Tyr was skilled with the blade, but no less able with his fists. Or so he told himself. Regardless, he enjoyed a good scrap every now and then, and rarely lost. Here, in the shadow of the keep where no guard or prettily dressed knight would intervene on his behalf. It was better that way. Three feet of steel was his preference in a real fight, but fists did more honest talking.

He felt the fist, too. By all the gods – the bread and beer were a delight, always – but that fist! He'd run into far more honest knuckles than that.

“Oi but you're a tough bastard! What's your name, man?” Tyr laughed, rising from the mulched remained of his third plate, face already swollen along his right side, shoving aside the drunken patrons that stood between himself and his new... Friend...? He had a lot of those – some staring at him in amusement from the shadows of their own hoods, but like Tiber – they weren't here to intervene. Just observe, as was the law in these parts.

Tyr's law.

The man didn't answer, lunging forward with a furious strike that came near to knocking Tyr's jaw loose on its hinges. But if anything, Tyr was quick. Quick with a blade, quick with a dirk, quick with his fists. Not that it helped much. A flurry of three strikes faster than the big man was capable of processing and his jaw moved not a bit. That skin was hard as tanned leather, and the hard flesh beneath was all muscle, every fiber of it was steel.

Tyr smarted, rubbing at his knuckles and wondering if the man might've been half beast after all.

So he suspected. It was a rare thing, to see skin as black as the big mans. Almost as if he'd been dipped in ink. Whoever he was, he had the ale stink about him and a deep melancholy to his eyes. It looked like he was here to forget, too. Tyr could understand that very well, and he would do his best to make it so, to bring unto this disenfranchised stranger the gift of deliverance.

With bear-like mitts, the man flailed about. He was strong, with a jaw to boot – but he wasn't particularly agile. Perhaps it was the ale stink on his breath that ate at the man's better reason, perhaps it was his prodigious size. Tyr didn't care, weaving beneath the ham handed strikes of his opponent and taking him by the neck. Heaving back until the sinew began to pop and the wheezing began to come, legs wrapped around that massive chest and the tumbling started.

It didn't take long before the man had lost all will to fight. It was like that, sometimes. Men were easy to break, by and large. A grasp at the jugular and the anger was quick to flee their minds. All men wanted to survive. As for Tyr, he understood – but he was nevertheless disappointed.

'The bigger they are, the harder they fall.'

He felt that ancient proverb, too, what with the monolithic weight of the man pressing painfully down on his groin after he'd taken him into a choke-hold. He had indeed fallen hard, causing yet more discomfort as the black skinned titan bucked and writhed on top of him. If not for the stomach full of ale dimming the man's mind, Tyr knew that he wouldn't have stood a chance against the powerful swings of those arms. Like a bear.

But alas, and at risk of a retort regarding repetition, alcohol dimmed the senses. It made one feel stronger, but in practice – it did anything but. It made you dumber, slower... An ungainliness of the wits. Didn't really matter to Tyr though, that was the point. Fortunately, in this case, the young man hadn't drunk enough of the stuff to bumble about like the fool atop him. Unfortunately, at the same time, he hadn't drunk enough of the stuff to dull the pain of his soon to be bruised...

Undercarriage... Legs squeezing around the mans waist in an attempt to keep an even grip on his neck.

A handful of frantic taps later and it was done. Unfortunately – Tyr's own hood had fallen from his head – revealing his appearance to all observers in the scuffle.

“White hair...”

White hair was rare in Haran. Hell, it was rare everywhere on a youth as young as he – and by rare one could say he was totally unique in that, his badge and identifier. A curse, some called it. 'Shouldn't have bred with a northern savage' - they said. Never within earshot, but everything was in earshot to Tyr – he was sharp like that, almost always when he didn't want to be. He'd been listening to their curses for near two decades, and had never forgotten. A lesson from both parents, a responsibility to toil under his responsibilities in a world that genuinely seemed to hate him.

“The prince... Could it be?”

“The prince is here!”

“Oh boy! This isn't where I parked my carriage...”

Rising to his feet and dusting off his black linens, Tyr bowed. Their 'prince'. Sometimes, there would be cheers, or more often silence. A bit of fear. There was some of the last, not the former though. These people were suspicious, and they ought to be. Every man or woman of age in this establishment was committing a crime, after all. Tyr could kill each and every one of them and he'd be acting in complete concert with Harani law. A man should pay his taxes, or wind up on a gallows platform – their choice.

