrestling.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.
It was fast—too fast. A shadow that darted along the edge of the room, slipping between the tables and out of sight before he could fully register it. Lyric tensed, his hand brushing the dagger concealed beneath his cloak.
He turned his head slightly, scanning the room without drawing attention to himself. The group at the card table hadn’t noticed anything, their focus locked on the game. The women by the fire were still deep in conversation, oblivious.
But the lone figure in the corner...
Lyric’s gaze lingered on them. Their hood was pulled low, casting their face in shadow, but something about their posture set him on edge. They were too still, their focus too intent on something Lyric couldn’t see.
The barkeep’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Something wrong?”
Lyric shook his head, though his fingers tightened around the edge of his glass. “No. Just thought I saw something.”
The barkeep followed his gaze, frowning. “This place draws all kinds,” he said after a moment. “Best to mind your own business. Trouble usually sorts itself out.”
“Right,” Lyric muttered, though his unease didn’t fade.
He turned his attention back to his drink, forcing himself to appear relaxed. But out of the corner of his eye, he kept watching the shadowed corners of the bar, waiting for the movement to return.
The night deepened, and the bar grew quieter as patrons drifted out into the streets. Lyric lingered, nursing his drink and keeping to himself. The strange presence he’d noticed earlier hadn’t returned—or if it had, it was better at staying hidden.
As he stood to leave, the barkeep caught his eye. “Still carrying secrets, huh?” he said, his voice low. “You always were good at that.”
Lyric didn’t reply. He pulled his hood tighter and stepped into the cool night air, the streets of Arcanis quiet around him.
But as he walked, the memory of that fleeting shadow lingered, a thread of unease that wound tighter with every step.
The Whistling Tankard’s door creaked shut behind Lyric, muffling the faint hum of the bustling city streets. Inside, the bar seemed unchanged from his last visit, save for a new crack splitting the far-left window and an unfamiliar group crowded around one of the larger tables.
It felt good to be somewhere familiar, even if the Tankard wasn’t the safest of places. The air inside was thick with smoke and the mingling scents of ale, roasted meat, and something acrid Lyric couldn’t place. Shadows danced across the mismatched tables and chairs, the flickering lanternlight casting an uneven glow over the patrons.
The barkeep raised an eyebrow as Lyric approached the counter. “Twice in one week?” he rumbled, setting down a chipped tankard he’d been wiping. “Thought you’d be halfway to the Rim by now.”
Lyric slid onto a stool with a shrug. “Plans change.”
The barkeep’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. “Drink first, or are you here for another set of tools?”
“Drink first,” Lyric replied, leaning against the counter. His arms ached beneath their bandages, but he wasn’t about to admit it.
The barkeep pulled a bottle from beneath the counter, pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into a weathered glass. “I’ll keep a fresh set in the back for when you’re ready,” he said, sliding the drink over.
Lyric raised the glass in a half-hearted toast before taking a sip. The warmth of the liquor spread through him, dulling the persistent ache in his body. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax, just a little.
The Tankard was alive with its usual chaos. A Gravitas mage was holding court at a corner table, his booming laugh shaking the wooden floor as he regaled a group of wide-eyed listeners with tales of his exploits. At another table, a card game was in full swing, the players hurling insults and coins in equal measure.
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Lyric’s gaze flicked toward the hearth, where a Nexus mage was using their Harmony to coax faint sparks of life into a nearly dead fire. The embers glowed a deep gold under their influence, the warmth radiating outward in gentle waves.
He let the hum of the bar settle into the background, savoring the familiarity of it all.
But then, something caught his attention—a fleeting movement at the edge of his vision.
It was quick, so quick that Lyric almost dismissed it as a trick of the light. But his instincts told him otherwise. His grip tightened on his glass as he turned his head slightly, scanning the room without drawing attention to himself.
There was nothing unusual. Just the same rough-looking crowd, the same tired barkeep.
Lyric frowned, his unease lingering. He let his gaze sweep over the room again, more carefully this time. In the far corner, the shadows seemed darker than they should have been, but there was no figure lurking within them.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lyric glanced up as a man slid onto the stool beside him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a lopsided grin and a scar running down the side of his face. His clothes were worn but clean, and his presence exuded a casual confidence that set Lyric on edge.
“Just tired,” Lyric said shortly, taking another sip of his drink.
The man chuckled, his grin widening. “Fair enough. Not many come to the Tankard to relax, though. You a regular?”
“Something like that.”
The man’s eyes flicked to Lyric’s hands, lingering on the faint scars visible above the edge of his bandages. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been through the wringer,” he said, his tone casual but probing.
Lyric tensed, his hand brushing the edge of his cloak. “Don’t we all?”
“Fair point.” The man leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No offense meant. Just making conversation.”
Before Lyric could respond, the man’s attention shifted to a nearby table. “Well, would you look at that,” he said, his grin returning. “A fresh round of Stone’s Throw. You ever played?”
Lyric followed his gaze to the table, where a small group had gathered around a game board etched into the surface. Players took turns tossing small, rune-carved stones onto the board, aiming to land in marked zones while avoiding the glowing edges.
“Not interested,” Lyric said, though his curiosity was piqued.
“Suit yourself,” the man said, standing. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be over there.” He strode toward the table, leaving Lyric to his thoughts.
The hum of the bar grew louder as more patrons gathered around the game table, their cheers and groans blending into the chaotic rhythm of the Tankard. Lyric let his eyes wander again, his unease still simmering beneath the surface.
And then, there it was—a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision.