Before a stranger in the crowd managed to grab hold of the young mans collar, a sword was at his neck. Tyr's cousin Regar, who he called uncle too, called the prince a devil with the blade. If Tyr was that, then what would Tiber be? What's higher than a devil? Surely not a god, the old man wasn't that good...

Perhaps Tiber was the true devil, whereas Tyr was but an imp more devilish in his charms than sword work. The old man was good, good enough to strike fear in the hearts of those who felt obliged to openly spurn his foreign heritage and keep them mostly silent. He was a good teacher too. Not patient though, never that. Not with Tyr, and not with the paunchy man with bloodshot eyes and a dribble of snot visible in his left nostril that had come to throw them out.

If the man had laid so much a finger on Tiber's prince after the fair conclusion to a fair duel, he'd be missing that hand. Perhaps a head, whether he be an employee of the establishment or not – which seemed likely. This new entrant to the entanglement Tyr found himself in was armed with a shortsword at his waist, and Tiber counted a concealed dagger in his boot.

Odd weapons for a fat man, but a fight was bound to attract some attention from the proprietor of this place, and nobody was keen on the prince being here, least of all the owner. It's a funny thing, how much blood a man's body held. Tyr imagined Tiber sticking the oaf who smelled of raw fish and cabbage with his blade, letting it all free to coat the walls in crimson.

Not funny, truly. Bizarre was a more appropriate term. It sprayed everywhere, meters away if an artery was nicked. Too much pressure. Walking bags of red paint, a life gone in a flash, plopping down into a tangle of limbs in an effort to stave off the touch of death with hands that were far too insignificant for the task. They always tried to hold it in, Tyr didn't really understand that.

Tiber said nothing. He was the strong, dark, silent type. Dark like Varia, with the facial feature of his Milanese father. Olive skinned and gaunt in face, wide in shoulders, thin in hips. A swordsman. Even in the trappings of a farmer, any man with the knowledge could pick him out as such. He didn't like killing, not anymore, but he would without hesitation. He was that kind of man.

The bouncer held up his hands. In a better light, he'd have seemed less mean. He had barely three teeth between his lips once spread, and his breath was horrendous. “No disrespect, m'lord. Just... Don't want to see our dear mala--”

Tip of sword met ruddy neck, slick with sweat. The words the man spoke might elicit thoughts of surrender, but they were laced with poorly disguised insult. His beady eyes flickered back and forth in their sockets, searching for a way out. But in all directions were the hooded figures that nobody wanted a problem with. Tiber had heard the half spoken insult, but didn't pity the boy, just as he didn't pity himself. Things were what they were, and that was that, pressure was privilege. But he wouldn't stand for an open insult, whether it be to his brother knights or the prince, who counted himself among their order by both honorable charge and merit alike.

The queensguard, the dawnguard.

'Malamute'. A noble breed, but still just a dog. That's what they called Tyr Faeron, due to his white hair that matched the snow hued coat of the breed. Malamute had been shortened to mutt at one point, in more venomous company. Once upon a time, perhaps it had been a term of endearment. Tyr didn't much mind the sobriquet of malamute, it was better than 'mutt'. When his mother was alive, it carried some respect, now it was a term thick with disappointment and less savory emotion.

The prince was worthless after all – it's not like they were wrong to provide commentary on the fact that he was as human as the rest of them unlike his father. The only primus to have ever been born without powers – or so they claimed.

“It's alright, Tiber.” Tyr brushed himself off, though he couldn't seem to remove the last of the sticky debris from his linens. The bar was filthy, which came as no surprise. He didn't speak sternly, there was no need. He hated the this and that of court politics, the riddled words that could be either insult or compliment when read different ways. Tyr was like his father in that regard, maybe the only thing aspect of personality they shared. If he wanted to insult someone, he'd do it to their face, brash and bold and the like. “He's just doing his job. Could use for a sprig of mint though, eh?”

'My prince. Your highness. Your grace. Your eminence. My lord.' So on, and so forth. Of course, he wasn't a lord. That wasn't how it worked in the Empire. Yet the commoners would use that terminology almost universally, not that he had a mind to correct them. But there was no 'Emperor', there was simply 'Jartor'. Jartor Faeron, the Harani Emperor by title and sovereign of the state. A man who would not accept the title of liege, for his name spoke volumes more than any honorific a mortal man might hold.

It was arrogant, that. But there was a familiarity in it. Old sword brothers who called him 'Jartor', 'brother', or simply 'primus'. All of these were fair enough words in Jartor's mind. Tyr was the same in this way. Instead, he'd like to be called 'Tyr', and only that. He held no pride for his station. Not at the current time, not for a long time. As for 'brother', only a few called him that, and they had earned the right to do so.

Tiber withdrew his sword with a curt nod. Regardless of the size of the man, he knew his nephew could handle him. But it would be he who responded to any question of their honor, or foul terms of disrespect. Tyr was soft, too soft in the oddest of ways. Too familiar. Not like his father at all from Tiber's perspective.

Yet the older man didn't mind it, it was in deed and bearing that carried a man, not station or a vain attempt to cling to a 'code'. Too many nobles fawning over their many titles existed in the world, it wouldn't hurt to have one that behaved with humility as knights were expected to. Or something approaching humility, because Tyr certainly wasn't humble, but at least he was honest. Honest in his predilection for acting friendly if only to avoid troublesome circumstance. When the lights came off, Tyr became one of the most efficient killers Tiber had ever seen.

No fear, no remorse, one who wouldn't stop until the target was dead.

He'd made him that, and this... Was his greatest regret, even if by command of the primus.

“I'll pay for the table, of course.” Tyr sighed, staring at the hulking blackskin that rose from the ground to massage at his bruised neck. For all of his size and rippling muscle, his alien features, he was very handsome. Tyr felt an intense urge to touch the intricate, wiry braids atop his head, but pushing disrespect where it wasn't wanted or needed wasn't his thing. His eyes, the black man's, were freely weeping – but his face remained stock still. Some sobriety had been knocked into him after hearing the word 'prince'. Looked like he might bolt at any moment. “Handful of sovereigns besides, is this a problem? I'm the big pied picked a pickled pepper piper man around here, I'm the prince – got lots of money and a great mind for fellatio. Accept my gracious offer.”

“I believe you mean philanthropy, my prince.” Tiber commented wryly from the rear, still standing there with his sword out.

“Nope.” Tyr grunted, hands on his hips – looking very heroic in what was most assuredly his, and only his own opinion. “I definitely want my dick sucked.”

“Please avoid objectionable language in the presence of the commons, prince. It's unbecoming.”

Tyr looked toward the man who must've been the owner, significantly better dressed, arriving to the encirclement with a rag in his hands. Of course the embroidered apron tied across his waist printed with 'Dancing Lady' answered any questions as to who he might be.

Tyr could smell it, the magic on him. This was a mage, and probably a pretty decent one. Tyr had never fought a mage before, and he was explicitly ordered not to. Not under an circumstances, one of the few rules his father laid down that he gave any face. And most likely why Tiber was allowed to stay even after being dishonored, Sicario like the old man were the best mage killers in the world. Magic was dangerous, and not looked at very highly in Haran, in a manner of speaking. The colleges got all sorts of positive attention and praise, but they had their shackles.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Is there a problem?” Tiber asked, playing his part. Not many mages could be called 'humble', not as men were. With their capacity for wielding the supernatural, arrogance was common. Tiber as well observed that this man was one of such a number, though he made no move to check the figure that split the crowd with a mere whisper of his soft voice. A hard glint to his eye, Tiber could smell the magic on him. That was a problem, a big one, but it wasn't his place to lay down the law. Nor the time to be doing so.

Not against a mage. Their kind were dangerous, forbidden to walk the streets without a mark. How one had crawled out of whatever hole he'd spawned from and made his way into the city was beyond the ken of a simple knight and bodyguard. The common folk present couldn't see it. Likely had no clue, but he knew. Tiber was well acquainted with those who wielded the mana, his career had been dominated by tasks revolving around elimination of such individuals.

Apostate.

“A problem?” Tyr raised a snow white eyebrow, even lighter than his pale skin. “I think we've solved that, right brother?” The young man nudged his elbow against the monolithic man with his black skin and long braids, enough force to jostle them about a bit. All of a sudden, the hulk of muscle and flesh was still and silent. Even shaking, if Tiber's eyes knew the fear of a man expecting to die. And they did, he'd seen it dozens – hundreds of times. This man was afraid. So scared his drunken stupor had blown away with the wind.

The black man managed a nod. Suddenly a gentle giant, but it wasn't the fear of death that had placated him. It was an expectation more sinister than that.

“N-no, my prince. Apologies, I just. Well, you see...” The owner and barkeep mumbled nervously, looking ready to run at any moment. Which would've been wise, but he wouldn't make it far.