This time, he was sure of it. A shadow slipped along the far wall, too fast and deliberate to be a trick of the light. Lyric’s pulse quickened as he turned his head, but the shadow was gone before he could fully register it.
His fingers tightened around his glass, the faint vibrations of the bar pressing against his senses. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
The barkeep appeared at his elbow, refilling his glass without a word. Lyric glanced at him, his unease evident in his expression.
“Something wrong?” the barkeep asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.
Lyric hesitated. “No. Just thought I saw something.”
The barkeep snorted. “This place draws all kinds. Best not to pay too much attention.”
“Right,” Lyric muttered, though the tension in his chest didn’t ease.
As the night deepened, the Tankard began to empty. The Gravitas mage stumbled out with his entourage in tow, their laughter echoing faintly in the quiet street. The card game broke up, its players scattering to the shadows.
Lyric lingered, nursing his drink as the bar grew quieter. He kept his gaze on the door, watching as the last patrons filtered out.
The shadow didn’t return.
When Lyric finally stood to leave, the barkeep caught his eye. “Still carrying secrets, huh?” he said, his voice low. “You always were good at that.”
Lyric didn’t reply. He pulled his hood tighter and stepped into the cool night air.
Arcanis was quiet, the city settling into its midnight rhythm. But as Lyric made his way through the winding alleys, the memory of that fleeting shadow lingered.
Something—or someone—was watching him. And they were very good at staying hidden.
The streets of Arcanis’s lower district were narrow and winding, shadows clinging to the edges of cobbled stones like cobwebs. Lyric made his way through the maze of alleyways and flickering torches, the distant echo of laughter and clinking glasses fading behind him as he left the Whistling Tankard. Each footfall seemed to amplify the growing knot of tension in his chest. The memory of the shadow darting through the tavern hung like a specter, its purpose unknown, instilling a surge of paranoia that prickled at the back of his mind.
He needed to find a distraction, something to clear his thoughts. So, stopping at a small vendor’s cart, he purchased a warm pastry filled with spiced meat, the rich scent mingling with the damp air. It wasn’t much, but it was a momentary balm to his unease. He took a cautious bite, the savory flavor anchoring him for a heartbeat. But as he chewed, his instincts screamed at him to be alert.
Lyric’s gaze swept across the row of run-down buildings that loomed around him, their wooden façades darkened with age. An ominous sense of being watched crept in, exactly the kind of sensation he couldn’t afford. He finished the pastry hastily and slipped into a side alley that branched off the main street, hoping to find solace in the relative isolation. The deep breath he took was filled with the comforting scent of earth, but it was overlaid with something metallic he couldn’t quite place.
He leaned against the cold wall of a nearby building, his pulse steadying for a moment before the unease returned. He closed his eyes for a second, forcing himself to think like the shadow he’d spotted—quick, nimble, and elusive.
After a moment, he crouched down, examining the ground beneath him for any unusual marks. No footprints, no signs of a scuffle; it was as if the shadow had melted into the darkness. Just as he was about to push himself upright, a flicker of movement caught his eye at the far end of the alley.
Lyric froze, heart hammering in his chest. An outline slipped into a receding doorway—a figure draped in gray, their presence ghostly in the half-light. The figure glanced back once, icy blue eyes glinting in the shadows before vanishing through the threshold, leaving only whispers of curiosity in their wake.
What had surprised him, though, was the odd sense of familiarity that washed over him. Lyric recalled the way their eyes had scanned the area with practiced precision, analyzing without shame. A watcher, he thought. The term didn’t suggest malice, yet in the twisted dance of fate, he understood often enough that such individuals frequently danced on the edge of danger.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he straightened and moved toward the door where the figure had vanished. Approaching it, he realized it was a nondescript entrance, worn yet functional. A small sign overhead, nearly obscured by peeling paint, read "The Half-Lit Room."
Lyric hesitated, feeling the pulse of magic thrumming in the air around him. Something about it called to him, each beat resonating with the shadows that followed him. He could turn back, let the mystery fade into the night, or he could embrace it and see where it led.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges, and he stepped into the dimly lit interior. Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically from the rough-and-tumble of the Whistling Tankard. The Half-Lit Room was secluded, adorned with tapestries that muted sound and deep hues that enveloped its patrons in a sense of privacy.
Several lanterns flickered along the walls, illuminating small groups of people engaged in hushed conversations. In one corner, a pair of cloaked figures leaned together, sharing urgent whispers, while in another, a woman dressed in flowing indigo robes played a quiet tune on a harp, the strings vibrating with an almost palpable energy.
Lyric’s eyes quickly scanned the space, looking for the mysterious figure he had seen moments earlier, but they were nowhere in sight. Approaching the bar, he nodded at the dark-skinned bartender, who offered a faint smile that spoke of recognition and wary hospitality.
“First time here?” the bartender asked, pouring a translucent drink from a crystal decanter.
“Just passing through,” Lyric replied, keeping the tone neutral. “I didn’t expect to find a place like this.”
“Most don’t,” the bartender said, sliding the glass toward him. “But it’s a sanctuary for those who seek what’s hidden.”
Lyric lifted the glass, savoring the crisp, cool scent of the drink. As he took a tentative sip, the flavors washed over his tongue like the refreshing breeze of a summer’s night. It was intoxicating in a way that felt almost familiar—magical, even.
As this thought began to circle in Lyric’s mind, his eyes opened wide. He sluggishly stood up as his vision began to darken. “Fuck you,” he glared at the barkeep.