“But as for you.” Tyr leveled a finger at the bar owner accusingly. There was steel in his eyes. For a boy of seventeen winters, he had a way with his expressiveness. An edge to him, forged of anger and loss – though he knew not the depths of such emotion, the level of pain they could communicate to another man. “Mage.”

The air began to chill around the barkeep in a reflection of the chill that must've ran through his soul when he'd heard that word. Tiber's blade hadn't met crossguard to leather before slid it free yet again, remaining ready for the confrontation.

Inwardly, he sighed. Perhaps necessary. An apostate could not be allowed to live, even one so obviously powerful as this one. This was the law, and it was a prince's duty to uphold the law for the safety of the common folk. Tyr's duty, perhaps the most important one, was to protect – a responsibility that he didn't often engage in. Haran had many mages, but they were all marked and cataloged, tracked by the colleges. Without a mark, membership to a high house, or a pass, a spellcaster in Haran was a dead man walking.

The crowd shuffled nervously, some of them made their way toward the exit only to be blocked by the men with their black hoods and grim faces. Interspersed within the bar, nobody had seen them seal off every exit to the building during the impromptu wrestling match. They had a talent, and a usefulness of their own – even Tiber had to admit that. Ruffians, scoundrels, and sellswords though they might be.

Based on what occurred here, it wouldn't have been surprising to see none but the black cloaks leaving this building alive. If Tyr ordered it, a few of the less scrupulous blackguard would do it in a split second, kill them all.

This mage knew it too – whatever his name was. Magic was powerful. Indistinct, subtle at times, but a force beyond any normal man. Few could stand defiant in the face of one, yet Tyr's ocean blue eyes never wavered from his quarry. No confidence anymore, no arrogance, the man knew that he'd been sniffed out. Come here to find gold, he'd have to settle for a coffin instead. Violence was at hand, it hung heavy in the air and the blackguard were well prepared for it. The mage might take a dozen, but their own protective cloaks would server as adequate defense in that event. Magic was powerful, yes, but so was a dagger buried to the hilt in the eye.

Mages were not immortals, and this one was but a small fish that had somehow managed to slip the templars and enter the capital of all places.

Anxiety ran through the crowd. A handful of them knew, and it was plain on their faces. If magic began to sling through the crowd, many of them would die. The master of this tavern was a stranger, but that only exacerbated their inherent fear of the metaphysical.

“Honestly...” Tyr lowered his finger, relaxing with a sigh. “First of all, I'm kind of low on sovereigns. I didn't expect to eat so much. Then there were the beggars on the Cut, old Rudy and his buddies needed me to spot them a few coins – they're not bad folks. Tiber, do you have any gold on you?”

“I do not, my prince.”

“Shit.” Tyr sighed in disappointment. He didn't have any money, Alexis controlled his finances and only allowed him to withdraw a very small amount each week. 'Small', which to a common person would be several years of wages if not more. “We spent too much today.”

“We did, my prince.”

“Anyhow...” He spun back to the mage who was eyeing the rear exit – perhaps taking the measure of the big man there with the silver etched axe at his belt. Rog of the lodge, they called him, a funny man with kind eyes – wicked with that axe though. “Oi, are you listening?” Tyr whipped his arm forward dramatically, raising his hand to snap his fingers in the mages face.

Much to his disappointment, he didn't get to taste the sting of a spell cutting his head off, or... Whatever magic was supposed to do – Tyr had barely been allowed to study it after being declared unfit for the subject. He was technically a mage himself, just not a very good one.

“Er... Yes of course. ” The mage spoke unevenly, unused to such a bizarre interaction. Usually it was the paladins, or the templars. They didn't speak so much, but that was fine by him, running from them was easy enough. This, though... Only after considering the implications did he decide to feign some modicum of decency toward the man addressing him. “...Your majesty.”

He performed an awkward bow, appearing bizarrely familiar the proper motion of it, from a courtly sense. There was a pause, and his nervousness began to wax. The mage could feel it, just as he'd been felt out himself. This man, the prince of Haran, had magic of his own. Very unique magic, Tythas Slakt had never felt anything quite like it, which was saying quite a lot. He'd once called the great sorcerer kingdom of Amateus home, and now all that existed was dust.

“...Can I start a tab here?” Tyr asked, blank in the face. Patrons present raised their eyebrows, looking about in confusion. It didn't seem like they had expected him to say such a thing, which sort of made sense all considered. The mage didn't respond, staring at the prince like a fish out of water. Mouth moving, but no breath passing for anything resembling voice. After a moment of this, Tyr continued. “Ah, I understand. That's too bad. Tiber, let's go ho--”

“Of course his grace is welcome to open a tab with us.” The mage was an arrogant man, and a sorcerer at that – but still a man. When he was caught off guard, his superiority became dust like dry herbs in an alchemist's pestle. “P-please. Make yourselves at home at any table.”

“Ah, one more thing.” Tyr grabbed the man openly and aggressively. He wasn't the most powerful man, but he was fit and strong for his age. His calloused hand on the mage's shoulder was like handling the frame of a child. Mage had no opportunity to turn around, hands wringing nervously, before he was brought close.

Face to face with the blue eyed Tyr. Those who dedicated their lives to the use of magic were rarely very powerful physically, that was a common denominator. Tyr had been taught this, pouring over so much information but never allowed to fight one in person. This might be his only chance to see what one was made of.

Tythas, that was his name, and he would recall that the eyes of the prince were deep as any sea. Not just ocean blue, but an almost abyssal element lay in them. Stormy blue, like the raging sea under the force of a hurricane. Endless depths that were difficult to read, flecked with tendrils of gray. Beautiful eyes. Terrifying eyes. It wasn't just the eyes, but it was the knife in the young man's hand. Tythas didn't even know how the young prince had managed to summon it so quickly. Though he should've expected as much, an apostate wasn't owed the honor of a good death.

Taking a knife to the neck would be far superior to allowing the church to pour molten deuritium down his throat. He'd seen men die that way before, it wasn't pleasant.

“You know, I feel like we're already pals – you and I.” Tyr smiled. The mage saw that he had a nice set of straight teeth. Genetics could be either a gift or a curse, and this young man would lie firmly on the former of the spectrum. Canines a bit long, giving him a predatory look – and what with his pale skin... Some might even say he looked a bit vampiric. “I got this knife from my grandfather, on my mother's side. He's a kind man. Or he was, 'course he's dead now I suppose. What do you think of it?”

Tyr had a talent for dramatic flair, raising the tension. Tiber followed his lead, as he always did. This was simply his way, not that he liked it in the least bit. At times, a man needed to know when to cut to the chase. He didn't understand the dramas, the legends, the epics. All of these stories could be distilled into two paragraphs or less. Character development be damned, it was an overly elaborate and lengthy way to communicate a very simple philosophy. Tyr wanted to play with his food before eating it, or perhaps weighing his options. He was a confusing individual.

“A-ah.. My prince, it is a beaut--”

“See.” Tyr interrupted the mage as soon as he began speaking. The pause, holding the man close, it was his favorite part. Seeing the look in their eyes when events came to their natural conclusion. “This knife is magic, or so they say. Enchanted by dwarves. I've seen a great many dwarves, never known them to use much magic though. Artifacts are restricted in Haran, even for me. You're a mage, right? An apostate?”

'Apostate' now, not just 'mage', which could mean many things. Apostate only meant one, a black mage that the church would tell you cut the hearts out of virgin women and sacrificed innocents to dark gods. All sorts of ridiculousness to that, of course, part of the standard for keeping them shackled up and tightly regulated.

A ripple of fear, with no small amount of revulsion in the utterance of the gasp ran through the crowd of patrons. Seeing the one and only prince here, in a speakeasy, was bad enough. Here was a place of ideas independent from one's loyalty to the crown. A place for runaways, criminals, or so-called revolutionaries. Not that they'd bear much fruit in their so-called revolutions. The primus was immortal.

Most thought that they'd hang come dawn, others would be punished regardless. That was the law, it always fit the crime. This was the Harani way, and Tyr didn't see many Harani eyes staring back at him. These were foreigners, sailors and overland merchants.

'Apostate'. A vile term, but appropriate. Apostates were rare, especially so close to the capital. Rogue mages free of the colleges that practiced their art in secret. That didn't mean they were evil – not always. Free mages were outlaws in Haran. 'Free mages' simply did not exist, could not exist, unless you were a higher noble – only then would restrictions relax.

Without the brand, it was a death sentence to whisper even the simplest cantrip in the Empire. They were common enough, for small mages came easy among mankind. But a true apostate, one capable of wielding the elements freely – their kind were reviled. Criminals for no reason other than how they'd been born.

It was no merciful death, either – that of the apostate. It was cruel. A burning, if they were a small one. Far worse if they were any better, and there was no lying to the templars. They could see right through the lies even before the torturer worked hook into flesh. A burning of a sort, but by something so mundane as fire. Far worse, molten metal down the gullet.

Tyr carried the mark too.

Not 'the brand', for that wasn't the custom of Haran, he was a prince. Though he, unlike other mages, was free to keep it hidden on behalf of his station. He hadn't needed to take it, but had chosen to nonetheless. A brand, a simple tattoo, didn't matter. It had to be visible, an enchantment borne on raised skin that marked one as a mage. Whether on hand, arm, or face – it almost always had to be visible unless one's station said otherwise. Tyr's own was visible on his arm. A swirling pattern that marked him as one who walked the path of fire. Larger than it needed to be.

Why? Because it looked nice, because it spooked people. Because his father hated it. Mages were uncommon among the house of Faeron. Exceptionally so. Not in eight hundred years had one of their menfolk been marked as a sorcerer. He wore it with pride, basking in the fear that entered a man's eyes when they saw it. The black ink of the college, even if he was barely able to use any magic at all.

Just for the vanity of it.

“So... Is this a magic knife, mage?” Tyr asked innocently. “I'll see to the truth of it. Always said I would, but alas – I've grown so forgetful in my advancing age. It's just so convenient that I'd remember it now.”

The knife was fearsome in it's nearness to the mages eye. A wide bladed razor sharp edge of mithril, capable of cutting a man's head clean from his neck without much effort. Long for a 'knife', more like a dagger if he were nitpicking. With the notched reverse edge of a sword breaker. Not a chip, scratch, or stain marred the blade.

Beautiful too, Tythas thought, just like those eyes – a truly supreme work of artifice. Nicer than the sword at the boys waist judging by the mana within. Worth more, too. Mithril was very rare. Few humans could work it like the dwarves did with their strange ways. Songs and dances, they said, an ancient art that took years of study to perfect. Shaping the hard metal like clay in their bare hands with no need for heat.

“Ah... I-it... It is, yes. Your blade i-is indeed e-enchanted, my prince.” The mage replied, the whites of his eyes plain in their showing. He was terrified, that one, and he should be. Tyr could feel it, the magic. He was no great student of it.

In fact, if it came to wrestling with the arcane – the mage would win one hundred times out of the same number of clashes. Tyr could scarcely light a campfire with all his focus on it. But this mage? Strong. He could smell the mana, electricity in the air. It shrouded him, marking him as a true spellcaster.

Problem was, he'd fail to so much as whisper before the prince took him.

This mage knew it. Tyr had in truth known for some years now how potent the magic woven within that steel was. Enough to make it a real treasure – though he never used it for killing. Not ever, for anything else either. It was just his way, a way of honoring his forefathers or something like that – only coming out when he really needed it.

Half a minute passed. Silent.

Tyr staring at the mage, unwavering. He loved this part, the uncertainty. It was the greatest thing to ride that razors edge. In exchange, the mage couldn't decide whether to settle his eyes on the knife, or Tyr.

Suddenly, without warning, the shoulders of the young prince sagged in relief. “Ah! That's such a relief... I wouldn't want gramps to be disappointed. If he'd been lied to, well..” His steel blue eyes met the silver orbs of the other. “I've always liked dwarves, but y'know? What I'd have to do?”

The mage nodded anxiously, gulping again. “Y-yes, your gra--”

“Anyways...” Tyr relaxed, releasing the man from his grip and interrupting him again. “I like it here. How about... Tiber, I've had enough fish, don't you think?”

“As you say, my prince. Fish is common here.” Tiber played along, he was good at that. “Some lamb might be nice. No, some beef. I think a nice haunch of beef should be more to our liking. Your thoughts?”

“I love that idea.” Tyr beamed, leaving the mage near collapsing on his feet. “Since I have a tab here...”

He pondered that for a moment, sheathing his knife lazily at his hip.

“Get us your best cut of beef. No, as a matter of fact – throw all of it on the grill. And the rest of the drinks are on house Faeron!” He cried out, turning to drag the black man away into the back of the group of hooded men with a dramatic gesture toward the terrified patrons. “And my new apostate friend, one more request.” He added, turning.

“A-anything.” Tythas nodded.

“I want to watch you cook my share by yourself.” Tyr glared. “Use your magic, I want to see it.”

There had been a moment of tension there. No, perhaps that was too mild. Men had already known that there'd be blood. It was so obvious that he'd at the very least kill the apostate. But instead, there was none. Just a night of merriment and a jolly prince that paid their tabs and led them into a raucous celebration, turning away the city guard when they arrived to disrupt the festivities.

Tyr liked to subvert expectations.